SPINAL TRAP

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-27-19)

      I threw out my back last Thursday, odd since I'm still using it. I spent the next week or so walking hunched over, like I'm trying not to hit my head on an imaginary ceiling. I wish I knew how I did it, so I don't ever do the same thing again. My history says otherwise, though. I blew out my knee once skiing, and as soon as it got better I went back to skiing. And I pulled a tendon playing tennis, and when that healed I went right back to playing tennis. It could be that I blew out my back not taking out the garbage, and when it heals I'll probably go right back to not taking out the garbage. It would be easy if I blew out my back eating Brussels sprouts, because I'm pretty sure I won't be doing that again.

      Whoever designed the human back is an idiot. Did you ever hear anyone say they were having problems with their front? It's as if there were too many teams working on the human body, and no one was talking to each other. At least there should have been a conference call so that all the different project managers could check in. "Why do we need two kidneys? I thought you said this thing was so great it will never fail." "Look I believe in redundancy. What if that goofy gall bladder that Joel is working on affects my kidneys and screws them both up? We need a total of two so another guy can donate one and we're good to go." "Well then what if HIS leftover kidney goes haywire? He's going to go crawling over there with his tail between his legs and ask for it back?" "Joel, are you on this call? I thought we weren't going to go with a tail?"

      I haven't been to the doctor because I'm afraid he'll tell me that I have a compact disc, or a spinal farficature or something even worse that he made up on the spot. Then he's going to tell me I need surgery to extract the remainder of my deductible from my wallet. And you can't believe the number of things I use my back for that I won't be able to do while I'm recovering from the surgery. I use my back for lifting things, for instance. I know you're supposed to use your legs, but they're in worse shape than my back. I use my back for walking, and I use it twice as much if I walk backwards. I also use my back for lying. Actually, that was a lie, so I apologize for that.

      Everyone I know has a cure for a bad back. My friend Liz is a massage therapist, and she suggested massage. I tried that once, and NEVER again. I'm ridiculously ticklish, and as the guy is massaging me, he's going on and on about his Mom, who's in a nursing home and he just got back from visiting her, and I start bursting into hilarious peals of laughter. I had to tip him way more than I should have, plus send a card to his Mom.

      Somebody said I should get an epidural- isn't that the thing you get when you're having a baby? Which I thought was very insulting. You shouldn't just assume that I'm pregnant without asking first. It's not my fault somebody brought a HUGE container of cookies to work and then didn't eat any of them.

      Rex suggested acupuncture, which is a component of health care in China that can be traced back 2,500 years. That's the first time the doctor said to the patient, "Your lumbago hurts? Well I have no idea what a lumbago is, but you'll hardly notice it once I pound this nail into your head with a ball peen hammer." Since then the science has been refined considerably. But what if the guy who does it is more "puncture" than "acu?" Baseball players hit the ball one-third of the time, and then they get voted into the Hall of Fame.

     My friend Lex thinks I should try his inversion table, which is a form of traction designed to decompress the spine, and I might just do that. An "inversion table" sounds to me like something an accountant would use to show me that my gross annual adjusted income divided by my net worth is equal to my accrued liabilities as a factor of inflation when modified by depreciation, and that's why I owe him $500 bucks. By the way, my adjusted annual income really IS gross, you should see the nasty face I make when I catch a glimpse of it. I want to try lying on the inversion table face down, that way my bottom is at the top, my front is in the back, and my inner GPS is recalculating a new route to the doctor's office, without tolls. I picture myself upside down, all the blood rushing to my head where it will do the least amount of good.

     The girls in my band think I should try yoga, they swear by it. I get the feeling that if I tried it I would swear AT it. It sounded great at first- a class of 15 moms wearing spandex, and they think it's so CUTE that a guy as youthful-looking, smart and delightful as I am can't lift both feet into the air. But then that fantasy turned into the reality of a six foot-two uncoordinated idiot slowing down the whole group while I try to explain how I got my watch caught in my hair. "Can you get your dog facing downward a little quicker? I have to pick up my kids at 11." I put my foot in my mouth often enough right here without actually doing it in person trying to do yoga.

      I tried physical therapy a few years ago, and they gave me exercises and stretches to do, and I do them for two minutes every morning while my dog sits on my face. My dog went to his own physical therapist, who told him to sit on somebody's face for two minutes each morning. It doesn't cure anything but it does even up the food chain a little. After two minutes of stretching now I'm six foot-four, so my face isn't where it was two minutes ago and my dog and I both rise to face the day.

     Good news! While I was trying to figure out what I should do, I started to feel better. My back is back! The only downside is now that I've straightened back up, I keep hitting my head on an imaginary ceiling.

PARTY LINES

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-20-19)

     My friends Lauren and Tim had a 50th birthday party, and things have definitely changed since I was a kid. My birthday is on Christmas, so I thought Santa Claus was a clown somebody hired for the occasion. I always wondered why everyone else was getting gifts at my party. One thing that hasn't changed over the years is that you had better figure out a way to keep all those kids at the party entertained, or they're going to destroy your house in a matter of minutes. Kids are like termites- if you see one in your house, chances are there are probably more someplace that you can't even see, like under the floorboards. You can get rid of them by using boric acid. I should mention that I'm referring to the termites, I don't think you should try using boric acid on kids. But if it actually worked everyone would have heard about it by now.

