YONI/YANNI YADDA, YADDA, YADDA

I'm into popular culture. So one night I'm sitting on the couch surfing channels when I hit PBS and hear them announce Yoni. I immediately halt my finger in mid air before it can jump me up one station. Yoni to me is sex. The female genitalia. I figured I'd tripped into some National Geographic Special on Bonobo apes or an obscure eastern sex cult. Or maybe even an obscure American sex cult. Actually, I was hoping for the latter. Maybe it'd be close enough at hand to check out in person. I'm into experimentation. What the heck! I mean, I'll try anything once. But, hey, I'm somewhat limited by distances. I don't have a car and I'm one of those marginalized writer types. Translate that as flat broke most of the time except when somebody hires me as a temp for the occasional software gig. I guess I'm telling you, I don't get out much.

So, I'm hot to see what's up. I always thought PBS was enlightened. But this was better than even I thought possible. Turns out I was right. I mean, so I'm glued to the screen. Right? And I see this really cool set. It's, like, ruins. And it's lit real sexy. I think, hey, this might be some ritual about to happen. I think, hey, I'm gonna see something real here. Then this inane, soppy music starts and it's, like, ruining my mood. You know. But once again the announcer screams something that ends in the word yoni. So I figure, forget the music. Just concentrate on the visual. And, wham! This freak with long hair runs out on stage throwing kisses and bowing and scraping and plops down in front of a big, black, shiny grand piano. At first I think it's a woman but, no, it's a guy with a name that means vagina. I wonder if he ever figured out he was, like, calling himself Pussy?

So I listen for a while. And it all sounds the same to me. Violins and boring piano riffs that start nowhere, go nowhere, end nowhere. Man, this guy is dull as mud drying on bicycle tires. But he's got CDs you can order for twenty bucks a shot and lots of money. Clearly he's got lots of money. I mean the guy has a goddamn symphony orchestra backing up this piano thing that could put a manic-phase bipolar to sleep.

Now, I'm thinking about my own line of work. Pays like I'm holding down a part time shift flipping grease burgers at McDonald's — and that's on a good day. When I was a kid, I played a pretty mean alto sax. Did some tenor and soprano, too. I was good, man. Hell. I was better than what was happening with the yoni man. I blew some soul into that horn. Not like a Kenny G new-ager yoni man. I mean I listened to the greats. Like Coltrane. You know — JAZZ men.

I know that horn's somewhere in an attic at my folks' place. The old lady never throws anything out. It's, like, archived. Like she thinks one of us is gonna be famous some day and all this stuff will be worth something. So I pick up the phone and hit speed dial #7.

"Hello?"

"Ma! How's it goin?"

"Hi, baby. You coming over for Father's Day next Sunday?"

"Oh. Geez. I forgot. Father's day, huh?"

"Yeah. Father's Day. Next Sunday. It's like Mother's Day, only different" she says.

Everybody in my family's a comedian.

"Yeah, sure. What time?"

"One-ish. And don't bring that girl who swore at your grandma. Nobody eighty-four years old ought to have to listen to such a mouth."

"Ma. Gram gassed Shelley out. She was ripping 'em off left and right, producing more sulfur fumes than a match factory. Shell was gasping for air. She damn near asphyxiated. So... she got a little agitated. That's all."

"She used the "F" word, Leon. We don't use the "F" word in this house."

"It won't happen again, Ma. Just don't sit her next to Gram. Okay? It'll be all right. Shelley's coming or I'm not coming. Okay?"

Silence.

"I mean it, Ma. If Shelley isn't invited, you can forget about me, too."

"Doesn't she have a father of her own, Leon?"

"Yeah, she does — but not around here. Okay, Ma?"

Silence.

"Look, we'll be there — one-ish. Okay?"

"Okay. But you tell her no swearing. You hear me?"

"Yeah. Yeah. No swearing."