RICKSTER IS THE COLUMNIST FOR THE WEEKLY PUBLICATION, "THE SOMERS RECORD"

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Friday, December 28, 2018

BREWS AND BRUISES IN BREWSTER

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-23-18)

      Yesterday evening I worked up quite a thirst and had a hankering to visit the local watering hole. There's a saloon right up Route 22 that has a country feel to it, so I saddled up and went on over. The first thing I do when I walk into a place like that is look up and check out the chandeliers. Oddly enough, this place has several, but the kind I'm looking for is a large, metal one about four to six feet in diameter. That way, if a bunch of rustlers waltz in and start a brawl, I shoot the chandelier down with my six-gun and it falls right on top of four of them, incapacitating them for the remainder of the fight. If you thought I was going to work myself into the fray, I'm a frayed not- I have learned one or two things over the years.

     If I was born way back in yonder times, I would have won the West quicker than a greased hog at a librarian's convention. How? I would have invented the seven-gun. That's right, it holds seven bullets, and when the guy with the black hat shoots you six times, and you shoot him six times, he's busy reloading while you have an extra shot, and BOOM. He's pushing up daffodils faster than a racehorse in a toupee factory.

      They have a mechanical bull at this place who goes by the name of Ferdinand. It reminded me of the time I went to Gilley's in Dallas, Texas, where I strolled up to that infamous bogus bovine with a cow chip on my shoulder. Sitting atop of the saddle at the time was a one year-old baby, taking a leisurely ride as his dad held him in place. After he was done, I mounted the fearsome beast, one hand on the rein and one arm akimbo. I whispered to the operator to set the speed one notch slower than the baby, and called over to my wife to set the camera shutter to slow, so I would look blurry in the photographs, as if I was flailing away even more hopelessly than I actually was.

     The minute I got on top of the bull I was busy trying to come up with an exit strategy, which took some of my concentration away from holding on to the rope. I should have packed a parachute, or brought a bungee cord, or worn two pairs of pants at least. I've had a couple knee surgeries, and I had a feeling this thing could pitch me over near the rest rooms before I even had a chance to deploy my parachute. The operator was wearing a ten-gallon hat and a twenty-gallon smirk, and I knew that reasoning, threats or even begging would be useless. It seemed like it took forever, but I was thrown off the bucking thing faster than a wet hen at a pajama party. I had a screwdriver in the car and I felt like going back there and disassembling its servo motor.

     Here they have mostly country music playing, and although I assume it was from this country, no one specified. Country music consists of songs about, in no particular order, dogs, beer, women, trucks, The South and guns. There are no songs about cats, "The Bachelor," gluten-free dining or gardening. In case you've been out of the country for a while, there are all different kinds of country music now, so I'll catch you up to speed. In addition to traditional country, there is alternative country, where the dog is a Bichon Frise, the beer is an IPO and the women are lesbians. There is also country blues, where the dog is a Basset Hound, the beer store is closed and the women are unhappy in their relationships. Outlaw country has songs where the dog is an unleashed Pit Bull, the beer is stolen and the women are recent parolees.    

     The shadows were starting to lengthen, a shot of whiskey had emboldened the crowd, and a couple of dauntless damsels decided to try their luck on Ferdinand. If you've ever seen the movie "Urban Cowboy," you'll remember sultry Debra Winger making moves on top of that mechanical bull that would make you think that they had been dating exclusively. But reality is a different animal, and the first cowgirl got the blues right away when, try as she might, she failed to mount the faux furry brute. Her friend wasn't in much better shape but she was quite a comely lass, and the operator thought she might be good for business. I don't even think he turned the thing on, and she eventually slid off the back and tipped the bull, thinking that her Uber had arrived.

     It was time for last call quicker than a pickle poacher in a pumpkin patch. I went to settle my tab but it was so dark I could hardly see the bill. "I know," said the bartender, "Some idiot shot down the chandelier."


Friday, December 21, 2018

NEW HOPE FOR AN OLD TRAVELER

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-16-18)

     As a public service to my readers I like to go to a place I've never been before, spend a couple days, see the sights and file a full report so you can decide for yourself if you want to go there. And since I'm not there any more, this would be a great opportunity for you to go. This time we visited New Hope, a quaint and historic borough in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, less than three hours away.

     Here, you can cruise Main Street and stop into some of the eclectic shops that feature vintage clothing, books and records. There's an art to this kind of thing, you can't just sell a bunch of peoples' old junk or nobody will come in. You have to curate it, and in case you haven't noticed, everything is curated these days. There are also plenty of great restaurants and of course places to go if you're thirsty and need to curate yourself a cocktail.

     At one bar they had kind of a musical jam going, and you could play with the band if you were willing to swear that you weren't horrible. I sat in on drums. I convinced the guys to play "Little Wing," which is basically a bunch of guitar solos with a couple verses tacked on, so it didn't take that much convincing. After a quick vote we even dispensed with the verses. One guy sitting in on the guitar spent about 23 minutes adjusting the guitar strap, so the total length of the song was about 42 minutes. If it had stretched past 45 minutes it might have seemed self-indulgent.

     New Hope is just a stone's throw from the town where Washington crossed the Delaware. That town is ironically named Washington Crossing. I looked in a history book, and Washington crossed the Delaware so many times they should have put up one of those yellow signs with a black silhouette of him so you would know to watch out in case he's at it again. I'm not really impressed by this as the maneuver of a military genius. He could have come over here to New Hope and walked across the Delaware in hip waders, it doesn't really look that deep. George Washington did a lot of weird stuff, like cutting down a cherry tree for no good reason. I'm not saying he definitely did it, but you never hear anyone else's name come up. If he wants to chop down a banana tree, be my guest because I hate bananas.

     A great thing to do here in New Hope is to bicycle along the Delaware Canal and Tow Path. It's 60 miles long but you don't have to do the whole thing in one day. It is super peaceful except for my constant jabbering, and there are great views of the river and abundant wildlife. Luckily there are no hills to mention, or I would have mentioned them by now. For someone who rides a bicycle every single day, I am deathly afraid of hills, the sight of which result in weeping and the application of smelling salts to both me and my bicycle. Along the way we saw a great blue heron, and also one that was not so great, and if you turn around at the second one you will have ridden about five miles. If you make it to the snapping turtle you went too far.

     You shouldn't miss a show at the Bucks County Playhouse. We took in a production of "42nd Street," and it was so professionally staged that I was wowed, and actually said "wow" several times. Practically the whole cast was singing and tap dancing from curtain to curtain, and even somebody who is not a great lover of musicals was entertained the entire time. It made me think of my Mom, who was always showing off her tap dance training at any opportunity. She was so light on her feet during this demonstration that the floor would shake, and me and my sisters would have to catch the dishes as they fell off the mantel before they hit the ground.

     So take a little visit to New Hope, spend a few days, and sneak out when your family is at breakfast. As you're driving away on Route 202 across the bridge, don't forget to snap an historically accurate picture of yourself crossing the Delaware. It worked pretty nicely for George Washington.

Friday, December 14, 2018

STOPPING THE PRESSES

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-09-18)

     Last week it was announced that the Daily News had laid off half its editorial staff. The parent company, the aptly named Tronc, Inc., explained that the layoffs were necessary in order to focus on its online media. If you plan to get all your news online, you probably know by now that the internet is a great place to find cat videos. Do you hear "laurel" or "yanni?" Did you happen to catch Chrissy Teigen's post-baby bikini body? So did I, but I wouldn't call it news.

     It's true, you can find news all over the internet if you search for it. And the more you search for it, the more the news seems to be all about you and your view of the world. And why are ads suddenly popping up for Chrissy Teigen's new post-baby bikini collection? The model that the importance of news is based on hits to a website is inherently flawed. If that remains the model, news will eventually only be about models.

     A newspaper is a wonder of modern technology. You grab it from your mailbox, open it up, and the news is right there- you don't have to search for it and figure out if the person who wrote the story has half a brain or not. At my house the paper lands halfway up our driveway and I don't even have to go all the way to the mailbox. So few letters are delivered into our mailbox lately that there is a wasp's nest there now. Actually, that might be the reason we get so few letters. I had the last laugh when I put four stamps on the nest, put the flag up then ran like hell into my house, locked all the doors and hid under the couch.

     Reading has always separated the informed from the uninformed. If someone comes along and tells you that they know more than everyone else, but doesn't read, you should be concerned. The people who don't know what they don't know are the most dangerous. "Wow, so let me get this straight- you know more than all the generals, and yet you never read a book? That's impressive sir, but how did you do it?" "I called up a few YouTube videos, and BOOM. There you go. AND I added 4 MPH to my tennis serve."

     Hey, I might not be a military genius but at least I know how to change the windshield wiper blades on my wife's car. How do I know this? From watching YouTube videos of course, but I still had to throw the wiper assembly across the garage to figure out exactly how it disassembles. My point is this: YouTube videos can only get you so far in life.

     A war on information is waged by those who stand to gain if people remain ignorant. In my lifetime I never thought I would hear someone who was not a dictator call the press the "enemy of the people." I always considered that Genghis Khan might be an enemy of the people, or companies that pollute the water supply. Or termites, or Tom Brady. Traffic lights that take forever are an enemy of the people, and products wrapped in plastic that you can't open without a pair of scissors or a pair of pliers, sometimes both. Reality programs that are OBVIOUSLY scripted are the enemy of the people, and produce that you buy from the supermarket that went bad before you even brought it home. Okay, maybe not Tom Brady, but Jesus, can't the guy ever sit down for a few minutes and age? The free press is the enemy of the people who are corrupt, misguided, tyrannical.

