WRITE OF PASSAGE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-08-25)

     This month marks the 10th anniversary of my first column for the Somers Record. Traditionally you might give the gift of tin for a 10th anniversary, but good luck finding anything nice made of tin. It's used in brake pads, cement and fire retardants, all GREAT gift ideas, but instead I'll accept a personal check, with two forms of identification. 

     When I started this column I was thinking that after three months I would run out of coherent things to say. WOW, was I wrong! That only took two weeks. The rest of this time I've been recounting the things that go on in my head, loosely draped around a weak premise thinly disguised as a theme. I have not missed a week.

     But I love being a writer, because I can alter reality with just a few keystrokes. I will admit that my life is pretty routine; some would say boring. The trick is to make those everyday things seem fun. And for that, I use invention, exaggeration, irony, imagined dialogue and the distortion of facts. I use those devices so often that if it was possible to revoke an "artistic license," mine would have been yanked long ago, and I would be sitting in county lockup with a guy staring at me who has a tattoo of Genghis Khan on his tongue.

     I love the prospect of "turning a phrase." And believe me, once I am done with it the phrase has really turned, like that green object in the fruit drawer of my refrigerator that looks like it might be suffering from a very slow form of motion sickness. And when you come up with the perfect way of saying something, so that others can grasp your exact meaning, a connection is made with a complete stranger. If that ever happens I'll let you know.

     I can teach you how to write, right now, in just a few minutes. I don't want to brag, but I've forgotten more about writing than I'll ever know in a lifetime. First, there are some rules of the game- good writing should not be attempted without first mastering some basic standards of grammar. One: Do not dangle a participle in front of anyone who hasn't eaten in a while. Two: Sometimes the perfect tense, isn't. Three: If you end a sentence with a preposition, it should be a prison sentence, such as: "What are you in for?" Four: Do not be repetitive, redundant, reiterative or duplicative. Four (tied): Good punctuation is important; yet no one really knows when to use a semi-colon. Five: Anyone who uses hyperbole should be shot. 

     It's a good idea to write about what you know. After you read my column, you might think, he doesn't know what he's talking about. Well, I KNOW that, and that's how I can write about it.

     Editing is a big part of the process. Once you cut out the wordy passages, run-on sentences, excess verbiage and anything that does not service the basic substance of the topic, well, there's not a whole lot left, is there? I usually try out a couple different ways of saying the same thing, and I might even say them both out loud, unless there's a clinical psychiatrist specializing in schizophrenia present in the room.

     A quote attributed to George Eliot goes, “It is never too late to be what you might have been.” Isn't that great? Sometimes I'm what I might have been at 2:00 in the morning, so she was right about that. If you think of a great phrase, for god's sake write it down. I came up with "To be, or not to be." Yup, that was ME, and it was in response to a multiple choice quiz. It was more like, 2B, or not 2B, that was the question. But I did say it out loud. A powerful quote like that is a great opening line for a novel or essay. I'll help you make one up right now. First, choose a weighty subject, like "time," or "love," or "wisdom." Then, choose a qualifier, which can be any noun, even something insignificant like "plumbing fixtures," or "doorknob," or "AAA batteries." Last, choose a group of people whom others would be impressed that you've even heard of. Then you put them all together, and you have something like, "Power is the full-body deodorant of the underqualified." Let people make of that what they will, and I'm sure they'll do better than I did.

     You're going to have to share yourself with others. Your darkest, innermost secrets are going to be exposed, like walking around your house in your underwear with the curtains wide open, only this time, it's not on purpose. Some writers keep a journal, or a diary. It gets you into the habit of writing every day. "Dear Diary: Today I did a couple embarrassing things that I won't go into here... I just hope you don't hear them from somebody else."

     It's usually true that good writers read a lot. I stay up late at night with a good book, so late that I have to read every page two or three times. I pay attention to the different styles, different subjects and different artifices that make each writer easy to read, or compelling, or informative. I think to myself, how can I plagiarize that just short of anyone noticing?

