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

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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.

Friday, June 22, 2018

GREETINGS FROM PYEONGCHANG

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (02-22-18)

     For those of you who are too busy to watch the Winter Olympics this year, I have been covering the events for the Somers Record. It all started with the opening ceremonies, which, using complicated special effects and choreography, told the story of five Korean children who travel through time from the past to the future, learning of the country's history and culture. They return to the present, where it is REALLY friggin' cold.

     Then there was the Parade of Nations, and this year Zambia, Zaire and Zimbabwe must have threatened to hit an IOC official over the head with a ball peen hammer, because this year they did not enter in alphabetical order. Seeing all the young, good-looking athletes all together seems like a a giant red carpet event. 270 people  wearing the same outfit! Who wore it better??

     Then there were some songs, some speeches, some fireworks. The athlete representing the host country ran all the way up about a hundred flights of stairs to light the Olympic flame. He's been running all the way across the country, so I guess he's a cross-country runner, duh. He must really love the Games, I just hope the Games love him back. It seems like he's been carrying a torch for the Olympics forever.

     Even though I consider myself an expert, there are some things about winter sports that I don't understand. I watched curling for way longer than is possibly healthy, and at the end of the competition, there wasn't anything the least bit curlier than when they started. And I checked everything, including their hair. We're just going to have to take their word on that one.

     I also watched an event called the "half pipe," which was extremely entertaining. After seeing all the contestants together, it was impossible to figure out who smoked the other half.

     One thing I've noticed is that the Olympics are a lot more non-gender anti-quasi-inclusive now. You have a whole team of bi-athletes, and I'm told that they have guns. Also, how long until two dudes take the ice in the Olympic pairs competition? "Sorry Mr. Pence, I guess you didn't realize when you invited us here to your house in Washington, but we are manned, tanned and love Streisand! Also, sorry about your carpet- I guess we should have taken our skates off first."

     The luge is a lot like the bobsled, only minus the bobsled. You hurtle down the mountain on your back, a wing and prayer and about 50 pounds of steel and fiberglass. If you don't want to be thought of as a total luger, the skeleton is just the thing for you. It's pretty much the same as the luge only you go down head first. It's much easier, since if you encounter any problems your head will know about it ahead of time and can warn your feet. Neither one seems like it would pass the most basic safety standards. Do these things have anti-lock brakes? I plan to keep my skeleton where it belongs, in the closet.

     If you really want to get some great ratings, award the Games to New York City. Run a pothole slalom down 45th Street. Line up all the cross country contestants on the corner of Madison Avenue, and let them try to catch the M42 bus as it goes careening by the stop for NO reason. Run a short track around Columbus Circle, and long program at Rockefeller Center. Stick the Olympic flame at the top of the Empire State Building, and during the closing ceremonies, if your country has a burning fire for the Games and somebody in really good shape, he can run up there to get it.

Friday, June 15, 2018

WEATHER OR NOT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (02-15-18)

     February 2nd has come and gone, and once again we have foolishly entrusted a large rodent with six weeks worth of weather forecasting. This year they had a whole entourage of guys who wanted to cram into the Groundhog Day action, but there's one head groundhog aficionado who's in charge when they open up Punxsutawney Phil's cage. Both man and beast are dressed to the nines, one in a top hat and tux, the other in a full-length fur, flaunting it in the face of PETA. Both wearing tails. There is a strict formal dress code at the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club.

     I guess the guy with the hat is the president of the club, although without the groundhog it's just a bunch of overdressed dudes running around looking a little to happy to be at the party. I wonder if when the groundhog takes a plane trip he's allowed to bring the guy in the top hat along for emotional support?

     A groundhog is the same as a woodchuck, so you could call it Woodchuck Day if you want and no one would fault you for it. It is a species of marmot, which is a large rodent similar in nature to a squirrel, only with larger nuts.  A hedgehog is a different animal, however, and if one of those comes up to you and tries to forecast the weather, I would call the cops.

     Top Hat is grinning from earmuff to earmuff as he holds his weather associate aloft for all to behold. The groundhog doesn't seem too into it, but why should he smile? He's just been woken up possibly SIX WEEKS early from a perfectly good hibernation. Hey Top Hat- stick me where the sun don't shine! Wouldn't you just see your damn shadow so you can sleep in? Filibuster until the sun comes out from behind the cloud. Tell a few hedgehog jokes, maybe a witty anecdote you heard at a party from a racoon-teur.