     I once got an email from a reader who had mistaken me for a journalist. Far from being a journalist, I'm just a dude who enjoys stringing adjectives together for decorative purposes. But there are people who can literally write, who know not to misuse the word "literally." What they write is important, timely and they have every word they need at their fingertips. I wish I could think of the word for those people.

     If newspapers go away the chances are they are not coming back, and you will be left with people tweeting you what to believe, and they might not necessarily be the world's brightest. "Clapping back" on Twitter isn't enough. Well, it might be enough, since I don't actually know what it means. What you should do is support real news, in a newspaper that hires reporters that go to Afghanistan. Do you think Perez Hilton is going to Afghanistan? I implore you to go to your mailbox right now, and read your newspaper. Watch out because there might be a wasp's nest in there. And if there's any mail addressed to the wasp, don't open it- that's a federal crime and the newspaper will print your name in the police blotter section.

Friday, December 7, 2018

EXIT, STAGE LEFT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-26-18)

     I had such fun being a stagehand last time at the Pleasantville Music Festival, I decided to join Adam and the group again this year. It's a day of music, community, food and a relaxed atmosphere that's conducive to just hanging out with friends, old or new. There were popular headliners, great local bands and vendors of all stripes to visit.

     Parking was a little tight, so I brought my fold-up bicycle. I managed to find a spot somewhere between Thornwood and the Gulf of Mexico, and cycled the rest of the way. My folding bike is getting a little long in the spokes, but it's hard to find a full-sized folding bike so I'm keeping this one around. I'm a 6'2" dude, and I can't be riding around on a clown-sized bike, even if it's a folding clown.

     It's my second year on the crew, so I know the whole lexicon now. If somebody says "Great weather!" It means it's way too hot. "I love the band's new stuff," means "I wish they would have played more of their old stuff." If someone says, "Any good food trucks over there?" It means they want to know if they're allowed to eat at the catering tent. "It looks like the rain is going to hold off" means "We're doomed." It was hot, that's for sure. My VIP wristband allowed me access backstage, and in the food service area, but I really wanted to spend more time in the bathroom, where it was air conditioned, but I was starting to look like I had a digestive disorder.

     I saw people walking around with earpieces, and I thought it would make me look a little more important if I had one, too, so I got mine out of the car. "Is that Jeff on that earpiece?" Somebody asked. "I need to get in touch with him." "No," I said, "but the Yankees are up four-nothing."

     One of the core values of the Pleasantville Music Festival is recycling and waste management, and they are pretty serious about it, to put it mildly. The volunteers in the light blue tee shirts must have remembered me from last year. "You're not going to throw that cup in there, are you? That bin is for high and low-density polyethylene ONLY." "Actually," I said, "I'm going to be recycling it by planting tree seeds in it, so HA!" I strolled away victorious, but I turned around quickly and saw a couple blue shirts duck behind a vendor tent, and I think I might have been followed.

     The Psychedelic Furs were winding down their set. They may be older than they used to be, but getting older doesn't mean you forget how to play. Hey, I'm in a band and getting older too, so I guess I'll be needing a different excuse when I forget how to play.

     It was time to strike the stage, and when we were all done I felt like it had struck ME instead. As the last of the risers had un-risen, our crew was released for the evening. I went over to Lucy's for a well-deserved cocktail, since I hadn't had a drop to drink the whole day. If you're not at the top of your game with all those heavy stage pieces flying around, you'll lose a finger faster than you can say, "Has anybody seen my finger?" I've always considered myself pretty level-headed, and I saw no need to let a 40-pound stage monitor drop on my head and make me more so.

     I made my way towards the exit, and a couple of recycling volunteers were still cleaning up. "What are you going to do with all that scrap metal?" "That's just my bicycle," I said, and I put my pedal to the scrap metal. All in all, being a roadie was a lot of work, but a great experience. If this is your first time volunteering, that's code for: "Next time, don't be an idiot and play two sets of tennis before you show up for your shift or you won't be able to lift your coffee cup the next day."

Friday, November 30, 2018

BE-BOP NEAR THE TRAIN STOP

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-19-18)

     Last Friday was such a nice day we decided to head down to Tarrytown and take in a some jazz in Pierson Park for the Friday Evening Concert Series. If you're in the mood for it, a little jazz can be just the thing. Much of it is instrumental, so you don't even have to sing along. Every time see a rock band these days, they start the song, get to the chorus and then stick the mike out into the audience and expect us to sing it. NEWSFLASH: that's what we pay YOU for. With jazz, the band handles all the details by themselves, and nobody sticks a saxophone out into the audience expecting me to solo.

     Jazz is pretty free-form, so you don't really have to obsess about playing the right notes all the time. If you play a real clunker, the best thing to do is stop abruptly, take the horn away from your mouth, stare into the crowd, then play the same wrong note twice more, and people will think you're a real artist. Try to look tortured by the banality of playing correct notes all the time. When I make four mistakes in a row playing bass in the rock band, the rest of the guys look at me like I'm an idiot. But if I was in a jazz band I'd be so far ahead of my time that I wasn't even born yet. I just want to take the opportunity to tell those guys right now that in a few years, perhaps they'll understand the significance of the wrong notes I played two years ago.

     Even if you're a singer in a jazz ensemble and don't know the words, you can fake it. Ella Fitzgerald was the best at that. She would sing, "A tisket, a tasket, a brown and yellow basket..." Lose her train of thought, then start singing, "Scoodly-bip bop bap bip doo-WAAAAA!" And everyone thought she was a genius. If she ever got back to finish the tisket and the tasket story, it didn't make a whole lot more sense than "scoodly-bip bop," anyway.

     I was actually in a jazz band with some guys from Katonah a few years ago. We would get together every other Wednesday, and to fit in, I would look sullen and suck on a reed for a half hour before we started, until they reminded me that I was the drummer. "Do you know how to use brushes?" They asked. "Take a look at my hair and decide for yourself." End of conversation.

     I'm a rock and roll guy from way back, most of us Baby Boomers are. Jazz wasn't really on my radar until my first year at college, which I spent at the University of Hartford. My roommate Mike was a sax player on scholarship at one of the premier music schools in the country, and rooming with him taught me the first and most valuable lesson I learned at college, which was that I had better open up my eyes and my ears and start absorbing the world, not just Clinical Psych 101. I would sprinkle in some jazz during my shift as a disc jockey at the school radio station. I knew which tune would last exactly the length of time it took to announce the song, "hit the post," visit the restroom, rush back to my chair, drop my headphones on the floor, kick them across the room and still have four seconds left to cue up.

     My Mom wasn't a big jazz fan. She would scrunch up her nose if she heard me playing some Miles Davis. "I don't like that 'cool jazz,'" she would say. "Or is it the 'hot jazz' I don't like?" I never knew what the hell she was talking about, but I told her not to get out that thermometer and check. She was famous for taking your temperature in an impolite place when you had your back turned.

     She thought that every jazz musician looked like they were "on something." Yes, Mom, it's called unemployment. She was an opera nut. Every time I came into the room she had it playing on the radio, and she would wave her arms toward me.

"Mom, what are you doing?" "I'm wafting!" She thought if she fanned it over to where I was sitting that I would be intoxicated by its charms, but I never liked it. Why can't they sing like normal people? Plus the whole thing was in German, and it sounded like a meeting of the Gestapo put to an impossible-to-sing melody, and that was just the love scene.

     With jazz you just absorb it by osmosis, and it's like wallpaper you can tap your toe to. Anyway, down by the train station in Tarrytown on a Friday evening is a great place to plop a couple lawn chairs, open up a little wine and cheese and take in some great views of the Hudson. The music will just make all those things seem a little better. And if anyone plays a few wrong notes, start clapping like crazy and everyone will think you are an aesthete of the highest dimension.
 

Friday, November 23, 2018

TWELVE SCORE AND ONE YEAR AGO

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-22-18)

     Last week on the 4th of July America turned 241 years old. Did you bring a birthday present? What do you get for the country that has everything? It has amber waves of grain, it has purple mountain majesties, it has oceans white with foam. Most of these  assets are highly leveraged to the Chinese at the moment, so you'd better get out and see them now because they're planning to turn them into a giant Legoland.

     This year's Independence Day was sitting there independently in the middle of the week, on a Wednesday, which is impossible to make a long weekend out of. Who's with me on this: let's keep Independence Day on July 4th, but observe it from the beach on a Monday, where I can patriotically dip myself into one of those sea-to-shining-seas that I've been hearing so much about. This year we had a quiet little barbecue by the pool, no drinking, no carrying on, and we listened to the fireworks exploding all around us in the evening.

     It's always a great day for the National Anthem. Luckily the copyright is still good, or we could be singing The Star-Spangled Banner to the tune of "Happy Birthday." If you try it in your head you'll see it's not as bad as you thought.

     It's hard to write a good national anthem, because there are a lot of factors involved. Francis Scott Key wrote the poem, "Defence of Fort M'Henry" during the War of 1812, sitting in a jail cell while the fort was being bombarded. He decided to use a conversational tone. He writes, "O, say..." here and there, as if he's just killing some time describing this flag situation until the bombs stop and they can pick up something at the deli. "O, Canada," on the other hand, has no conversational tone, because Canada is a huge place, and there is nobody else around to talk to. Instead, the words speak directly to the country itself, promising to "stand on guard for thee." It's worked pretty well as a national security plan, as long as nobody falls asleep on duty.