     That should be enough to get you started in the rewarding hobby of writing. So, if you're reading this column for the first time, it's probably by mistake, and I'll be sorry to see you go. For those who have visited before, it's nice to have you back. Drop me a note to say hello if you enjoy our time together.

IT'S WHAT YOU DID

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-24-25)

     The calendar says it's spring, so I guess it must be, even though spring came in like a lion and seems to have eaten the lamb it was supposed to go out like. Anyway, I should be out building a fort right now. That's what we did when I was your age. We would find a suitable place in the woods, and construct a simple shelter strong enough to withstand a category 5 school year. 

     As in any real estate venture, location is everything. It needs to be far enough away from the house so that you can pretend not to hear your parents calling, but close enough so that if an actual wild animal appears to have legitimate claim to the property, i.e. is bigger than you, you can get the hell out of there.

     If your parents built you a tree fort, they probably did so thinking that whatever it is you're doing in that fort, at least you're doing it close to home. Which is stupid reasoning because 88 percent of accidents occur within five minutes of your home. And I would guess that a good 50 percent of those occur in a tree, or on the ground near one. It also probably makes your parents complicit in aiding and abetting the delinquency of a minor, and the minor's goofy next door neighbor.

     My wife says she was walking the dog in the woods and came upon a fort constructed with a car door as one of the walls. That's an example of either a really ambitious fort, or really bad driving.

     I guess it really is spring because you can hear the frogs croaking in the ponds. They do this to attract a mate, because have you seen a frog? Looks alone are not going to do it. Surprisingly it works, although I recently made a similar noise at the dinner table and "attraction" was not the vibe I got. The sound also gave us kids an indication as to their whereabouts, which was in a pond near our house. We would find tadpoles and put them in a jar with water in it. That's what you did back then. Why did we do this? Partly to gain an understanding of biological development, and partly because the adoption process is much easier than with human children, plus it's hard to find a jar that big.

     We also used to hunt for salamanders, and if we found one, we would put it in a shoebox with some grass, and poke holes in the top with a pencil. It took us a few stabs at the proess to figure out that we should have put the salamander in AFTER poking the holes. Also we should have taken the shoes out first. Salamanders aren't particularly attractive either, and if you do come home with one, your Mom is likely to give it that "what rock did YOU crawl out from under" look. 

     Amphibians in general were constantly being harassed by us, and if I was an amphibian I would have put out a restraining order. When I hear that amphibious vehicles were employed in World War II I scoff, because we would have had all of them in a shoebox within the week.

     Did you play "cops and robbers" when you were a kid? Well, the game has changed. Kids are so sophisticated now, I can't even imagine myself as a pre-teen "robber" anymore. Am I simply going to sit in my room and engage in internet scams? Outside the house I'm careful not to leave any DNA evidence, and I don't use any saliva on anything I eat or drink. 

     Me and my friend used to climb trees. There was a huge evergreen tree in back of his house, and we could get about three quarters of the way up in before the air got thin and the branches even thinner. Why did we want to climb the tree? Did anyone ask Sir Edmund Hillary why he wanted to climb Mount Everest? Did anyone ask John Glenn why he wanted to orbit the Earth? Did anyone ask Amelia Earhart why she wanted to disappear while flying a plane? Well, people did ask those questions, but nobody asked us. I guess the answer was that it was our only chance to look down on people. I notice that when there is a housecat in a tree, people scramble to call the fire department to rescue it, even though a cat is perfectly capable of getting down by itself, then vomiting on your newspaper. When people saw US in the tree, the similar reaction was, "there are two boys stuck atop a tree! We MUST rescue the tree!" There was talk of shooting us out of it. I'm not certain the fire department would have been called if we were stuck in the tree AND on fire. But that's just what you did back then.