     I'm distrustful of those who smile too much while they work. You never saw Don Rickles smile once when he was doing his best stuff. Newscasters beaming while they read the news do not boost my confidence that what they are saying is true. If I get into a cab and the driver looks too happy, I know he's going to try to talk to me, making eye-contact with me through the rear-view mirror. Who's making eye-contact with the road?

     I also have concerns regarding animals vis a vis weather prognostication. I actually don't know what "vis a vis" means but it makes me look smarter to use important sounding words and not know what they mean. Which is brave, but I also don't know the meaning of the word "fear."

     Why ask a groundhog what the weather is going to be like? Why not use a giraffe? If you paraded a giraffe out there it could look right up into the clouds and provide a more accurate assessment. Not only would you get the weather report, but you could get the current time as well if you knew how to read a sundial. I remember recently they were using an octopus to predict things, like the sex of the royal baby. That seems far less useful than predicting the sex of adults, which is hit or miss, speaking from personal experience. The modern way to forecast the weather is to use the "European model," but the last time I asked her if there was going to be an early spring, she said, "Your hair is BOR-ing."

Friday, June 8, 2018

CRACKING THE ARIA CODE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (02-08-18)

     My first cousin once removed, Ann, is a member of the Hudson Chorale, a 70-voice singing ensemble performing works of classical music as well as modern and popular pieces. We went to hear them perform Franz Haydn's "The Creation," in its original German language form. First of all, I couldn't believe how great the company sounded, with an orchestra and three professional solo vocalists. Second of all, I couldn't believe that if you were a cousin once removed from me, that you wouldn't just stay there and not press your luck that it would happen twice.

     With the arias and choruses reverberating through the halls of the Chapel at Maryknoll in Ossining, the oratorio moved from somber to stirring. If I was expecting a washout of an OK Chorale, this wasn't it. Some of the words were adapted from the Bible, recounting the story of how God created the Earth, just using basic materials found around the Heavens in His spare time. It takes a full six days in the Bible, but Haydn covers it in about 45 minutes, and it sounds great. If you are singing in an expansive marble room you'd better know what you're doing, because when those notes come echoing back, it's not like they had time to change into something nice and put on some makeup.

     Even though I already have an extensive knowledge of German from watching years of Hogan's Heroes reruns, I consulted the translation to delve deeper into the story. German is sort of a harsh-sounding language, and even if someone is telling you they love you it sounds like they might also torture you soon. But it was perfectly suited for this production, where the syllables have rhythm and structure.

     The story goes on in Part 2, and I have to admit, I didn't understand it much better in English than I did in German. The animals are created, you have the tawny lion, the nimble stag, the fleecy, meek and bleating flock, not highest of compliment I ever heard. Man is created in God's own image, but he might have stuck on a few more pimples.

     Maryknoll itself is quite a building, a 210,000 square-foot Asian-influenced fieldstone mission more than a century old. I've never seen a square-foot Asian, so that in itself is quite a feet. The 40-odd piece orchestra was flawless. They even wheeled in a harpsichord, I hope it had snow tires on.

     After the performance I was chatting with Ann and Norm. I thought maybe I could offer to try out for the group. Maybe they can use a baritone who can sing some of the notes on key, with horrible timbre but who has a pretty decent one-handed backhand. I know I'm a baritone because Frank Sinatra is a baritone and I can hit all the notes that he does, although it sounds like I'm hitting them with my car.

     My music teacher at the Robert E. Bell Middle School was Miss Hinkel, and she insisted that we all smile a big, disturbing smile as we sang in chorus. If you had heard us sing I could not blame you if smiling was way down near the bottom on your list of things to do. As I think back, that smile was the same one that politicians use when they are caught embezzling hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars, and the cameras are trained on them as they walk up the stairs to the courtroom, with their lawyer and their wife in tow, both wondering just how long they must endure this guy.

     My voice has a nasal quality which is not at all sonorous, but when I sing a song like the Beach Boys' "God Only Nose" it's pure magic. Miss Hinkel wouldn't like it. She told us to sing from our diaphragm, which is a muscle that separates your thoracic cavity from your abdominal cavity. It's hard to smile when all your cavities are singing in disharmony, but it explains why the Planned Parenthood chorus sounds so damn good.