     I have to give Francis Scott Key credit, because it's hard to find anything that rhymes with "star-spangled." New-fangled? Right-angled? Hair-tangled? Casey-Stengeled? If you watch peoples' lips when they try to sing the song at a ballpark, you'll see all sorts of unusual things. Nobody knows the order of the bursting, streaming or gleaming, and is it the night that's perilous or the fight?

     The Star-Spangled Banner is actually four verses long, and gets bleaker and gloomier as Key realizes that there is no coffee maker in the jail cell. I would have put a guitar solo in between the first and second verse, and maybe start the song off with some cowbell, but that's just nitpicking. The tune that we chose to go with the poem is a British folk song called "To Anacreon in Heaven", and it's too bad we couldn't come up with something American. Before 1931 when Congress made things official, people were using "My Country 'Tis of Thee" as our national song, which has exactly the same tune as Great Britain's National Anthem. It would have been pretty embarrassing to have a country that 'tis of thee and a national anthem melody that 'tis of somebody else's.

     Yes, the song hard to sing. The trick to singing the Star-Spangled Banner is to start the song as low as you can sing. I recommend going down at least one flight of stairs before you even start. When you get to "the rockets' red glare" you're going to thank me for that advice. I like our National Anthem. It has depth, it has weight. I don't mind that you can't sing it, you can't remember the words and you can't dance to it. They said the same thing about Bohemian Rhapsody, and who's laughing now? As long as I can barbecue to it, and and I live in a land where I am free to use any barbecue sauce I want, we're good.

Friday, November 16, 2018

WORLD CUP BREAKUP

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-05-18)

     Ask anyone from any foreign country what their favorite sport is, and they will answer quickly and enthusiastically: FOOTBALL! Unfortunately, they're not talking about real football, they're referring to that silly game Europeans play, where they run from one side of a large field to another, kicking a ball back and forth, aiming it into a small net and not getting it anywhere close most of the time. Statistically, there is only a slightly less chance of catching a tuna with that net than a soccer ball.

     This goes on for an hour and forty-five minutes. That's if we're lucky. But if the referee has late dinner plans, or things aren't going so great at home, or he's having a better than expected time being a referee, he can simply extend the match at his discretion to account for stoppages during the game. All this effort is devoted to a zero-zero tie. If someone does accidentally score a goal, much of the remaining time is taken up by an announcer yelling, "GOOAAALLLLL!" It's about as exciting as watching grass grow, and I'm including artificial grass.

     For all the scoring that is achieved in soccer, you might as well not use your hands OR your feet. Just hit the ball with your head, and if you can think of anything else to hit it with, knock yourself out, if hitting the ball with your head didn't already knock you out. Why not simply increase the size of the net? That goalie gets pretty good money for sitting around back there checking his emails while everyone else is scurrying about like a bunch of kangaroos. Speaking of kangaroos, one hopped onto the field during a match in Australia recently, and it was the most exciting thing that ever happened until someone foolishly chased it away with a pickup truck. The game of soccer would go from 0 to 60 in two seconds if they just made a kangaroo one of the players. Even a pickup truck would be an improvement.

     I prefer baseball. I know, I know. Soccer fans are the same people who say that baseball is the boring sport. They think that way because they don't understand the drama of the game, where one pitch or one swing of the bat can change the fortunes of the contest. The fact that there is a large amount of free time scheduled within the game is an under-appreciated bonus. In between pitches you can get a pedicure, ice a birthday cake, do your taxes.

     People from other countries, baseball is where you want to be. First of all, it's the only professional sport played in a park. Secondly, it is relatively safe. There is a lot of violent contact, but all of it in the stands. Third, I can't think of any other game where foul balls are tolerated with such equanimity.

     I want athletes from other countries to consider playing baseball instead of soccer. Baseball has become a much healthier and more inclusive place. It is the WORLD series, after all, and over the span of more than a century, we've extended the eligibility to include one team from one other country. Also, because of the health risks, ballplayers don't chew tobacco anymore. Instead they crack bird seeds with their teeth and spit the shells out onto the dugout floor. Some say this behavior is less than manly. Now, I don't know how things are at your bird feeder, but you have to be plenty tough to nose out the squirrels in my neighborhood. I'm thinking of putting up a cake of suet to attract more ballplayers. So far I have a few Cardinals, a Blue Jay and an Oriole.

     Other countries, I read the newspaper, and I know some of you aren't our BFFs right now. But us Yankees need your best athletes. Forget soccer, it's boring with a capital Z. You play ball with us, and we'll play ball with you, if you know what I mean, and if you do you'll be the first one. America welcomes you with open arms. Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Give us anyone you might have lying around who can throw a baseball 98 miles an hour. Give us somebody who can hit .300, with a slugging percentage of say, .450. We can smooth out the details later.

Friday, November 2, 2018

CLUELESS IN NEW JERSEY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-28-18)

     My sisters and I get together every year for a weekend at the Jersey Shore, with their kids and spouses, and this year we decided to do something a little different. We signed up for one of those "escape rooms," where they put a group of you into a room and you have to figure your way out using only your wits, your guile and the clues that are provided to you. I thought it might speed things up if we were able to figure our way out using only our wits, our guile and a Milwaukee Sawzall, but I went along for the ride.

     We were all over it in the car on the way back from the restaurant, full of confidence and brio. We had a dynamic group: Dan is a math whiz, Erica has great organizational skills, Guthrie sees the big picture, Deb knows how to make connections, Anne is a communicator and Sky is good at management. Everyone brought something to the table. My expertise is that I know every episode of "Get Smart" backwards and forwards, which don't be surprised if it comes in handy. With that kind of brainpower, we could break out of Leavenworth. Our enthusiasm was slightly tempered when all the car doors locked automatically and we had to ask Paul to let us out from the driver's seat.

     Once we were inside the room, the moderator explained that we were in Nazi Germany, and we had to figure out how to open the jail cell door where a bomb sat, ticking away. We had 30 minutes to access it and disarm it. Why couldn't I have watched more "Hogan's Heroes" instead of "Get Smart?" He left through the back access door and the game was on. Deb turned the access doorknob and it opened right up. "Let's get the hell out of here," she said, and started to make a break for it. We dragged her back inside and began to look for clues. There was not a moment to waste.

     I saw a burlap bag with words on it that said, "THIS IS NOT A CLUE!" Was that a clue? Somebody found a some fuses and a fuse box. We put them in and the cell door opened. Now we needed four numbers to punch into the control panel. Something started beeping- MORSE CODE! The legend gave us the answer in German and also a translation- a one and a nine. Was it one-nine or nine-one? Nine-one or one-nine? One-nine or nine-one? A message flashed on the video screen: "Jesus, it's 1-9. I have another group coming in at 8:30, so let's get moving on the bomb."

     I picked up an army helmet and looked inside: "SEVEN! Its says seven!" Well, it turns out that was just the hat size, but on the plus side it fit me perfectly, just in case we couldn't defuse the bomb. "Why do we want to open that cell door in the first place? What if the bomb gets out?" Another number came from a map on the wall that we transferred to coordinates on a grid.

     We punched in the numbers and.... We did it! We disabled the bomb and saved the free world. I asked the group if they wouldn't mind coming over to help me figure out how to work my new coffee maker. There are several clues buried in the instructions, but I'm having a hard time getting them out.

     The experience brought to mind some ideas for other escape rooms. How about "Escape from the Bathroom," where the clues are buried in a book that you NEVER finish? Or an escape room where you have to put together a shelving unit from IKEA in order to get out, for instance. What about an "Escape from the White House," using clues that you'd have to be an idiot not to see before you went in?

     In the end, it was a group of people, using their own special skills, finding common ground, working together towards a shared goal. If you extrapolate that idea out to other walks of life, you can almost see the way forward. I'd like to think we can get there one day, but I'm going to keep that Milwaukee Sawzall handy just in case.

Friday, October 26, 2018

HITTING THE ROAD, PART II

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-21-18)

     Welcome back to our little trip across these great United States. We left off somewhere on Route 90, heading out of Cleveland. So glad to have you following along, and frankly, if you're following I'm just glad you're not the cops. On the way to Chicago I found myself driving 70 miles an hour, which made the police quite angry, since the speed limit was 75.

     When I'm on the highway I usually don't break too many laws, I might go five miles an hour over the speed limit once in a while. It's local roads that I have to worry about, where the speed limit is 25 miles per hour. Did you ever try to go 25 miles per hour? You'd be lucky the cops caught you going 30 just to prevent the guy behind you from killing you first. My friend Chris said he used to have a Crown Vic, and everyone assumed he was a cop and slowed down to a snail's pace in front of him, causing him to finally impound his own car and resign from not being in the police force.

     When we finally rolled into Chicago I had a full seven days worth of activities to keep us busy. Since we were only there four days I really had to crack the whip. If you really want to see a world city, the only way to do it is by bicycle. With a car you'll spend more time trying to park than sightseeing, the subway may or may not get you where you want to go even if you could read the map, and buses, well, just forget about buses. Walking will wear you out way before the museum does.

     In Chicago they have a great bike sharing program called Divvy Bikes. Please insert credit card and remove. If you remove it too fast the kiosk thinks you're being greedy. Please try again. Remove it too slowly and you're lollygagging, which is inconsistent with Midwestern values. Please try again. After about 30 tries I was ready to liberate our bikes with a Milwaukee Sawzall. My wife, who is better suited for this kind of thing, was able to get the bikes out of the rack with a minimum of violence.

     We went to see the Second City Improv group, of course. The players write a show and perform it every night for six months, and it evolves over that span. As part of the program they improvise with the audience, and I always find that part amazing. If I'm forced to improvise by using Equal instead of Sweet 'N Low in my coffee, my entire day is thrown into a tailspin.