     The party was a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon. They had a couple musicians singing and playing guitar, and that was mainly for adults, because you should not put kids in charge of the music under any circumstances. If you don't believe me look up "Baby Shark" on Youtube. It's hard enough keeping myself out of trouble at my own parties, let alone trying to figure out what to do with the kids. Once I wore a white shirt and black pants, and I was carrying three drinks and somebody I didn't know took two of them and ordered another. I never found out who it was but I did find out that most of my friends are notoriously bad tippers.

     Lauren and Tim didn't take anything for granted. They had a bouncy castle, one of those giant inflatable structures that you usually see on the news as it's bouncing down the street in gale force winds. This one was nailed in pretty good, and it had a basketball court inside. It made me wonder if I could dunk a basketball while bouncing down the street in gale force winds.

     They had two guys rolling Cuban cigars, at least that's what they told everybody. There was a big cloud forming on the pool deck, and it was pretty crowded up there so they were rolling in the aisles. I'm not allowed to smoke cigars, because every time I have one in my hand I start talking like Edward G. Robinson. "Listen, see, one hand washes the other, see, you play ball with me and I'll play ball with you, see, you scratch my back I''ll scratch-" THWACK! That's when my wife slaps me, either thinking that I might be having a hallucination or because she missed an earlier opportunity.

     They had a cotton candy machine in case the youngsters might run out of energy. You take a paper cone and swish it around inside the cotton candy machine, and bingo! You have a big pink swirly web of sugar that looks like a hairdo at the nursing home! Plus it's made of a breathable fabric.

     Then it was time for the piñata! They had a small papier mâché horse, and the idea is that they blindfold you, spin you around, you try to whack it with a stick, and eventually you break four car windows and a knee cap. I don't know how the whole thing got started, but it seems a little like beating a dead horse. I don't want to beat a dead horse if I can help it, and I don't know why I didn't help it when it was still alive. But the main thing I forgot to mention, is that the horse is filled with candy. So little kids were whacking the crap out of this piñata, and nothing was happening. The piñata must have been made of papier mâché reinforced with rebar, and whack as they might, even a big fat kid couldn't bust open this thing. I thought they were going to have to get out a Milwaukee Sawzall and a blowtorch to rescue that candy. Finally the birthday boy grabbed the stick and whacked it so many times I thought we were going to have to call the paramedics. "Yes, over there, the guy with the stick might need oxygen. But while you're here, would you mind opening the chest cavity of that little horse over there??"

     Meanwhile more kids were streaming in, and they were threatening to overrun the catering table. If I was in charge I would have grabbed a whistle and a clipboard and divided the kids into four groups. Okay you kids head over to the piñata, this group is playing "blind man's bluff," this group is going to play tag and the rest of you are doing "pin the tail on the donkey." Already I have a good portion of the children blindfolded, and the rest of the children are hiding from them, and for good reason. Now the traffic near the chicken fingers has subsided, so I parallel park myself over there. I'm always surprised at how big a chicken's fingers are compared to the rest of its body.

     It's obvious to me that Lauren and Tim should be working as consultants on how to keep a million kids busy at your party, so that you can have an adult conversation and not worry that children are going to say things about math or current events that you're not going to understand. It was a win-win situation. We had a great time, and I'm sure everyone left happy and most people took their kids back home with them. But I wouldn't be surprised if they woke up Monday and there was a leftover kid or two in the yard, with a cotton candy and a piñata stick, smoking a Cuban cigar.
 

HAVING A BALL

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-13-19)

     Last Saturday we went to the Fred Astaire Dance Studio Showcase Extravaganza at the Somers Middle School, and it was a twirl-wind of activity. There were twists, turns, bumps, grinds and dips, and that was just in the parking lot. Thirty-four students of all ages and sizes danced the night away in well-choreographed two and a half-minute routines to all different types of music, along with their instructors. There were tales of love lost, tales of love found, and tales of love lost and found at the lost and found. There were full costumes: Snow White, Pocahontas, a harem girl, a Spanish senorita- you can dance to just about any fantasy. The professional instructors took it all in sweeping stride, and they didn't seem to mind lifting a student or two that had been off the keto diet for a couple of weeks.

     Ballroom dancing has become a lost art, because there just aren't a lot of balls to go to these days. Back in Cinderella's day, they had a lot of balls, and they had big, long balls. If I had the balls that Cinderella's evil stepmother had I'd never get anything done. To me, the weirdest part of that story is not that you could train mice to pull a pumpkin that turns into a carriage, all of that seems plausible. But who the hell would design footwear made of glass? If they play the "Mexican Hat Dance" there's going to be carnage and bloodshed, many hats ruined, and the handsome prince is going to think you're an idiot.

     Dance lessons are never a bad idea, because I see a lot of couples trying complicated moves on a crowded dance floor, and they're swinging each other around, testing out the laws of physics, and eventually the laws of physics win. These people who think they can just waltz right in and take over the place are in for a rude awakening. So it pays to know what you're doing. Once I saw two fully imbibed lasses trying to tango, and in 30 seconds they had each other in a clove hitch. It takes two to tango, three if neither of them knows how to untie a clove hitch.