     Did you do any of these things? Why, of course you did. We didn't have any of these new-fangled things you kids have today, like social media, cell phones and angst. All we had were things you could fangle out of some string, construction paper, really blunt scissors, a deflated kickball and a chemistry set that we could use to blow all of the above up. Why, when I was YOUR age, we used to do things like stick the word "why" in front of a sentence. Why? Why, I'm not sure why. But that's just what you did back then.

BUYER BE WHERE?

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-13-25)

     What girl doesn't imagine herself walking down the aisle with the man of her dreams? Might I suggest aisle 2? That's the one with all the candy. I had to do the grocery shopping a couple weeks ago, and I learned that I lack the basic necessary skills for the job. There are just so many choices. I need toothpaste, but which one? Do I have sensitivity issues? My teeth did cry during "Love Actually." Do I need gum defense? I don't chew that much gum but maybe it's attacking from somewhere else. Do I have gingivitis? If I do it's probably in my knee along with all the other infirmities. Do I need a advanced whitening or should I just wait until it arrives by itself? Stronger enamel? Fresher breath? Fluoride? In the end I chose on toothpaste that promotes an off-white ecru color, and world peace.

     We needed eggs, but there are cage-free eggs, additive-free eggs, meat-free-fed eggs. The more times "free" is on the label, the more expensive they are. Eggs already cost a lot right now. Last Christmas, when there were three French hens, and six geese a-laying, we should have stockpiled more eggs, because on the thirteenth day of Christmas you never heard from them again. If this shortage goes all the way until Easter and people are hiding eggs, they're not going to tell anyone where they are.

     I didn't know which way to turn. It seemed like forces were pulling me in opposite directions, but I realized that the shopping cart had two wheels pointing north-northeast and two wheels pointing south-southnorth. Plus, the kid in my rumble seat kept grabbing boxes of cereal from the lower shelves, and it was then that I remembered I don't have children. I had either taken someone else's cart by accident or, judging by this kid's behavior, someone else took mine on purpose.

     My parents had six children, and my childhood consisted of my Mom getting several boxes of cereal, sticking us in a room with a television, and waiting until we grew up. Back then the boxes had Sugar Pops or Sugar Smacks in them. They've since changed all the names to present the illusion that these products are good for you. They're now called Corn Pops and Honey Smacks, and they brag about how many vitamins and minerals are in them. I sprinkle a little wheat germ on my cereal, then hit it with some disinfectant because I don't know what wheat germ actually is.

     They had an extensive craft beer section at the supermarket. I picture a group of women sitting around in someone's living room making beer with stuff they bought at Michael's, and then selling it on Etsy.
     I needed peanut butter, milk, and something on my list that looked like it said "bee straightener." My wife is the only one who can read my handwriting. I'm not sure what it actually said, but if the list ever falls into enemy hands they won't be able to decipher it. I went to a couple different aisles that I thought might carry bee straightener, but I abandoned the search pretty quickly.

     My Mom used to shop with a bunch of coupons that she clipped out of who knows where, and by the time she got to the checkout line, they owed HER money. I'm trying to be a smart shopper, so I read the labels to compare how much product I'm getting for the money. A bag of M & Ms is $2.99 for a 2.83 ounces. In milligrams that would be upwards of 50,000, and in euros it would cost $2.70. What's the serving size? It used to be one M & M, but now it's just one M. One candy bar had a larger "fun size" than the others, leading me to believe that the other candies might be more fun for the money. Smoke started to come out of my head, so I went to the frozen foods aisle to cool off.

    Wow- produce is bigger than I remember it. I saw a lady shopping in the fruit section and I said, "Hey, that's quite a pear you've got there, Miss." And she looked at me like I was nuts and started walking away quickly, and I had to call after her, "Where did you get those huge melons?" But she was already gone, and for some reason everyone was staring at me. I said, "Okay, well I guess 'aisle' be seeing you, then," which would have worked better in print.