     We went to Adler Planetarium, and I haven't been to one in decades. We saw a presentation that showed how astronomers have charted an insane amount of not only stars but entire galaxies outside the Milky Way. Whoever named our galaxy after a candy bar is an idiot, by the way. There were beautiful views of Earth from outer space, and from that distance you can understand how small our planet really is in the Universe. You can also plainly see that there are no parking spaces at the Goldens Bridge train station.

     On our final day we went for a boat tour highlighting Chicago's architecture. The history and stories behind the iconic buildings are the classic stories of the city. We were seated in between two couples with two babies each, and believe me when I tell you, there is nothing babies love more than architecture. When the boat docked it was off to sunny Madison, Wisconsin.

     We had a gorgeous day for a bike ride around Lake Monona. The sun was shining, the humidity low, and the dew point was, well who the hell cares what the dew point is? The water in the lake was so warm that I brought my bathing suit and went for a swim. The place was awash in seaweed, which took a little getting used to. I thought it might be a good place to loll around on an inner tube, but I couldn't get it off of my bicycle, so I just threw the whole front wheel in, not very comfortable.

     The next day it was time to turn in the bikes and get to the airport. We love to travel to Europe and see how the rest of the world lives. But there's so much to see in our own country, and seeing it by car gave us the freedom to go exactly when and where we wanted to go. We made it a point to chat up the locals, and we talked about everything from politics to the Cleveland Cavaliers to what they love about their city, and after a couple cocktails, we learned quite a bit. We saw a lot of places on our trip, but it's the people that make them come alive.

Friday, October 19, 2018

HITTING THE ROAD, PART I

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-14-18)

     Nothing captures the imagination of the American traveler like a good old-fashioned road trip. It reminds me of when I was a kid, packing the car for our annual family trip to Atlantic City. My primary function was to complain that there was not enough snacks and Hawaiian Punch to last the epic three-hour journey. I remember these trips as a lot more fun than they probably were, partly because I fill in the gaps in my memory with scenes from National Lampoon's Vacation starring Chevy Chase, and when necessary, Beverly D'Angelo. This year we set out to finally see Chicago, stopping at various cities along the way.

     I pride myself on my ability to follow directions. If my boss at work tells me to do something, and explains it thoroughly, there is no reason in the world why I can't dig in and go find somebody who can figure out how to do what she just said. In the car, though, it's just me and my wife. We've been together so long that she knows exactly what's going on in my mind, if anything. So if something goes wrong I have to speak in code, so as not to alarm her. If I say, "The journey IS the destination!" That means we are lost. If I say, "WOW! Look at all those silos! Do you think any of them contain missiles?" That means we are hopelessly lost. If I get out my compass, well, I don't think I need to tell you what happens then.

     One time in Greece we rented a car that was so cheap, and I would not lie about this, that the motor's magneto had no housing. You shouldn't feel sorry for it or start a Habitat for Humanity campaign or anything, but what it means is that a powerful magnetic field was generated by the car's engine. So powerful that my compass's needle always pointed toward it, no matter which way we went, so I always assumed we were going north. Once we realized that Athens was not located at the South Pole, my navigational abilities were called into question. Since then, I have to explain in advance where we are going, and sometimes, why.

     That was before the age of GPS, so now there is no excuse not to be exactly where you are. Or so you would think. Turns out my GPS had gone slightly haywire, as though it had gone off its meds. The map showed us in the correct general area, but often traveling through bodies of water. My wife's smart phone was more reliable, but running out of batteries. My GPS lady started getting a little snippy, and started an argument with Siri, and we had to pull over. Luckily we had an actual map.
     We started this year's trip in Philadelphia to visit my sister's kid and her housemate. We didn't see much of the city, but we stayed up half the night playing cards. Skyler and Guthrie taught us a game called, "high, low, jack, pitch and cinch," and I swear they made the rules up as they went along. Thank god we didn't bring much money.

     Then it was on to Pittsburgh, which is a nice spot at the confluence of the Ohio, the Allegheny and the Monongahela Rivers. If you've never been to a confluence, Pittsburgh is a good place to get your feet wet. We visited the National Aviary, and found more questions than were answered: Why does a warbler warble? Is eagle baldness hereditary? At the Aviary you can enter a caged area filled with a zillion parakeets and feed them, if you are a big Hitchcock fan. We even had a sloth encounter, and I'm not overstating things when I say that they don't like to be rushed. But the visit was fun, and we have no egrets about anything.

     Cleveland was our next stop, and a visit to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I thought it would be a little cheesy, but it was interesting to hear the evidence with your own ears that every great song has a genesis that came before it. Except for songs by Genesis, I guess. It brought back great memories of how I used to wait all week for "The Midnight Special" to come on, so I could see Elton John or the Allman Brothers play, before there was any MTV. Or going to your first concerts- I remember one time me, Chris and Zenny piled into Ken's station wagon to go see Yes at Roosevelt Field in the pouring rain. We hydroplaned the car into a guard rail and had to walk to the concert, then ride home, five of us in the back seat of a Ford Capri. I still hold Yes responsible for that misery.

     The music of today seems pretty insubstantial compared to what we had in the '70s and '80s. When I think back on masterpieces like, "Chick-A-Boom (Don't Ya Jes' Love It)" and "Turning Japanese," I feel sorry that the current generation is deprived of the direction and emotional depth that these songs gave us. On those notes, it's off to Chicago!

Friday, October 12, 2018

WHAT'S IT GOING TO BE?

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-07-18)

     My neighbor's son and daughter-in-law had a "reveal party" last Saturday. I already know that my neighbor's kid is a boy, so the reveal must have been for their grandkid. When it was time for the big event, the soon-to-be Dad lined himself up, took a nice backswing and hit a golf ball, which exploded in a puff of pink smoke. It's a girl! I guess he was hoping for a boy, because he let out an expletive and threw his golf club into the woods. Apparently it was a surprise, but what what was more surprising is that he would use a 7-iron on a tee shot. I'm pretty sure his reaction was a put-on, but it would have shocked anybody who doesn't know him too well. My neighbor says he'll be blubbering away when the kid leaves for college. Wait until he gets the bill if you want to see some real blubbering.

     Things are sure different than they used to be. It used to be that your friends would announce a new addition to the family, and you would ask the husband is it going to be a boy or a girl, and he would say, "how the hell do I know? I didn't even know she was pregnant." And then you'd go have a beer, and in a couple years you'd know the answer.

     Or the ultrasound technician would call both parents in to see the gender reveal on a scope that shows what looks like a map of downtown Cleveland. How you can ascertain anything from looking at an ultrasound screen I'll never know, other than that the traffic is horrible in Cleveland. "Look- it's a boy," the tech explains. "WOW!" Dad exclaims. "See? That's his arm." "OH, thank god."

     Or they would send it in the birth announcement: "ITS A GIRL!" With a pink card that tells you what the baby's length and weight are. They never tell you what the baby's width is, which is more important than its height, since it spends so much time lying down. And ten bucks says that girl is ALREADY lying about her weight.

     I feel sorry for those parents who spent all this money on a gender reveal party, and a couple decades later, BOOM: they're a different gender altogether. Congratulations! It's gender-neutral! I have some experience on this subject, and for your information, you can refer to your gender-neutral friend using the pronoun "they." Those individuals have a little bit of this and a little bit of that. And I have to tell you, it would be kind of liberating not to have to conform to such strict rules all the time. My wife wanted me to kill a spider, because I'm the guy, and I swear this thing had hairy legs and a beard. I finally convinced her that we should let it live, because it can eat many times its weight in pests. Then I noticed my wife trying to calculate my weight and musing to herself what it might be like to vacation in the Caribbean with a fairly good-looking spider.

     And wouldn't it be nice to watch a sad movie once in a while and not be so self-conscious? "I'm not sitting through that sappy crap- take one of your girlfriends." "Why, because you cried like a baby during 'Titanic?'" "I DID NOT!" I cried.

     Anyway, the party was nice and the idea was kind of cute, and maybe we shouldn't limit the action to baby genders. What about when the big trial ends, and the jury foreman approaches the bench and whispers to the judge. His Honor releases a swarm of balloons: white, you're going home; gray, you're goin' down. The Vatican spews forth white smoke when they either elect a new pope or someone violates the no smoking policy up in the cupola. Let's do the same thing to make our presidential election day more festive and dramatic. Let's get our hands on some smoke and have some fun when we count up the votes. Red smoke, you've got yourself a Republican, blue smoke lands you a Democrat. Orange smoke, of course, means.... Well, let's just hope for the best.

Friday, October 5, 2018

STINK BUG IN MY COFFEE MUG

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-31-18)

     A stink bug landed in my coffee cup. This was disconcerting to me because I then had to add another Sweet'n Low. The bug didn't seem to notice. These pests have once again infiltrated our house, in spite of a complicated security system that includes an attack dog that cannot, repeat CANNOT be bribed with a squeaky toy. By the way, for your own safety, if you are a mailman, burglar or Jehovah's Witness, I recommend that you do not make any squeaking sound whatsoever.

     The brown marmorated stink bug, or halyomorpha halys, is an Asian insect not originally indigenous to the United States, proving once again that previous administrations have been SOFT on immigration. They are considered an agricultural blight, and in 2010 alone caused $37 million in damage to apple growers in Mid-Atlantic states alone, which they refused to pay back.

