Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins, MD

Charlie writes:

Over the years I’ve been a not-so-silent observer of the clutter that swarms to Lisa like flies to honey. Lately, I’ve noticed a new trend, as I walk through her condo things begin to move, to dance and to sing. It started with a motion-sensitive Halloween cat that when its infra-red eye is triggered sings Rockwell’s eighties paranoid pop classic, "I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me." The cat then arches its back; its eyes light up and it shakes. On the bottom is a button that if not switched to the off position will set the toy in motion every time you walk by.

"It’s because I spend so much time alone," Lisa says, prepared to defend her collection of animated tzatskes and bibelots. "I like their company. They don’t talk back to me and they cheer me up. Did you see this one?"

And she proceeds to press—repeatedly—a red EASY button from Staples. Its mechanical voice rasps, "that was easy. That was easy. That was easy."

"Please stop that," I ask.

"It’s supposed to relax you," she presses it again—"That was easy. That was easy. That was easy". She then reaches down and pulls up a box that held another recent arrival, "I got an alarm clock that plays bird songs every hour on the hour. You wake up in the morning with the singing of birds; it’s a lovely way to start the day. Plus it’s educational, because as each bird sings a light tells you which species you’re hearing."

As I glance around I count dozens of them--animated cats, mice, snowmen, angels, a bunny that warbles Easter parade…even a dancing Hassid that gyrates to Hava Nagilah. To be honest, I’ve contributed to this collection with a talking picture frame that has me in one half calling to my Siamese cat Daisy in the other.

"I have a key ring that when you press it breathes heavy," she comments, and then activates it. "They’re like friends."

"In what way?" I ask, trying to understand the attraction.

"They don’t complain. They’re always willing to talk to you. And when children come to visit me they love them. The only problem there is that they like to put them all on simultaneously."

"So which is your favorite?" I ask.

"I guess the purring pussy cat, since I miss having a cat. Or maybe the framed one where you talk to Daisy and she answers. You know I’ve always liked mechanical toys," Lisa says. "Many years ago I had a boyfriend who was an inventor. Among his accomplishments he made a talking life-size doll that had my voice."

"Was it mass produced?" I ask, trying to picture a talking Lisa doll.

"Yes…I’m trying to remember what it was called," and she reaches for her pocketbook. "I’ll call Dorothy, maybe she remembers."

As she does the clock tweets nine. I glance back and learn that I’ve just heard the song of the rose-breasted grosbeak.

"How lovely," she comments and then leaves a message on Dorothy’s answering machine. "When I was a little girl I had a doll that would say ‘Mama’ when you shook it."

"I don’t think that’s a wonderful way to teach child rearing."

"It wasn’t really shaking," she adds, "you just tipped it forward and backwards."

"I see. Much better," and I hook my laptop to the Internet in an attempt to track down Lisa’s talking doll. As I connect to AOL my computer announces, "Welcome. You have mail."

Lisa’s eyes light up, "it talks!"

"It does lots of other things too." Suddenly, I wonder if the computer isn’t the ultimate talking toy. I show Lisa how you can go on amazon.com and sample music prior to buying.

"It’s like witchcraft," she exclaims, as I play a bit of a Mozart concert that was taped in Salzburg.

"Maybe that’s it."

"What?" she asks.

"The fascination we have with animating the…inanimate. Isn’t that the point of everything from the Frankenstein monster to the ballet, Coppelia—another animated doll? It’s trying to create life, or some imitation of it."

"Those stories don’t have happy endings," she comments.

"No, and they’re part of a long tradition of man venturing into dangerous waters. The Frankenstein monster feels rejected by his creator and goes on a rampage, and Coppelia falls apart," and at that moment my laptop flashes twice and the screen goes blank.

As I curse and press buttons trying to bring it back to life, Lisa muses, "maybe it’s better to stick with things that are less complicated, like a typewriter."

I say nothing and hold my breath as the screen flashes again, and I’m relieved to see that I have not lost this week’s column. "Phew," I say, backing up the file.

"Oh good," she comments and presses her red button—that was easy, that was easy, that was easy.

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