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.

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!

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.

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.