     If you have noticed these insects in your home, rest assured that they are harmless. They don't sting, they don't bite, they don't tweet incendiary little quips that might ignite a nuclear war. The stink bug doesn't even actually smell that bad. It has kind of an earthy odor, and I'm not trying to stick up for stink bugs or anything, but I've smelled weirder things at an Indian restaurant. If we picked up everything that stunk, wrapped it in a Kleenex and flushed it down the toilet, I would be a goner after two sets of tennis.

     They're about a half-inch long, have six legs and two antennae, even though most bugs have switched to cable. They don't get around that well. Their flight pattern resembles that of a four year-old child, still groggy from a trip to the dentist, trying to pilot a helicopter. Which begs the question: how can a four year-old child have THAT many cavities?

     The stink bug seems to be given to bouts of loneliness. One landed in my hair recently, which could be construed as an act of bravery. I've looked down and seen one walking along my arm, and I had no idea how it got there. Last thing I remember is me and the stink bug went out for just one drink, and I said I had an early meeting the next morning, and I wanted to be just friends, it's not you, it's me (it's you), etc., etc.

     Not sure if you have a stink bug infestation? I don't think you'll need a special dog to locate them, like bedbugs. If your dog can't sniff one of those out with one nostril tied behind his back he's an idiot. But if you do find them, I'm going to share some secrets about how to get rid of them. First of all, if you see a stink bug you can exterminate it using a solution of one part dishwashing liquid to one part water. If you use less detergent than that you will have an angry but fairly clean stink bug, and if you use more, you're probably going to have dirtier dishes.

     These little arthropods usually establish themselves in your house in the fall, seeking warmer environs for the winter. You should seal any cracks around chimneys or windows, weather strip your doors and repair broken screens. And frankly, now that I'm looking around, it wouldn't hurt you to dust once in a while.

     What was that? I thought I heard the stink bug say, "He who smelt it, dealt it." I wanted to punch it right in the thorax, but I'm better than that. So I said, "He who denied it, supplied it," and left it at that. I didn't think it necessary to go into a demonstration of what "sacrifice fly" actually means.

Friday, September 28, 2018

A ROYAL FOIL

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-24-18)

     Because of my deadline I'm writing this before the fact, but I never received my invitation to the royal nuptials this Saturday. Not even ONE nuptial. Nothing. I was camped out at the mailbox all week, and even had a tip for the mailman, and also one from Christmas, which must have gotten lost in the mail. Prince Harry and Meghan Markle didn't announce the guest list, but Nacho Figueras, an Argentinian polo player, was on it, and I wasn't. Obviously a guy who can sit on a horse and chase a ball around with a stick rated higher with them than a highly regarded citizen of the United States who can do a slam-dunk imitation of a barking dog (you choose the breed).

     I'm over it now. What would I even wear to an event like this? Is it out of line for a man to wear a fascinator? I think I'm fascinating already but it couldn't hurt. What about a kilt? What goes underneath? Do they make a "skort" version, like a "skilt?" Women cannot wear a tiara, but it doesn't say anything about men. Women should not have bare legs. Even underneath your stockings they should not be bare. As a guide, don't dress like the Spice Girls. The Spice Girls will actually attend the Royal Wedding, and they have been instructed not to dress like themselves.

     There are also a lot of rules about interacting with the Queen. The first time you address her she should be called "Your Majesty," which I think is weird because it implies that she is her own majesty. After that you can call her "Ma'am." "Your Highness" should only be used when addressing Cheech or Chong. Don't approach the Queen, wait until she approaches you first. You should let her sniff your hand before petting her, or am I thinking of dogs? Don't monopolise her time with a lot of nonsense, like I'm doing with you. Don't ask her what stocks she's in, or why they spell "monopolize" with an "s" over there. The only interaction I have had so far with a queen is on my chess board, and after my wife captures her I have to ask if I can visit.

     Once you have all the protocol straightened out, the wedding itself should proceed without much fanfare. Except for the actual fanfare, that is. Will they write their own vows? Will they love and cherish each other, in sickness and in health? I know a guy who is divorced, and I asked him exactly how long before his papers were signed did he feel he wasn't being cherished? Because that would be a dead giveaway to start hiding your assets.

     Will there be a band or DJ at the reception? At every wedding I've ever been to they played that song, "Shout." In the middle everybody crouches down, with no regard for my bad knee- that's a one-way ticket for me. It goes on forever because they keep singing "wait a minute!" I finally get all the way back up a few songs later, and I need new shocks at a minimum.

     I guess I'll have to watch the big event on television like the rest of Meghan Markle's family. At my own wedding there were no video cameras allowed. And no, not because they weren't invented yet, wise guy. It's just that I knew that there would be someone who drank too much, removed most of their clothing and did something that would eventually lead to the invention of the taser. And I knew just who that person would be.

     In spite of my absence I'm sure the whole event will be a smashing success and everyone will leave with a smile on their face, except for Doria Ragland, the mother of the bride. The bride's family traditionally pays for the wedding, and I'd love to see the look on her face her face when she gets the bill.

Friday, September 21, 2018

RADIO DAYS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-17-18)

     I've been feeling a bit nostalgic for the bygone era of listening to a baseball game on a crappy-sounding transistor radio. I define nostalgia as the feeling you get when your memory of something is better than that thing actually was. I don't need to bother mustering any warm feelings for the transistor radio, because AM reception is just as crappy-sounding now as it was then.

     In the old days Phil Rizzuto was the color commentator. A color commentator was important, because radio broadcasts were in black and white back then. Phil Rizzuto could think up the oddest things to say. It's like he was living in a parallel universe that existed in a southbound lane of the Major Deegan near the Willets Avenue Bridge. An outfielder would catch a fly ball and Rizzuto would say, "Holy cow, that was a can of corn!" And I would think, "It was? Well maybe it was." He would tell old stories of how he would take his chewing gum out of his mouth and put it on top of his cap when he was in the field. How he could chew it from that far away I'll never know. He could explain the merits of a good cannoli so well that it made you want to trade one of your backup infielders for a cannoli to be named later.

     You could hear the sounds of the stadium right through the radio. Eddie Layton used to tickle some noodlings out of the organ in between innings. He'd play the "Charge!" theme, and everybody would yell "CHARGE!" After all this time there is still nothing new written for the organ. Thankfully no one really charged, although many were overcharged at the concession stand.

     Today a baseball game is something they pass the time with between drop-in ads. "This walk was brought to you by Ford!" That walk didn't need to be brought to me by a Ford, it could have walked to me all by itself. "The last three seconds were brought to you by Celino & Barnes," Although it should be noted that Celino carried it most of the way and Barnes just sat there like a lox. If I had ever known how annoying it was to have all this stuff brought to me, I would have gone out there and gotten it myself. If you're starting a new company, just go ahead and name it "Strike Three, Inc." And someone will be obligated to plug you 9.4 times every game.

     The Yankees announcer is John Sterling, whom I like, but he has an annoying habit of guessing what the outcome of the play is going to be before it actually happens, and being wrong an astounding amount of the time. "That ball is HIGH, it is FAR, it is... caught in shallow center field." Turns out it wasn't that high and it wasn't that far. Does this guy realize that we can't actually see what's going on, so he could wait until the play has been decided, and then describe what happened much more accurately? If he wanted to he could watch the game on TV and broadcast it from his bathtub, and we wouldn't know the difference.

     When one of the Yankee players hits a home run, Sterling spouts forth with a couple of nifty rhymes extolling the player, making a play on words from his name. He has a different call for each player, and he uses the same one every time. It's the kind of thing that society has passed by without our even knowing it. People think it's corny, people think it's goofy, and so do I. And I wish there was more of it going around. That's what nostalgia does to you, I guess.\

     "This broadcast may not be reproduced or re-transmitted in any form without express written consent." We'll see about that. I plan to reproduce it in gaseous form and see if anyone notices. Or maybe liquid form, and as long as we're on the subject of liquid forms, I'm going to crack myself a beer- there's a game on.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

LAWN ORDER

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-10-18)

      The weather finally lightened up enough for me to plant this damn grapevine seedling that I got from Home Depot two months ago. "That thing's dead," my wife said. "They've been saying the same thing about Abe Vigoda for the last ten years, and who's having the last laugh now?" I countered. "Yeah, well, he's dead, too," she said. "Really?" I said. "He still looks the same as he always did."

      This is the time of year when I suffer from "greenish envy" from looking around at everybody's lawn on my street, and realizing that mine looks like an abandoned excavation area that may eventually become a Superfund site. And every year I foolishly think things are going to be different this time. I don't want to sound like an idiot when my neighbor Paul strolls over to get a look at my lawn, so I've been researching some cutting edge technology to impress him, starting with the fertilizer. I heard of a young couple raving about in vitro fertilization, so I've got my eye on that. 

      Last year I was pulling weeds from my lawn, the ones that look like tiny bouquets with a single white flower that comes out of the top. "You gotta wack that with the 'weed and feed,' Paul said. "You're gonna be there all day." "You don't understand," I answered. "This time it's personal. I want each of them to see the look on my face when I do what must be done" I hate this particular weed more than any other. When the coroner's report came back it turned out that I had strangled each one of those weeds to death and then stabbed it 17 times in a classic case of overkill.

      Two weeks later I had a free Saturday, and I re-seeded the lawn, spread the fertilizer and did everything all in one shot. I figured this would bring my front yard right into line with everybody else's, and I would be the hero of the neighborhood, the Lawn Ranger. "You didn't put down 'weed and feed,' did you? You're going to kill the grass seeds." Instead I'm a landscapegoat. I'm like human Agent Orange.