     Remember back when I was in the seventh grade? Neither do I, but I do remember that my Mom signed me up for dancing class, thinking that it would make me more poised around adults or something. What it did do was activate my hormones, and all of a sudden my entire endocrine system, which had been sitting around playing cards, finally had something to do. They made the girls wear white gloves, probably to see if us guys had been recently dusted. They should have made them wear full haz-mat suits, because who knows what we were up to right before class? I was probably out working on my mini-bike. I always made a bee-line for Cathy Kummings, who was as tall as I was and I didn't have to bend down to hear her if she said anything when I stepped on her foot. "You smell nice," I offered. Even then I had the gift of human interaction. She replied, "You smell like carburetor parts, but at least ones that have been recently flushed."

     The teacher, Mr. Richard would cascade around the room, one hand in the air holding his imaginary partner's hand, the other on his stomach. He looked like a little teapot, short and stout, there was his handle, there was his spout. When it came time for us to mimic the moves, I couldn't get it right because I was trying to do a cha cha cha cha instead of a cha cha cha. There is a moment when I finish dancing with someone when, flushed with relief, they say, "Wow, that could have been way worse."

     Anyway, the exhibition was really fun, and there were some participants who could really dance. There was one guy with a bunch of tattoos that picked up his instructor and held her aloft like he was about to throw her 20 yards downfield in a perfect spiral. You could feel the joy some of them felt doing things others probably thought they were too old to do. There was a group of young students doing a group routine, and some of them obviously had a lifelong passion ahead of them. My friend Diana danced with her partner to "Circle of Life" from The Lion King. It was a pretty complicated routine, and she performed it beautifully.

     We met with some of the contestants after the show. One had false eyelashes and couldn't wait to get them off. "These things are like windshield wipers," she said. Her real eyelashes were a little upset, and if they had known she wanted windshield wipers, they could have handled the job. Diana was dressed in kind of a feline costume, and I didn't want to get too close because I'm allergic.

     The moral of the story is that it doesn't matter what age you are, what shape you are, what size you are or whether you have two left feet, you can probably dance better than I can. If I could meet up with Cinderella after the ball I have a few questions for her. Like, can you really become princess if a glass slipper happens to fit your foot? If so, that's interesting, because Kate Middleton and I both wear the same shoe size.

THE EMERALD ISLE, PART II

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-06-19)

     As I continue my journey through Ireland, feel free to tag along. And if you speak the language, so much the better, because I didn't understand a word anybody said for ten days. Dublin is fun in the daytime and even more fun at night. Our hotel was right next to St. Stephen's Green, Dublin's central park, and from there you can walk to many of the sites worth seeing in Ireland's capital. At the Museum of Archaeology, treasures were on display that were uncovered in, of all places, peat bogs. Usually peat bogs are not a lot of laughs, but in Ireland anything goes. Objects of art and craftsmanship from the Iron Age to the 12th century fill the corridors of the first gallery. Afterwards we relaxed on the green at Trinity College. It reminded me of my college days at Syracuse University, relaxing on the quad, wondering how my class was going that I was supposed to be in. Nearby the ancient Book of Kells was on display for a 14 euro admission. We decided to skip it and wait until it came out in paperback. Besides they only open two pages at a time each day, so that's 7 euros a Kell. For dinner we sampled some authentic Irish favorites at the Hairy Lemon, where the cottage pie was delicious. We moved on to the famous Temple Bar near the River Liffey, which did not disappoint. If you can't make a friend in Dublin you're probably not using the right ingredients. 

     The next day we toured historic Kilmainham Gaol prison, which was witness to many controversial executions relating to the struggle for Irish independence. Afterward we visited Phoenix Park and the Dublin Zoo. I've never seen an okapi before, but it looks like a cross between a giraffe, a zebra, an ass, an impala, the car not the animal, and a vodka gimlet. If I left anything out I'll photoshop it in later. At night we went to the Thunderbird, and I finally realized we were at a gay bar when it became apparent that no guys were talking to me. When we went to the straight bar, an entire stag party conga-ed onto the dance floor all dressed as women. Nothing is uncomplicated in Dublin. The next day we went to pick up our rental car to explore the counties of Ireland. That's when the fun really begins.

 

     For those of you who have driven on the wrong side of the road by mistake, it's not nearly as disturbing as doing it on purpose. Even so, we were going along fine until we got to the "roundabout." You enter it from the left in Ireland, and you keep going around in circles until centrifugal force finally throws you out onto the third or fourth exit, and you're left to fend for yourself, subsisting on a diet of sticks and berries, until you figure out where the hell you are. All in all, it wouldn't be so bad other than the fact that it was ten times worse.

     We drove down to Waterford, which is the oldest town in Ireland, originally settled by the Vikings. To get there you have to pass through Tipperary, and from there you realize that it's a long way to New York. A tour of the Waterford Crystal factory demonstrated a cross between the artistry of hand craftsmanship and literally cutting edge technology. We stayed at the Waterford Castle, which dates back to the 16th century. If you've never stayed in a castle, it's everything you ever thought it would be. It was very drafty, and I'm just talking about the beer selection at the bar. The only castle I had been in up to that time was a bouncy castle, and it's more different than I thought it would be.

     Next day we moved on to the famous Ring of Kerry, a two-to-four hour drive around the highlands of the Iveragh Peninsula among some of the most scenic landscapes you can imagine. If you go, you should drive in a counter clockwise direction, that way, when you're done you'll arrive an hour before you started.