     My cart was now full of toothpaste and candy, and a guy asked me if I wanted to self-checkout, but I didn't want to appear vain so I went to the register. The girl asked me if I wanted a bag, because now you either have to buy one or bring your own. Luckily, one of the things in my cart was baggies, so I opened up the box, took one out and then put the box into it. Then she asked me if I'd like to earn rewards, and I told her not if I had to turn myself in. It was a frustrating experience, and I could only describe it with words better not expressed in the express lane.

SAYING A MOUTHFUL

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-27-25)

     During this month falls National Snack Day, when we honor those snacks that gave their lives for their country, the 13th most obese in the world. What is our National Snack, anyway? That's a good question. And I use the phrase "good question" here to mean, "dumb question."

     In picking the National ANYTHING, you have to really weigh the options. Whatever you choose has to represent your country in the most honorific way. Take the recent contentious vote to crown a Canadian National Bird, for example. Most were rooting against the Canada Goose, an annoying aircraft that honks its way over to your park and distributes messy evidence of its arrival into every usable corner of the place. Making THAT your national representative would be like voting the "personal injury lawyer" your National Occupation. The snowy owl got a lot of attention, but they had all melted by the time the vote was taken. The common loon was a traditional favorite, but is more a symbol of the mentally ill than a modern nation. So they settled on the gray jay, an ordinary, benign and dull-looking bird. In Canada, however, the color is spelled "grey," so this poor bird spends much of its time at appearances explaining why its own name is spelled wrong.

     So we should choose our National Snack carefully. Wise potato chips would literally be a wise choice. Americans probably nosh on French fries more than anything else, an irony which would not go unnoticed if we chose them as our National Snack. The Kit Kat Bar is not only a great candidate for National Snack, but also for National Adult Recreation Area.

     Let's play a game called, "You Think THAT'S a Snack?" To me, a snack is something you derive pleasure from eating, mostly because it's so bad for you. Did you ever have a boyfriend that treated you horribly, yet you couldn't break up with him because he had a car and a somewhat valid driver's license, and made you laugh and your Mom said he was no good for you? Well, please apologize to your Mom for me. Anyway, a decent snack should have an unhealthy amount of calories, salt, anything bad for you, lead, asbestos, I don't know. To say that you're going to have dried fruit as a snack is like saying, "You know what? Let's do something CRAZY and FUN today! We're going to clean out the garage!"

     I'm HUNGRY! And my Mom would say, "Why don't you have a piece of celery?" Celery? To me, celery is a substance that has only one function, and that is to display the effect of capillary action, as a science experiment. I bring a beaker with a red liquid in it to physics class, and perform a demonstration using a stalk of celery. "Watch," I say, "as the liquid moves up the tiny openings, propelled by the property which I am demonstrating." And the teacher, instead of complimenting me on my presentation, asks, "Mr. Melén, is that a bloody Mary?" No of course not, it's a chemical reagent, which I drank anyway just so I could pack the beaker away, actually a cocktail glass.

     A rice cake is a thinly veiled attempt to shoehorn one of the dullest foods on the planet into the snack category. Until such time as they put icing on a rice cake, please leave me out of that conversation.
     I'm so happy now that chocolate and peanut butter have found each other, and I want them always to be together, like traffic and weather. Two seemingly oddly-matched partners that have forged an unbreakable bond. I want them to never be apart, and I've even hired an intimacy coordinator to make sure that all their scenes together are mutually nurturing.

     I don't want them to get into a toxic situation where they can't even coexist in the same room without airing their petty jealousies. "So, what's this I heard about 'chocolate and coconut?'" "Oh, that was nothing serious." "Well what about almonds?" "HEY! Have you seen the new Timothée Chalamet movie?"

     Anything with "nougat" in it is also a win with me, since it seems like candy, but no one really knows what nougat is or what it's made of. I've looked in the table of elements and seen it there only periodically. All I know is that I intend to go over to Greenland with a butter knife, easily conquer it, and commandeer its sources of nougat in the name of, well, me.