      I went back to the yard store. "Isn't there something something that can kill just the weeds without harming my grass seedlings?" I asked the guy with the overalls. If there's anyone who would know what to do with my lawn, it's a guy wearing overalls. "You mean 'SMART weed and feed?' That can eliminate the broadleaf weed, like your chickweed, your clovers, your spurges but not the grasses, like your fescue or your bluegrass?" "YES!" I screamed. "That's what I want!" "Oh I don't know of any product like that."

      My wife tells me we should just hire a guy to do the landscaping, but there is a certain satisfaction in doing it yourself. Whenever I see my neighbors out at their pool while some stranger mows their lawn, I think of what an empty, shallow life they lead. At least maybe I should get a riding mower, but I know that I'm the one that's going to get taken for a ride in the showroom. If I hear the phrase "cockpit" just ONCE, I'm out of there. And do I seriously need a GPS?

      There's something burrowing around in the yard. There are all these tunnels, and they seem interconnected. I think there might be a subway system down there that didn't go through the proper channels of approval. Is it a mole? I need someone who can go down there infiltrate the underground and secretly try to gather information. What I need is a mole.

      I get the feeling that the neighbors are embarrassed by my lawn, but they've never said anything to my face. It's unlikely that I'll hear anything through the grapevine- I think that thing is dead.

Friday, September 7, 2018

BETWEEN THE COVERS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-03-18)

     Last weekend the Somers Library held a used book sale, and the reason I mention it is because I never want to see the day when people say, "Wow! A used book sale! I wonder what they used them for?" I truly believe that a book is by far the best value of any commodity in history. In every novel there is art, culture, entertainment and history. If you're a lover of the arts you could buy Jackson Pollack's "No. 5, 1948" for about 150 million bucks. OR, you could let my dog produce something similar for free by drinking her water too fast, then spend one dollar at the book fair on "To Kill a Mockingbird," and change your life forever.

     Someone once told me that I seem to know very little about a lot of subjects. I took this as a compliment, and It's true that I do read a lot. I only read fiction, however, so I know a lot of things that other people made up. Which is better than nothing. My love for reading blossomed in the fifth grade, and I directly blame Mrs. Moyantshef, my teacher, for getting me interested in this time-consuming hobby. Every day she read out loud to us from the book, "The Phantom Tollbooth." It captured my imagination, which is still held hostage to this day, tied up in the basement, barely subsisting on a diet of nouns, verbs and adjectives. And now my den is a library of over 1500 titles, and I have read them all. The titles, not the books.

     I'm kind of a slow reader. My mind wanders, and it doesn't always tell me where it went. Sometimes I read the same page two or three times, to see if anything has changed. But eventually I get through the book, and that experience is a partnership between the writer and myself. The writer does the easy part, putting down a bunch of words on a page. I'm the one who does the casting, direction, wardrobe, lighting and set decoration. It's a lot of work but a labor of love.

     For those of you who e-read e-books on an e-reader, you're e-missing out on something. We live in a fast-paced society, one of instant gratification and short attention spans. Reading a book seems like an archaic waste of time by modern standards. But there are very few achievements in life that are as gratifying as the ones you have to work for. I once saw a picture of Michelangelo's mural on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The picture was nice, but when I finally braved the traffic and the lines to see the Sistine Chapel in person, it was totally different than what I expected. The scene was smaller and more intimate, and there was complete reverential silence, except for a security guard screaming at the top of his lungs every four seconds, "NO PHOTO! NO VIDEO!" Whoever snapped that picture that I saw must have done it in three seconds flat and then ran like hell.

     But I can read the writing on the wall, because it's the one time I don't need my glasses. The future's going to start slowly, insidiously: the e-reader is going to offer you a dictionary definition of words that it predicts that you might not know. You'll click on the word, and BOOM, through the magic of the internet, you now know the meaning of "life," or whatever word you clicked on. Maybe there will be a picture there too. Maybe a video, or an ad. All of a sudden you're online, just like always, algorithms telling you things you already know. And the raw experience of reading has been cheapened and homogenized by the erosion of your mind's ingenuity (Snow White and Sleeping Beauty showed up in the same gown! Who wore it better??). You will become the passive spectator of this amazing experience instead of its architect.

     So keep reading, read an actual book, read an actual newspaper, support real creativity wherever it lies. And if you come across a word that is abstruse, you can look it up in the dictionary the old-fashioned way, like I just had to.

Friday, August 31, 2018

FINAL CUT APPROVAL

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-26-18)

     I get a haircut about twice every year, once on my 401K when the stock market goes kablooey, and once on my head when my hair starts to transition from its Bon Jovi phase into its Foghat phase. I used to get it cut at a barber shop, but one of my co-workers years ago convinced me to "invest in myself," which as a long-term strategy has shown little return. She browbeat me into going to a Vidal Sassoon shop in the city, and the results were disastrous, when I came out looking like a cross between one of Charlie's Angels (not one known for her great hairstyle) and a Papillon. But I settled on a salon, and now a very nice fellow named JD styles my hair.

     The receptionist there waves me on to the shampoo girl, and it's obvious from her look that she remembers that I didn't tip her last time, so she tries to butter me up. She asks me if I want a drink, and I wonder if they have anything alcoholic besides me. Why should I tip her for washing my hair when it's only going to end up all over the floor anyway? She asks me is the water too hot, how do I like the music, and how am I doing today. All of a sudden I'm on a date with my shampoo girl, and I picture us with clean hair, holding hands, running with scissors.

     I don't even need a shampoo; I just washed my hair last night at the gym. The shampoo they have there is called "green tea and lemongrass." I like the smell, but what weird agricultural accident caused those two ingredients to come together? I can imagine the scene in the R & D department over at the shampoo factory. "Smell this. What do you smell? It's called 'kale and lingonberries.'" "I smell lingonberries." "You don't smell the kale?" "Kale has no smell." "Yes, but it brings out the lingonberries." "You don't need to bring out lingonberries, they're already out. If anything, you need some poisonous mushrooms to rein them back in. Wasn't Schneiderman working on that?" "Yes, well, he passed away...." I don't use hair conditioner at the gym. What if it smells like mint? Then I have to spend the entire rest of my shower joking to myself that my hair is in mint condition, and I have to get on with my life.

     I pass a little time by bantering with my hairstylist. I tell him to cut only the gray hairs, then I tell him to give me the same look as Trump, etc. He laughs in a foreign accent, but I'm careful not to say anything REALLY funny, because if he starts cracking up he might snip off my ear. The same thing happened to Vincent Van Gogh, mystery solved.

     Have you seen these 20-year old kids who are dying their hair gray? It's actually pretty smart, because in 50 years no one is going to know exactly when they got old. If they REALLY want to be brilliant, they should get a hip replacement and start complaining about the loud music and blur the generation gap.

     JD starts rooting around inside my ear with an electric trimmer. "What are you in there for, I don't have any hair there," I complain. "If you say so," he says. I add, "If there's anything in there, it's probably from the cat. That cat hair is all over the house. I even have cat hair on my car seat." "You shouldn't let your cat drive your car," he says in a different accent than before.

     When he's done he asks me if I want any product in my hair, and I tell him it depends on the product. Product 19 is a cereal, for instance, and it's the most boring cereal on the planet. Can you imagine what the other 18 products that they rejected tasted like?

     I can see that my visit has started to put the place on edge. I make a mental note to start tipping everybody. This time I tip the stylist, the receptionist, the shampoo girl, the building security guard and also my cat.
 

Friday, August 24, 2018

SAVING THE PLANET

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-19-18)

     April 22nd is Earth Day, and to help kick things off, my friend Margaret will be running the annual Somers Recycling Day on Saturday, the 21st from 9:00AM to 2:00PM at the Somers Intermediate School. Electronics, old appliances and even scrap metal will be accepted. Mike and the boys from City Carting will be there, along with Flo, and my wife will be helping out as well. Supervisor Morrissey may even stop by.

     Your donation of $5.00 per car will help the PTA support school functions like guest speakers, scholarships, programs and trips, so bring your permission slip. Back in my day if you had a permission slip you could do just about anything, and nobody took much notice of you after that thing was signed. I would just cross out "Hayden Planetarium" and write in "McSorley's Ale House" and inform the bus driver of the change in plans. But kids, I'm not recommending that type of behavior, because your parents had a GPS tracking device surgically implanted into you after you were born. Scared you, didn't I?

     Anyway, I bet you have a bunch of stuff lying around your house that you don't use. That iron sitting around in the laundry room? I'm looking at your shirt and it's obvious that it has never seen the light of day. I have this gazebo thing with a bunch of metal poles, and that big nor'easter blew it down and mangled everything up. I'd like to make some kind of artistic piece out of it if I was a sculptor, but then again, NO. So I'm bringing it over on Saturday.

     As a planet I know we can do better. We don't want Earth to turn out like Uranus, now do we? My wife was telling me that she read an article about how just a little thing like drinking straws are cluttering up land fills all over the place. Every time we go to the diner we order a drink, and it comes with a straw that the waitress has conveniently removed part of the wrapper from. My wife takes her straw and blows the rest of the wrapper at me. I take my straw and blow my wrapper at her, which flies over to the next table and lands in the soup of a big biker dude. For the privilege of almost getting beat up, we are mucking up the planet with a bunch of junk that nobody really needs.

     I'm doing my part for Earth Day every day, and so should you. I re-use my razor when I shave at the gym, bring it home and scrape it a couple more times over my pathetic excuse for a beard. That's not recycling, you say, you're just a cheapskate. Yes, but how do you explain the fact that I take my cardboard tray from breakfast all the way across the street and use it for lunch? Is it because I'm cheap AND weird? So was Albert Schweitzer, for all I know, and he was hailed as a modern-day hero. I'm certainly not asking that you hail me as a modern-day hero, but it would be a nice gesture.