     The following morning, about a three hour drive north, the Cliffs of Moher jut up 700 feet from the stormy seas. They are stunning in person. You can either think of them as one of the Earth's amazing natural wonders, or the very worst beach in the world. There is a stone wall there to prevent you from getting too near the edge of the cliff, which you can hop over if you feel the need to get too near the edge of the cliff. If you do, you should first find out whether anyone has taken out a large insurance policy on you. Nothing can ruin a vacation faster than trying to remember where you parked your car after you fall down a 700 foot cliff.

     After a final evening in the lovely town of Galway our journey came to an end. At last we were on the plane pointed west. Since I already expounded last week on how annoying it is to fly, I'm not going to do any more carping on that subject. By the way, did you ever notice that while you are 30,000 feet up in the air, with the most cutting edge technology and electronics known to man operating the plane, that the one thing protecting you personally from disaster, the seat belt, looks like it was ripped out of a 1964 VW Beetle? Even my car has a shoulder harness and an air bag. My plane has a tray table and an air sickness bag. If this plane crashes and I live through it, that stupid seat belt will have bisected me in two. "Hey Rick, where's your better half?" "Oh, it should be along any minute now." I'll stick to driving, thank you very much. And now I know how to do it on both sides of the road. It may take a few days to get acclimated to the right side of the road again, so if you see me driving, you might want to fasten your shoulder harness and stow your tray table.

 

THE EMERALD ISLE, PART I

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-30-19)

     One of my duties as your faithful servant is to report back to you from interesting locations that I might visit during my yearly vacation. For those of you who don't get to travel as much as you'd like, feel free to live vicariously through me. As a word of caution, you should be aware that I do a lot of dumb things, so you may also hospitalize yourself vicariously through me.

     At JFK Airport we breathed a sigh of relief: we're finally on vacation! All our stress and worry vanish as we step up to the counter to check our bags. A HUNDRED BUCKS EACH to check our bags? Are you kidding me? Why should I pay a hundred bucks when it's not my idea that you check the bags in the first place! There's nothing dangerous in them, like a juice box or anything, but my wife says that's not what checking the bags means. I started to calm down once we got queued up for the security check. We had 45 minutes to relax on the line as we tried to solve the maze to the TSA area. All our stress and worry vanish, until we have a full 30 seconds to remove everything from our pockets, take our electronic items out of our carry-on bags, take off our shoes and jackets and put everything into the bins. I'm holding everybody up because I keep forgetting where I have everything stashed in various pockets. I make the TSA girl promise in advance not to laugh at anything she might see during the body scan but she laughs anyway. I told a joke at the same time as my scan so I wouldn't know what exactly she was laughing at. We get ready to board the plane and I feel like I've been through a car wash with the top down.

     Finally the plane takes off and I can sit back and relax. You want to know how much I can sit back and relax? An inch and a quarter, that's how far my seat reclines. But I'm not complaining, because I have a 5" by 7" pillow for my 8 1/2" by 11" head, and I'm going to nap until we get to Glasgow. 20 minutes later I wake up because I don't want to miss the complimentary beverage, since they took away my juice box. I'm still a little angry about the juice box- it's only really dangerous to me since every time I pop the straw through the top, a siphon immediately forms and drains the entire contents into my lap, and I have to spend the next 15 minutes thinking up an interesting story to go with it. The next thing I know we're passing over Greenland, and I know everyone is all excited to see what's under the polar ice caps now that everything is melting. I have to be honest, from 30,000 feet up it doesn't look to me like it will ever be a fantastic vacation spot. I picture myself sometime in the future trying to unload a time share that I bought there.

     Soon we were in Scotland- you never stop to realize how many great things come from Scotland: Scotch whiskey, Scottish terriers, Scott's lawn products, Scotch Tape. We took the subway to Kelvingrove Park and checked out the museum there to discover the influence of Scottish artists and designers. Charles Rennie Mackintosh was featured in an exhibit of furniture and art, which became known as the "Glasgow Style." His furniture was a fixture in the Cranston Tea Rooms, which were every bit as much of a part of Glasgow life in the 1800s as Starbucks is to American life today. The Scottish art wing featured the works of the "Glasgow Boys," James Guthrie, George Henry, William Kennedy and E. A. Hornel, among others. My favorites were called "crepuscules," or scenes of twilight, with their unusual lighting and color. Down the hall a provocative work by Dali depicts Christ on the cross as pictured from above.

     We shopped famous Buchanan Street, which is suffering from the same Banana Republic-itis as all other iconic pedestrian malls in the world, the high rents that are outstripping the ability of small and eclectic local shops to survive, making for a homogeneous global experience. But the people-watching is always worth the trip- there aren't that many places where you can find bag-pipe street buskers. Scotland and Northern Ireland use the pound sterling as currency, and the Republic of Ireland uses the euro, so it's a little confusing. You should conduct most of your overseas transactions on plastic for the best exchange rate, but there are some places that won't take maxed-out credit cards, so I went to the money exchange and picked up some euros and a hundred bucks worth of pounds. I mostly wanted them for tips and small purchases, so I asked for the pounds in 1600 ounces.