     Whatever you choose to snack on, just make sure it's not a bunch of empty calories. Fill them up with chocolate, marshmallows, nuts, those crispy crunchy things and other nutrients. You'll pay for it down the road, but if you walk there you can burn a few of them off. Maybe it won't cost as much as you think. That's why I hooked my toll house cookies up with an E-Z Pass tag.

SURVIVAL OF THE HALF-WITTEST

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-13-25)

     Ever since the devastating wildfires that held California hostage for weeks, there has been much chatter about what you should take with you in the event that you have to quickly leave your home, not knowing if you'll return. In a doomsday scenario, I've always been trained to do one thing before all else: panic. 

     After a reasonable amount of time running around like a chicken with its head cut off, you need to quickly gather the things that are most important to salvage. You should have your important papers located in one place, hopefully in a fireproof lockbox. Birth certificates, passports, insurance papers, deeds, and the combination to the lockbox.

     Consider taking sentimental things that you can't replace. Many older photographs aren't in digital form, so take an inventory of the pictures where you look better than everyone else. Keep your expensive jewelry together, hidden in a place where you'll never find it in a million years. It might not be the expensive items that you take; I have an ugly tennis trophy that I hold onto to remind myself that I was once the only person who signed up for a tennis tournament, and when I grab it on my way out the door, my wife will say, "Well, at least that thing is finally out of the house."

     Be practical. Remember the "one year" rule: If you haven't used that 20-piece bar set in over a year, maybe it's about time you dusted it off.

     Keep your wits about you. If you see a sign that says "Break in Case of Emergency," it's very good advice. Emergencies can be stressful, so take a 20-minute breather.

     CHANGE YOUR SMOKE ALARM BATTERIES! I can't stress this enough, especially now that some states are doing away with Daylight Savings Time, which was when you used to be reminded to replace them. Instead, pick something else you do twice a year, like intending to clean your garage.

     A good flashlight is essential. One that has 6 or 7 different modes, so that if you keep pressing the button, you can come up with a beam that's not too bright, but not too dim, and flashes to the beat of "Stayin' Alive."

     It couldn't do any harm to stick a Swiss army knife into the kit. There's a lot of useful stuff on it, like a toothpick and tweezers, and some stuff that maybe is superfluous, knives and saws, and the like. If you see two people in a dire situation, who are you going to rescue first, the one with spinach in their teeth and eyebrows that look like the Amazon jungle?

     There are commercially made emergency backpacks that contain all sorts of useful items that you may not have thought about. A whistle, for instance, that you can blow if you're in a life-threatening situation. Someone a mile away might hear it and say, "Jesus, that's annoying." A foldable shovel, in case you have to clear your car out of a snow squall, or perhaps dig a latrine. A latrine should be at least two feet deep, and at least 100 feet away from the nearest working toilet, or else the people whom you made use it will take the shovel and hit you over the head with it.

     Some survival kits have fish hooks. Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and after he wastes a whole day not catching anything, he'll be angry that he didn't take the fish instead. Another thing to consider is a crank-operated portable radio. Could you really call it "surviving" without the Yankees?

     A first aid kit is important to have with you at all times. I don't know why there is not a second or third aid kit available for people like me, who are NOT punctual at all but still want to be able to weigh in with some helpful hints regarding life-saving techniques. For example, in the event of a snake bite, I arrive at the scene about 20 minutes after the paramedics, and I feel I can still help but I need some questions answered quickly: "Okay. Where is the snake that's allegedly been bitten?"

     Hopefully the crisis will abate, and you'll be able to return to your home unscathed. But in the process, you will have made some valuable discoveries about the things that are really important to you. It's better to make those difficult decisions before they are actually necessary, than to regret them after the fact. Was it more important to take your Grandmother's ring, even though it's not worth much, or the box of Wheaties with Michael Jordan's picture on it, SIGNED by Michael Jordan (yes, I really do have that)?! Your Grandmother is not going to like my answer, but in my defense, if we run out of food, how is that ring going to taste?