     I even recycle my old jokes. I don't think it does anything for the environment, and in fact some of my material is probably poking a hole in the ozone layer as we speak. I would like to recycle the funniest thing I ever said for you right now, but it's definitely not suitable for a family publication. The joke involves me, Marlo Thomas and her plastic surgeon, and the funniest thing about it is that no one but me would think that it's funny, with the possible exception of Marlo Thomas's plastic surgeon. So join us on Saturday, and bring a car full of crap. I'll be there at noon with Gidget, the world's cutest dog. It will cost you $5.00 to clear out your car, $5.25 if you want to hear the joke.

Friday, August 10, 2018

A POCKETFUL OF CHANGE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-12-18)

     So they renovated the locker room at my gym, and switched everything around. Now, I know that might not seem like a big deal to you, but for those of us with CAS, it can be life-threatening. Change-Averse Syndrome is an affliction that makes every little variation in life distasteful. I just made it up, but I would bet you 10 bucks that it really exists. Evidence: I've had the same wife for 30 some-odd years (to be honest, most-odd), I've worked at the same television network for 37 years, belonged to the same gym for decades and had the same hairstyle since the Byzantine Empire. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

     I don't deal well with change, and it's not always my fault. Often the thing the rest of the world is changing to doesn't seem better to me. Those of us with CAS use the word "new-fangled" to describe things that have been updated and modernized, when they were fangled just fine before. I once had 386 computer with 20 MEGS OF HARD DRIVE! This thing was cutting-edge, and just when I finally figured out how to switch it on, the 486 computer came along and I was back to square one. Even now, a pop-up screen flashes onto my computer monitor, telling me that they have upgraded and improved the very program I am trying to use. The major improvement they made is that I don't know how to use it anymore.

     I only drink Coors Light beer. Perhaps you didn't know, but it's made with "Rocky Mountain spring water." Which is among the most polluted water on Earth, due to the strip mining in Colorado. My friends look at me with disdain and disgust because I won't try their IPA. "Why don't you sample my winter-brewed, blueberry, black and tan, limited-edition, double-overhead cam amber ale?" It turns out there was only one of them produced so I can't try it even if I wanted to.

     Anyway, this situation at the gym is messing up my routine. Where did they put the scale? Usually I jump on and check my weight before I hop in the shower so I don't feel tempted to fudge the results. Then I subtract five pounds for my watch and two pounds for the locker key I wear around my neck. The the final tally still seems a little high, but I think the scale is made in a foreign country, and probably measures in kilometers.

     They put in new overhead showers that rain straight down on you, which I find annoying. There's also still the traditional shower, but that overhead thing never turns all the way off. I feel like I'm being water-boarded, and by the end of my shower I'm starting to crack under the pressure. I'm yelling out secrets that never would have come out except under torture. "I LIKE BARRY MANILOW!" I echo through the locker room. Not ALL of the songs that make the whole world cry, of course, but enough to get me kicked out of my rock band if anyone knew.

     I shave right in the shower to save time. I don't need to look in the mirror, because my beard only grows in certain places on my face, and I know just where my face is so I can narrow it down from there. Why I can't get a full beard growing? It looks a little patchy, like my lawn, only with fewer chipmunks. My neighbor Paul thinks I should cut down a couple trees and get more sun, but I'm not sure if he's talking about my lawn or my face.

      So if all this sounds good to you and you're tired of doing different things all the time, and you're looking for a change, why don't you try things my way for a little while? Or forever? Because once you're on my team you won't be going back, fair warning.

Thursday, August 2, 2018

STOP THE MADNESS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-29-18)

     March Madness seems to be getting madder and madder each year, and there's going to come a time at which the whole month is given a full mental evaluation and finally committed to psychiatric institution. It's no secret that March is bipolar. One day it's acting like a lion. The next day it's acting like a lamb. Baaa, I say. We celebrated the first day of spring with a nor'easter, so stick that in your generator and smoke it. Add the NCAA tournament into the mix and it's clear that March is off its meds.

     Did you fill out your brackets? This year, in the opening round, for the first time in the tournament's history, a number 16 seed beat a number 1 seed, and 99.9% of everyone in the United States threw their bracket sheet into the garbage can. The other .1% were the Moms of the players on UMBC, a fine academy of learning that I first thought was one of those cable news networks that Trump swears he doesn't watch, then tweets about nonstop on the verge of tears for an entire weekend. 

     The rest of us knew that UMBC would be eliminated the next week. If not in the tournament, then certainly by angry bookies who lost zillions. UMBC was the "Cinderella" team, this year's media darlings. Every year the question looms, "Who will wear the glass slipper?" Without once mentioning how dangerous it is to wear glass slippers if you plan to dance anything more complicated than a minuet. Plus, a glass slipper is REALLY uncomfortable and everyone can see your band-aids right through it.

     Not all of the action is on the court. Some of the more interesting battles in the tournament are contested on the sidelines, between the school mascots. Have you ever seen a Horned Frog get into it with a Gamecock? Neither have I, but it sounds like one of those videos my wife sends me on Youtube. That clip where the wildebeest befriends a baby duck, patting it on the head? What they don't show you is that right after the video ends the wildebeest swallows the baby duck in one gulp, and the patting part was actually him applying salt and pepper.

     CBS network has run into some criticism for training their cameras on children in the stands crying because their team is losing. The executive producer defended this practice in an interview, saying over and over, "We try to strike the right balance." One kid was crying so hard, he looked absolutely balance-stricken. This has led to a whole new trend of over-zealous stage moms stomping on their kids' feet at the end of close games to get them on TV. One kid was bawling his eyes out and his team wasn't even playing that day, turns out the kid is just a whiner.

     You want something to cry about? I'm six-foot two and I can't dunk the basketball. Every time they went to pick teams in middle school I would get picked first because of my height, only to reveal that I while could escort the ball into the general area of the basket, its exact location was kept a secret from me. I would have made all the foul shots if anyone would have made the slightest effort to foul me. By the way, I see this all the time: the kid misses the free throw, and all his teammates slap his hand, thereby rewarding his behavior. I have a dog, and if I gave it a treat every time it bit the mailman I'd never get any mail, and I'd still have a dog with a horrible free throw percentage.

     But in the end, it's all good. The losers are vanquished and the winners are extolled, and they climb up on a ladder and cut down the net, ruining the court for everyone else. In the city they make the nets out of metal, so you have to bring a Milwaukee Sawzall and an extension cord if you want to cut down the net, and if you try that crap in New York, the cops will be waiting to help you celebrate your victory at the arraignment.

Friday, July 27, 2018

THE POWER PLAY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-22-18)

     I got a phone call from George Latimer last week, he is the Westchester County Executive. I wasn't home so he left a lengthy, rambling message, and man, he sounded pissed! Apparently he was angry about all the blackouts, and he must have been right in the middle of making toast or something when his power went out. He was rattling on about how all the top brass at the utility company should step down, which is why you should always have your office in the basement. The next message on my machine was from the lady at NYSEG. "Did Latimer just call? If he calls again, tell him we're working on it as fast as we can."

     My first thought was somebody should get on this RIGHT AWAY. Not the power situation, but the fact that we only have ONE executive. This is a big county, and we should have two or three executives, and maybe a more specific job description. "Executive" sounds more like a pay grade than a job title.

     Our lights went out the day before we were supposed to leave for our little getaway trip to the Dominican Republic. I was praying that our generator would start, we hadn't used it in a while. I recall my neighbor Paul telling me that I should pour some kind of additive into the gas so it wouldn't go bad, but was it every year or every ten years? I was going to split the difference and add something in five years when I could be sure that I wouldn't remember.

     Was it too late to add it now? I looked around the garage for something to add to the gas, but all I found was a gallon container of a fluid that looked like an avocado margarita. I didn't want to waste that on the gas, so I just started the generator and hoped for the best.

     I felt a little guilty for those who don't have a generator. My friend Margaret texted us and said, "I guess getting a price on a generator is not exactly the same as getting a generator...." These are the unfortunate people, the ones who say, "We are doing GREAT! It's forcing us to enjoy some family time TOGETHER!" It's family time where everyone gathers together in the living room near the fireplace, sullen and silently seething that they can't log on to their computers. What if Katy Perry and Marilyn Manson showed up to the iheartradio awards wearing the same gaudy yet understated Valentino gown? How in the name of all that is holy are we going to know who wore it better? What if something very deeply private and personal happens to Kim Kardashian that she doesn't want to share with anyone, and because we have no power, she is unable to share it with everyone?

     Uh-oh, just as I was going to write something about Trump my light bulb started to dim. That means, among other things, that the generator is running out of gas. I'm a little embarrassed to say this, but I don't know how to operate the gas can. It used to be that you would unscrew the top of the can, and inside would be a spout that you would transfer to the outside and re-screw the cap, and you could get on with spilling gas all over the place. But it's not that simple anymore, due to all the innovations in the gas can industry. Now there is all this bizarre infrastructure built into the inside of the spout to prevent you from mistakenly getting the gas from the can, where it is safe, to the generator, where who knows what could happen? Somewhere buried in the text on the side of the can, written in 6-point type, are instructions on how to break into the gas can and extract the gas.

     Instead, I take a 1/2-inch spade bit and drill a hole into the spout with my power drill, after first throwing it across the garage. I re-screw it onto the can, and fill up the generator. Gas spills all over the place from my new modified gas can spout, and it seems like things are back to normal; I shouldn't have gotten so angry at an innocent gas can.