     The Glasgow nightlife is robust, and we went to the Howlin' Wolf, where they have live music seven days a week, sometimes more. The next day we took the train to the Glasgow Science Centre, which is a great place to take your kids. They could probably stay entertained there for a couple days if you wanted to get back to the Howlin' Wolf. At the Centre we saw the IMAX movie "A Beautiful Planet," which explores life in the International Space Station, and compares it to the planet Earth as a "spaceship," with only its own finite resources aboard. It warns of the challenges we may face in the future, and also how hard it is to wash your hair in space.

     Next we were off to the ferry to take us across the Irish Channel to Belfast. We checked into our hotel, and of course, as usual, I can't get into my email. One of these days I'm just going to hire a Russian hacker and make it easy on myself. The RMS Titanic was launched in Belfast from the very spot where a museum commemorating the ship's history and fate now stands. The exhibits cover the climate of the times, and how important the shipbuilding industry was to Belfast, as well as the monumental undertaking of constructing the ship itself. There is vibrant nightlife here in Belfast too, although we saw one place that said it was a "New York-style bar," an irony because most bars left in New York are Irish bars.

     The following day we were headed south, and by the time I woke up we were almost there. "We're about to touch down- I just heard the landing gear," I said. My wife said, "I hope so, because we're on a train." Dublin is going to be fun.

MAKING A SPECTACLE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-23-19)

     There has been a recent development regarding my eyesight which I found quite disturbing: it's getting better. I was very concerned about that, because it goes against a trend that has been occurring ever since I started to get old, which was some time after the 3rd grade, which is that everything else is getting worse. My knees are knotty, my back is balky, my shoulder is shaky and I thought any troubles with my backside were behind me. Even my tennis serve is getting worse, and I'm thinking about taking it in for an MRI. Also, I sometimes feel like I'm losing that thing that helps you remember stuff, I forget what it's called.

     I used to be quite near-sighted. Before I was married, I was seeing a girl when I was in college, at least I thought I was. It turns out I wasn't, and that's when I got glasses. The glasses I wore corrected for near-sightedness and astigmatism, but I had to take them off to read clearly. Bifocals were uncomfortable, because they can't remove the astigmatism correction from the bottom of the lens where I would read from. So I used to wear my glasses cocked to the side up on the bridge of my nose, so I could see below them when I was looking at something close, and see far away if I looked up. This caused people to believe that my face was attached to my head at the wrong angle. When I was talking to someone close up, my glasses were pointing over their right shoulder, and sometimes they would turn around to see what my glasses found so interesting. I was surprised that nobody else wore their glasses like that, but nobody else seemed to be.

     And now people who are near and dear to me are blurrier than people who are far and dear to me. So I went to the eye doctor, but which one should you go to? An optometrist has to go to college, then after four more years of school get a degree in optometry. He or she can test your eyes, check their general health and prescribe glasses. If there's a sty in my eye, you should see my office. Whereas an ophthalmologist goes to medical school, then has an internship, a residency, possibly a fellowship and maybe a friendship. He or she can diagnose and treat medical conditions related to the eyes. Whereas an optician does not test the eyes, but simply fills the eyeglass prescriptions from the optometrist. Whereas an optimist can find the good in me having to have a pair of glasses literally in every room.

     It turns out it's been years since I went to the ophthalmologist. That's because I used to take the eye test at the Department of Motor Vehicles when I renewed my license, and leave it at that. But with the advent of self-driving cars, pretty soon it will be necessary only to be able to see where your car is long enough for you to get in it.

     The ophthalmologist said he hasn't seen me in quite some time and I told him maybe he's the one who needs the glasses. He said something in Chinese even though he's not Chinese and told me to sit down in English. He had a machine blow this hard poof of air right into my eye, which startled me and I almost hit my head on the top of the machine. He says it's to test for glaucoma, but I think it's payback for all the times I blew in my dog's face. I'm not the only one who's done it either, so don't try to make me out as the bad guy. I know you've been doing it too, and if you have, stop blowing in my dog's face. But I AM probably the only one who told my dog that I was checking for glaucoma. She doesn't have it, by the way, I tested yesterday.

     Then he shines this incredibly bright light into my eye, apparently trying to peer into my soul. I told him my mother said I shouldn't look directly into a bright light, and he told me he wasn't my mother. He also said I should see a specialist about my soul.

     He said put on the eye patch and take a look at the chart. He's probably never heard my pirate accent before so I told him a quick pirate joke, which went over like a lead doubloon. He told me to just say the last line, and I thought he meant the last line of the joke, which went over like another lead doubloon. He meant the eye chart, which I could only read if I squinted. It said in really small letters  D  O  N  T  S  Q  U  I  N  T.

      If you're getting new eyeglasses, you have to look through this contraption that has a million lenses attached to it, and try to see the eye chart on the wall. The optometrist flips back and forth between the lenses to narrow it down to the best combination. He says "better or worse" after he flips each lens, and you let him know things are going. It dawned on me that this might not be a bad way to pick the Democratic presidential candidate. Here's Amy Klobuchar, here's Kirsten Gillibrand, better or worse, better, worse? And you say, I can't really tell, maybe the first one? It's true that only your optometrist really loves you for better or worse.

      But I just wanted a contact lens that would let you see close up. My idea was to put it in my left eye and let that one do any reading, and let my right eye see far away, if it wants to. The eye doctor looked at me like it was the dumbest thing he ever heard, but then he gave me the contact lenses and told me it wasn't the dumbest thing he ever heard. So the bottom line is that this technique works okay as a compromise if you don't want to keep looking for your glasses all the time if you're out at a restaurant. Now I just have to try to remember where I put my contact lens instead of my glasses. I finally understand what Francis Scott Key was talking about when he wrote the poem that became the Star Spangled Banner. O say, can you see by the dawn's early light? Not really, and I can't find my glasses, so I'm going back to bed until dawn's later light.

BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-16-19)

      A few days ago I read a story about a dystopian society where everyone was being watched by thousands of cameras, and the government had all these people in a big room where they watched all the video and, using high-speed computers, interpreted all the data so they could identify certain behaviors. The story was in the New York Times, and the name of the place was Ecuador. They bought the system from China, and they justified it to the populace by saying that the it would be a deterrent to crime. Instead, it has been alleged that the system has been used by the government to keep track of political rivals.

     It's just like Big Brother from the novel "1984." But I have to admit, a matrix of cameras sounds like fun. I'm thinking of getting it myself. The deal is, the Chinese buy it for you! They loaned Ecuador the money, and Ecuador is paying it back by giving them oil. If I had known that you could pay back a loan with oil, I would have bought a much bigger house. Old man Jed in the "Beverly Hillbillies" found oil right on his property by shooting at some food. I still have my Dad's Winchester 94 ("The Gun That Won the West," he always used to say), and I might just take it out to the back yard and give it a try. First I'm going to pick off all the mushrooms in the refrigerator as long as I'm shooting at food. I hate mushrooms. If you are food, and you're hiding from people with guns, don't hide behind the Swiss cheese or the doughnuts, a word to the wise.

     If I get my own video system, I want built-in speakers on mine so that I can talk directly to the citizens. "HEY! Why are you standing there blocking the doorway of my train when it's not your stop? Two feet away from you on the other side is the door that DOESN'T open. Why don't you go stand over there? THIS is your fearless leader speaking." It will be much easier to express my opinions. "HEY, yeah YOU! What's with that nose ring that goes from one nostril to the other? You look like a bull I saw in a cartoon once. What happens when you forget you already took it off and then you blow your nose?" Maybe I can test out some new material, tell a joke and check out the reaction: "Why do mice have small balls? Because so few of them dance well! Hahahahaha! THIS is your fearless leader speaking." I like to tell that one to kids right in front of their parents, and watch Mom & Dad get angry with me when it turns out that it's not a dirty joke like they thought it was.

      I'm going to have a lot of fun with my new camera system, but I'm going to need to hire people to sit in the media room and analyze the footage. But what if they're not doing it right? I'll  need to set up some cameras in the media room to keep an eye on them. But what if I'm not keeping an eye on them correctly? I'll need a camera trained on myself at all times to make sure I've got everything covered. I'll be right back, I've got to get into hair and makeup on the double. I heard the camera adds ten pounds.

      I thought when I read this story that it sounded familiar. Where have I heard of something so diabolical as recording a person's every move on camera? Then I remembered: It was my sister. When her first kid was born she had the camcorder out for every single move the kid made. "Was that her first yawn? Let me get the camera! Damn I missed it!" No that wasn't her first one, I was just telling that story again of how I got kicked out of my high school math class for not baking enough cookies. I bet I could coax another one out of her, because I got kicked out of a lot of classes. My sister still reaches for that camera every time something happens- it's a reflex action. "Look! her first divorce! It's adorable! Let me get the camera!" By the way, if you videotape every single waking moment of your kids first five years, won't you need every waking moment of another five years to play it back? That may be the first binge-watch followed by a purge-watch.

     I just realized- I can also use the system to spy on my wife. Do you know what she does when I'm not there? She "tidies up" by throwing away things that I'm "not using." "Honey, where are you going with those empty Amazon boxes? Don't you understand that I'm saving those in case I need to send something back? Yes, I know that they keep sending things in a new box, but you know how it works, they send a toenail clipper in a refrigerator box." "And where are you going with all my paperback books? I was just about to re-read those." She wants to bring everything I own to the Goodwill box, and then we have a fight about it. I ask the people at Goodwill, what's so good about THAT?

      If you go to Ecuador you should be aware that the software is going to have facial recognition capability, which I consider a personal challenge. Because I am the Man of a Thousand Faces. I can make a face that looks like I sucked on a lemon and stubbed my toe at the same time. Or I can make a face that looks like a catcher's mitt from the 1940s, and I can also make a face that looks like an opossum if it just ate a chocolate chip cookie. So stick that in your algorithm and smoke it.

     So far, the most notable conclusion that has been reached since the system has been in use is that Ecuadorians are BOR-ING with a capital B. Dull Ecuadorians make for dull television, and nobody is going to put up with that for too long. So I expect to see a change soon. I expect to see muggers breaking into song, maybe something by the Police, if they have any sense of irony. Ecuadorians are going to be wearing a lot more bikinis and performing a lot more well-choreographed dance numbers. I might travel to Ecuador myself and try to go viral. I can either go viral down there, or stay here and wait until I catch the measles. So if you see a person on the streets of Ecuador tap dancing and reciting Shakespeare, and it looks like they sucked on a lemon and stubbed their toe at the same time, that was me. But I won't know how all this comes out because my wife gave my copy of "1984" to Goodwill.
 

