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."

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.

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.

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."