TWO EGGS BEAT AS ONE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (02-27-25)

     Valentine's Day has just passed, and I wanted to make sure you did something romantic for that special someone. If you didn't, you can just do what I do and say that you ordered 8 things from Amazon, each with 2-day shipping, and they'll be here in 16 days. YOU know the person I'm talking about. That wonderful one who watches a murder mystery with you, and puts up with you inserting a joke where an important plot revelation usually goes. Even though the joke was pretty good. And by "puts up with," I mean doesn't then commit a murder that is much less difficult to solve.

     Yes, that understanding admirer who doesn't mind that whatever simple task is undertaken in your presence, like loading the dishwasher, it will be redone. Perhaps better, so that the knives are loaded from the back first, thereby resulting in less subsequent injury. I'm assuming that the knives are loaded that way due to inefficiency, and not by some other means, motive or opportunity.

     That supportive spouse who puts up with most of your nit-picking, although in your defense it's not as though you pick every single nit. You have to have some standards. That significant other who, while agreeing to be significant, still prefers to go by "other" rather than using their real name.

     THAT person. You know them best, and because of all they do, you love them. And in spite of all YOU do, they love you. How should you show them how you really feel, without having to say something really beautiful that you hope she doesn't recognize from "Casablanca?"

     I guess you could say it with flowers. A nice bouquet says, "you are just as lovely as these, and you smell just as pretty." Don't take the analogy any farther, which would say, "And I will throw you into the garbage sometime next week."

     You could say it over dinner. A scrumptious steak says, well, if it says anything, it's probably a little too rare. You can send it back with a gentle nudge that you ordered it medium-rare. I hardly ever order a steak rare, making it that much rarer. She orders a steak Diane with julienne fries, which is a surprising coincidence reminding you of both your ex-wives.

     You could say it with jewelry. A three-carat diamond ring says so much. Maybe it says TOO much, WAY too much. You could certainly say a bit less, and have something left over to say during retirement.

     Or you can say it with breakfast. They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. And that might also be true for women, but it depends on which end you approach from. In my experience, the way to a woman's heart is through Sunday breakfast. In our house, it's a thing, and I take my responsibility seriously. On any given Sunday, before football, I can be seen in the laboratory, dreaming up new delights for the skillet or the oven.

     I can make a wide variety of wonderful confections designed to tickle her tastebuds and by extension, her fancy. I can make pancakes, johnny cakes, flapjacks, griddle cakes and hotcakes with equal aplomb. Swedish pancakes are my favorites, with their very thin consistency, like crepes. Be sure to heat up the griddle for a long time first, medium-high. The recipe is from my Grandmother, whose name was Blanche, so you know this was an authentic grandmother. 

     I invented the "reverse omelette," where I take equal parts shredded cheddar and Monterey Jack, and fry it in an eight-inch pan in some margarine until it melts (the margarine, not the pan), then add the beaten eggs. some chopped scallions will help, and cover the pan until the eggs are firm. Serve upside down, with the browned cheese on top.

     In another example of breakfast genius, I toast and butter an English muffin, pan-fry some prosciutto, cook an over-easy egg, so gooey that she makes a mess eating it and it puts you temporarily on an equal footing cleanliness-wise, and top it off with shredded Jarlsberg cheese in a tasty sandwich. After three bites of this you could convince her to mow the lawn if you had to.

     I make my own biscuits. One of the main ingredients I like to add is guilt. During the baking process, in between the buttermilk and the butter, a simple line to remind the biscuit recipient that you're doing this only for them, and that you don't really like biscuits serves to heighten your stature as a hero. Be sure you do your homework, and you're sure she won't say, "Really? I actually don't like biscuits either," and then you'll have to say, "Oh, then I'll eat them, but only to keep them away from YOU because I love you THAT MUCH." That's how biscuits become weaponized.