WRITING THE WRONGS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-09-19)

      This month marks the fifth anniversary of the first time I wrote a piece for the Somers Record, and since that time I have written 260 columns, one each week without missing a week. I don't say this to pat myself on the back, but to pat you on yours. Reading supports writing, and writing means much more than itself. It means ideas, it means community, it means communication, it means democracy. My column by itself is so much silliness, I readily admit. But it's part of a forum that keeps an eye on things. And that forum is part of a larger culture of journalism. Real journalism, by people who stick their necks out in many different ways. People who take the time to check facts, verify sources and corroborate research. That's what it takes to make sure that nefarious people don't operate unchecked, no matter how high they rise in business and in government. Journalism is the link from the ranks of humanity to the top of the pyramid, and it's the only thing that can turn a pyramid upside down.

      And that culture thrives because people want to know the truth, they want to know the answers to questions they didn't even know they should ask. It shouldn't be neglected and it shouldn't be taken for granted, because once in a while there's a politician who wants to drive around in a presidency with dark tinted windows- what could they possibly be doing in there? The press makes it their job to find out, they sniff around, and claw at the dirt, and when the facts are laid out clearly and substantively, the difference between fake news and false idols is stark. There might come a time when these institutions may need to be protected and propped up, and I hope that if that time comes people rise to the occasion willingly. We shouldn't expect people to work for free, and anytime you go on an internet site where information is free, it always either has an ulterior sales motive or is a bunch of crap. Remember when you got a free pen at the bank and you put it in your car for emergencies, and then an emergency came up and you tried to write something down with it after you screwed all its parts together, then threw it out the car window?

      A newspaper, or however you get your news, is something you see every day, and over a period of time you decide for yourself if if you trust what comes out of it. If enough people trust it, that source becomes the antidote to knuckleheads who don't get their kids vaccinated, or think that you need an AK-47 to hunt deer, or believe that coal mining jobs are more important than preserving the finite resources of the Earth. It does disappoint me that newspapers and news sources make the decision to support individual political candidates, because I believe that it not only impugns their standard of impartiality but also ties them into broad ideologies embedded in the two-party system that casts impossibly wide nets on either side. I guess I know where to find a grain of salt if I need one.

      Local news has probably been thought of as low priority at times, but people don't live nationally, they live locally. And whatever affects you where you live affects you most. And whatever happens nationally happens locally first. That's where grassroots take root, and I can tell you it certainly isn't underneath my lawn. I'd like to think that I contributed a laugh here and there over the last five years. I hope so, because I deducted the contribution on my taxes. I'd also like to think that I disseminated some information here and there, because that would imply that I once had some information.

      Over the last five years I've attended so many more local functions and events than I would have otherwise, and that has been fun and rewarding. I hope I'll see you at some of them. I'm an extremely private person who publishes every waking moment of his life in the local paper. So I'd like to thank the Somers Record for allowing me to vent about all things, great and small. And to those who read my column, those who even enjoy it, and to those who have reached out to say hello and even meet in person, a sincere thank you. And those who don't read my column, now is the perfect time to gossip about them. I have something juicy, but I can't tell you right now, so call me.

WHINING AND DINING

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-02-19)

     My wife likes to throw a nice dinner party once in a while, invite some of our more well-behaved friends and have a lovely evening. If I promise not to do anything worse than what I did at the last dinner party, I am allowed to attend, too. It gives me a chance to show off my more sophisticated side and prove that I can act just like normal people. I really don't know much about being normal, but I know more about acting than you might think.

     I'm supposed to help prepare by making sure my bathroom is ready to receive company. I used to just drape yellow crime scene tape outside the door and set up some orange cones directing traffic over to my wife's bathroom. It does look like there might have been prosecutable offenses committed in my bathroom, but those are more like crimes against nature. Even my dog Gidget knows that company is coming because she sees us stuffing things into the closet that clearly don't belong there. Having people over is a great opportunity to show off how well-trained she is.

     Gidget is very pretty, which she gets from my wife's side of the family. She is also kind of quirky, and I don't know whose side of the family she gets that from. She doesn't seem to know how to play like most normal dogs. I tried to teach her to play catch using dog treats. I throw the ball and you catch it. We don't need to diagram any plays, or try to fake a short-yardage play-action pass in the slot or anything like that. You don't even have to throw it back. After about 20 times Gidget caught the ball in her mouth by mistake, so I gave her a treat. The very next try she caught it on purpose, so clearly she is not dumb. But the ball was in her mouth for only a short fraction of a second before she spit it out to make room for the dog biscuit. I had to check instant replay to find out if she actually had possession of the ball, or if it should be declared an incomplete pass. It turns out she is smarter than I am, and finally she taught me how to just throw the dog biscuit, and leave the ball on the floor.

     By the way I'm sick of people having a better-trained dog than mine, because those people think it reflects more on the trainer than on the dog. I taught my dog to sit, after such time as it gets tired of standing. I also taught it to shake, even if it's not that cold. I've taught it lots of things, my dog is home-schooled. We have a curriculum that includes physics (any action you take on a cat has an equal and opposite reaction), math (if I had two ham sandwiches and now I only have one, how much trouble are you probably in?) and all kinds of subjects. I'd like to see your dog do any better when I'm over at your house. "So, does your dog know any tricks?" I ask. "Absolutely. Do you have a deck of cards?"