     Feeling better, I left a phone message for Latimer to get a grip on himself and try to calm down. Maybe do some breathing exercises. My Mom used to tell me to count to ten before doing anything rash, and because of that simple rule my skin has stayed relatively clear. It's something I've always lived by. Sometimes my wife asks me, "Why do you always count to three before you do something rash?"

Friday, July 20, 2018

STRANGER THAN PARADISE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-15-18)

     I don't want to sound like I'm gloating, but while you were wondering when your power was going to return, I was gallivanting off to the beach in the Dominican Republic. Right now I don't want to make light of a situation where people have no lights. But I heard there was a bombogenesis coming, and that Phil Collins wasn't touring with it, so I hightailed it out of there. We landed in Punta Cana and checked into a beautiful, all-inclusive island resort.

     Our first stop was the beach. I was nursing a drink, just what the doctor ordered. You can't drink the water in Punta Cana, a situation that didn't come up once at the tiki bar.
     I'm not very good with Spanish, but I do speak some rudimentary English. When I was in the fourth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Fritschler made us learn how to count from one to ten in Spanish. So even though I can't tell you what anything is in the Dominican Republic, I can tell you how many of them there are. For everything else I just added an "o" to the end of it and hoped for the best. "Food-o American-o?"

     When I couldn't figure out how to say something I launched into an impromptu game of "charades." I wanted to find out where the coffee was, so I tried to mime the act of picking the coffee beans during the harvest, getting the best price for them amid an ever-changing commodities market. The whole thing took about a half an hour, and at the end of my presentation I couldn't remember what it was I wanted.

     The buffet was great, although the food was rarely hot. Ironically, the sun, the music and the women were all hot. If they had only left the food near the sun, the music and the women I would have nothing to complain about, which is probably not true.

     I guess I didn't look at the calendar before booking the trip, and it fell smack in the middle of Spring Break. All of a sudden a bus rolled up and there were about a hundred 20 year-old girls. They had gathered at the bar to enjoy each others' company, which they did by not looking up once from their cellphones. Then they started snapping pictures of their drinks. Since the line was so long to get them, I guess they could enjoy them for a few minutes more this way. A lot of them were wearing sunsuits, and my wife and I had an argument about whether this look was flattering or not. I only saw the sunsuits at night, when the chances of the sun coming out were greatly diminished.

     In the evening they had a show at the theater. They choose four or five couples from the audience, a good cross-section: old, young, crabby, nice, skinny, round. Then they try to get you to do something embarrassing with the other couple's spouse. We used to have a name for that, it was called the '70s.

     The disco didn't even open until 11:30, but I already had my nap so I was good to go. Latin music has a lot of percussion in it, and the beat is infectious, so I brought along some antibiotics. Also, the car horn is an actual instrument, so what passes for a traffic jam at home is just a jam here. One song was playing everywhere we went, you couldn't escape it. From what I could gather, the plot involved a Ford Pinto, a senorita, a pinata and a mojito. I can't imagine that it had a happy ending. The DJ played a number called "The Roof is On Fire," and in the Caribbean, that is considered an official Fire Department notification.

     All too soon, our little getaway was over. As the plane home was taxiing toward the runway, the glow of our trip was still with me. I would always have fond memories of our trip to Punta Cana, but because alcohol was included with the package, I'm damned if I can remember what any of them were.

Friday, July 6, 2018

CALLING ALL PITCHERS AND CATCHERS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-08-18)

    In early February, from somewhere deep in Florida, near the principal's office, a call comes out over the PA system: "Pitchers and catchers please report as soon as possible!" And from all over the land, they drop what they're doing and head to the Sunshine State, the only people under 50 to arrive in large numbers without their grandparents first complaining that they don't visit enough. The long baseball season has begun.

    I see this annual event as a more significant weather harbinger than Groundhog Day. When I hear that pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training I feel that warm weather is truly on its way. I start to picture myself lying in the sun on the beautiful black beaches of Santorini. I'm not sure why I was lying that day, I should have simply told the truth. By the way, have you ever been on the beautiful black beaches of Santorini? The Aegean Sea looks so inviting that you kick off your sandals and stroll toward the gently lapping waves. Then you smell something burning, and you realize that it's your feet. The black volcanic stones have absorbed most of the sun's heat. With no fire extinguisher handy, you sprint the remaining 15 yards in three steps, and steam billows out of the water. As a team-building exercise this coal-walking was a failure, since the rest of my team was laughing at me from the beach chair.

    The second day of spring training the Northeast gets three feet of snow and I'm jolted back into the reality of  6 more weeks of winter. The weatherman was kind enough to say that the snow blanketed the area, which made it seem a little cozier and preserved my little fantasy.

    This year, as in every other year, they are trying to speed up the game to make it more palatable for younger viewers, who only go to a baseball game so that they can Snapchat themselves at a baseball game. Since the most interesting thing for them is the Snapchatting part, if they really wanted to be honest with themselves they would Snapchat themselves Snapchatting and make all their friends jealous.

    To make the game go faster, starting last year you only had to tell the umpire that you were intentionally walking somebody and POOF, they were on first base. If they want to save even more time, they can institute a rule proclaiming that any Yankee batter with a 3-and-0 count is automatically out. It happens every time: the pitcher throws three straight balls, and I get all excited that something is going to happen. Then the manager calls a "take" on the next pitch, which is an automatic strike. The 3-1 pitch is fouled off, and the next pitch is a called strike three. I've already predicted the whole sequence to my wife, who looks amazed, not at my prognostication skills, but that she's still married to me.

    You can put a backwards "K" on your score sheet for the strikeout. If you're scoring at home, congratulations, especially at your age. You used to get a scorecard when you bought a program, if they even still have programs. Your Dad would teach you how to write in the outcome of each at-bat for each player. Thus, you were able to miss the entire game while your Dad ate most of the Cracker Jacks.

    If you have a calculator, and you don't feel like actually watching the game, you can crunch the numbers and figure out if your players are any good or not. RBIs, ERA? No one cares about them any more. What is his OPS? That's his on-base percentage plus slugging average. What is his RISP? Runners In Scoring Position. These don't seem like "vital statistics." I can take them or leave them. Kate Upton has vital statistics. Baseball players just have a bunch of numbers that only add up to something meaningful a third of the time, and that's if he's a Hall-of-Famer. Someone asked me if I had seen Sonny Gray's WHIP. I said I hadn't seen it but he may have left it in the dungeon. Actually, it's none of my business. 

Friday, June 29, 2018

BIG AIR

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-01-18)

     Watching the Olympics inspired us to go skiing last weekend, so we headed up to the Catskills for a weekend of outdoor sport. In my head, I'm flying down the slope, my hair flowing in the breeze, the sound of cowbells urging me faster and faster. How did all those cows make it this far up the mountain?

     Reality sets in quickly. It seems as though a drummer like myself should be more coordinated, but out on the hill with ski poles instead of drumsticks it's like the wild west. I'm striving to improve my form, which at the moment is amoeba-like. I try to keep my skis together, but when I do that my right ski tries to wander over where the left ski is supposed to be, and now I've got two skis over there. I try to bend my knees, which doesn't help me remain upright, but when I fall it takes less time to get to the ground. I try to remember what my friend Lisa told me: ski on the balls of your feet. Or was it the other way around?

     If I was on a snowboard at least both of my legs would have to go in the same direction, but which one? A snowboard can go in either direction, and I'm a person who clearly needs MORE direction. If at any time my skis are going the wrong way, I know about it almost immediately, sooner if someone points it out. The snowboarder just turns his head around and acts like he or she is open to a last minute change of plans. What if the snowboard turns back up the hill? Further, there are no ski poles with a snowboard. I'm not really sure what the ski poles are supposed to be used for, and I always make that clear to those around me. "Human shish kebab" is an option to keep open, but they mostly come in handy for retrieving things that have slid away from me when I fall, like my gloves, my knee or my self-respect.

     I like to hit one black diamond slope just to say I did it. I usually regret it immediately. At worst it ends in disaster, and at best it's time-consuming. The run itself is over quickly, but at the top there is quite a bit of idle procrastination. I look down the run to see how bad it looks, I check the wind conditions, make an assessment of the type of snow. If you live in the Northeast, the snow quality is always "loose granular," not unlike my thinking. Translation: a sheet of ice with some crushed ice on top, better for a margarita than for skiing. I check again to see if the mountain has gotten any smaller. I do some weeping and take some time to get my affairs in order. By the way it's not like I have so many affairs that they have a chance to get out of order.

     My plan is always the same: I start on the right side of the slope since I can only stop turning to my left, and even that is hit or miss. If I hit something, I stop, and if I miss it, I don't. I go as far as I can to the other side while at the same time trying to slide diagonally downward. When I can't go any farther it's time to turn and do the same thing in the other direction, and for a split-second of panic during the turn I'm facing straight down in the direction of the local hospital. At the bottom I look back up and congratulate myself for making it easier for the expert skiers by removing most of the snow with my technique.

     This time I didn't realize until way too late that this particular black diamond was a mogul hill, only for people who have insurance that carries a low deductible. I went over a large bump too fast and actually took air. I took so much air it took me a while to let it back out, which I did in the form of many colorful adjectives, describing various parts of the human body doing things that are impossible in normal conditions. I threw in some adverbs too so the adjectives wouldn't get lonesome. My wife says I swear too much, but I really don't, I swear.

     Long story short I lived to tell the tale, and retreated to the ski lodge where it was safe. The hot chocolate wasn't so hot so I dropped a couple toe warmers in. Then I almost tripped and killed myself going down to the rest room.