     I'm pretty sure this will work for you, and your significant other will never leave you for another other. But if you do overcook the omelette, go ahead and throw in a cheap line from "Casablanca," maybe she's never seen it. Here's looking at you, kids!

GETTING SMART

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (02-06-25)

     How is your New Year's Resolution coming along? Mine neither. Mine was to try and get smarter. It's not that I'm dumb, relatively speaking, it's just that I do dumb things at an extraordinary rate.

     Growing up in America, parents and teachers used to tell you that you could be anything you wanted to be. This was to encourage you to share your dreams so that they could talk you out of them at an early age. That's when they began a propaganda campaign bent on decrying the dangers of being an out-of-work rock-and-roll musician with many girlfriends who, while fun to hang around with, especially after several cocktails, had expensive tastes in cars and plastic surgery procedures, while extolling the exciting life that certified public accountants lead. 

     Well, I don't want to burst your bubble, but you CAN'T be anything you want to be when you grow up. I wanted to be a microbiologist, but I'm way too tall. One occupation I might have qualified for is a teacher, but what grade would I teach? It would have to be one with students whom I am smarter than, which would require testing them to find out if they are qualified. I could teach second grade math, or I could teach foreign high school students English as a third language, provided they had no interest in figuring out what a pluperfect tense is. 

     Anyway, as you grow older, you need to protect the synapses that are still residing with you from the seduction of early retirement. So I've embarked upon a multifaceted program to increase my general knowledge, about more subjects. Partly to improve myself, but mainly, it's so I can call up answers quickly from my "mental database" when my wife and I watch "Jeopardy" together. Right now, my "mental database" is sorted into "1970s game shows," "commercial jingles that are annoying to most," and "foods that I don't like and you shouldn't either." Under-represented are: "world captitols," "current events," "important leaders," "science," "physics," and "spelling, specifically whether capitols are spelled with an 'o' or an 'a.'"

     As it is, when we watch "Jeopardy" my focus is not on the questions so much as obscuring the correct answer just at the very time of its revelation, using subterfuge, diversion or feigning a medical emergency after I've shouted out my response. That way, my answer could still be correct- we'll never know, will we?

     So I subscribed to a service that provides "brain games" on my computer, which are designed to increase your cognitive awareness, memory, problem solving and attention span. What the hell was I talking about again? Oh yeah. The idea is that if you play these games often enough, you'll start to appear less stupid over time. At least over the time from 7:00 to 7:30PM, when Jeopardy is on.

     I don't know if it will work, but it does allow you to see empirically where your strengths lie, and if they have any intention of ever getting up. One of the games casts you as a waiter, and you need to remember the names of your customers to get tips. I rose to the top level of this game, able to remember all the names of all the customers, even though they only came once. They never returned, since I could not remember what they ordered. 

     In another game, I play the role of a train dispatcher, changing the switches of the tracks to direct the correct train toward its matching depot. The idea is that you must think quickly in a setting of divided attention, and execute decisions with one part of your brain while planning the next action with a different part of your brain.

     Scientists used to say that you only used a small portion of your brain power, saving the rest for, I don't know, what? A salad? If I was using say, only ten percent of my brain, the other 70 percent should be well-rested, and able to find my car keys. Is the 10 percent that was on duty the part of my brain that lost them in the first place?

     I guess I've survived this long with having relatively nothing intelligent to say, and it hasn't slowed me down that much. I'm the kind of person that, when all is said and done, for some reason I'm still talking. My advice is rarely sought, because it will come and find you anyway on its own, even if you're sleeping. I'll leave you with another math problem that has to do with fractions, and you can use it to figure out how my New Year's resolution is coming along: If you drank a fifth of Scotch, what did you do with the other four fifths? Write me and I'll come help you look for it.