     We think eight people is the perfect number for a dinner party. That way if I say something stupid, usually four people are too far down the table to hear it. My wife and I sit at opposite ends. I say I'd like to thank everybody for coming, and my wife says, "What?" I think that's what she said, I couldn't really hear. We like to invite people whose disparate personalities will mesh and invite an exchange of ideas. That's code for: somebody might have voted for Trump, so you need to seat them away from the ones that hate Trump, and make sure nobody has access to anything sharper than a folded napkin. And right before discussing Trump, it is imperative to reiterate that there will be NO discussing Trump. You think climate change is a hoax? Try throwing a teaspoon of Trump into the conversation and see how fast the jet stream blows a bunch of clouds over the appetizers.

     Can I offer you something from the bar? How about a Scotch-and-soda, and not that single-malt crap. I surely think that we can afford more than one malt for this auspicious occasion. Actually, the only soda I had for the Scotch-and-soda was Mountain Dew, but they had already opened some wine. I don't know anything about wine, but me trying to say the names of wine in a French accent is like a water buffalo trying to tap dance, and that may or may not be entertaining to some people.

     We've had some friends over that are pretty well-to-do, and I like to impress them with my refinement. What I'd really like to know is how they got so well-to-did. A long time ago I told my wife, in case she wanted to run before it was too late, that I wasn't much good at making money. And she said, you may not be good at making money, but you're good at not spending it on me, so someday you might be worth something.

     We love to travel, and so do our guests. Traveling the world is so worldly, and it's a great topic of conversation. Go ahead and ask me about it: "Will you be abroad this year?" "No, I like being a dude too much. But we are planning a trip. We were in Rome last year. I don't know if all roads lead to Rome, but I will tell you that I-81 certainly does. Take a right when you get to Lake Oneida." "Really? How interesting. We're thinking of attending the 'running of the bulls' this July."  "Is that so? How interesting. I may go in August for the 'sitting around of the worn-out bulls.' Then I'll probably go up to Saratoga, where my horse will naturally win. Then it's off to Nova Scotia, to see the total eclipse of the sun. I'll be traveling with the wife of a close friend. She's an underworld spy, you know." "Oh? How interesting."

     My wife is a great cook, and she decided to make an Italian dish called Chazz Palminteri. At least I think that's what she said, I couldn't really hear her from my side of the table.

A SOAPBOX FOR EVERYONE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-25-19)

     If you're thinking about running for president, now is the time to do it, because everybody else is and you don't want to be left out. Running for office is a minefield, so let's go over a few rules and suggestions, and some examples of what not to do. Rule Number One: Don't do anything that goes against your core values. For instance, Bernie Sanders has spent his political career railing against the rich and powerful. He even wrote a book about it, and the people rose up and bought his book, and now he's a millionaire, and he's stumbling around trying to explain why he shouldn't share some of that money with us. There's nothing worse for Socialism than a rich and powerful proletariat.
     Rule Number Two: Don't do anything stupid 20 years ago. I went to a Halloween party as Shrek once, and now I'm finding out that it is insulting to ogres to parade around in green-face. So today's standards are being applied to things that happened quite a while ago, and now it is coming to light that many people were insulted and subjected to rude behavior before they were killed during the fall of the Roman Empire.

     Rule Number Three: Try to stretch the truth as much as possible, because the truth is BORING. Stretch it like a pair of yoga pants in the Walmart cookie aisle. Elizabeth Warren had been going around telling people that she is part American Indian, then she had her numbers done by one of those DNA genealogy sites, and it turns out she's like one millionth Cherokee Indian, the equivalent of one of her inner ear bones. Incidentally my neighbor has a Jeep Cherokee in the garage that's going through the same issue- most of it was made in Japan and Mexico, and it's only about one-eighth native American. If I was running for president I would say I am part black Latina woman, and probably I would be statistically correct.

     Rule Number Four: It's a good idea to be all things to all people. If you have any skeletons in the closet, now is the time to get them out. If you yourself have been in the closet, now is the time to get YOU out. The LGBT community is a large and vocal group, and they don't want to see their rights trampled upon. If you are a gay candidate, you have an instant base right there. If not, this is your opportunity to bring up an incident or two that you had in summer camp and get it off your chest. Okay maybe three, it was a long time ago. Four is my final offer, and I'll throw in a bachelor party weekend when I was in college, but there was alcohol involved.

     Rule Number Five: Don't say anything stupid on the campaign trail, like "Where is the actual trail? I think I might be lost." DON'T screw up, not because you could mislead the American people, or do damage to your chances of becoming president, but because you might get mocked on Saturday Night Live. The minute I see Colin Jost in front of a picture of me in the corner, before he even says anything all the hair falls out of my head. Even worse, is one of the ugly cast members going to portray me, or worser than worse, a female cast member? You're better off not saying anything substantive that can come back to bite you on the ass later. When Trump ends up in the hospital after all this is over it won't be because of stress or because a climate scientist punched him in the nose, it will be because one of those bites on his ass got infected.

     Rule Number Six: Don't touch any women, even if you have a good reason, and being creepy is not a good reason. A female politician came forward to complain that Biden acted inappropriately by kissing the top of her head and "inhaling" her hair. All I could think of was thank god she wasn't wearing a wig. "Honey, where did all your hair go?" "Oh that. Biden inhaled it. But the joke's on him because it had a boatload of bobby pins in it!" "Well, I was kissed by a politician 40 years ago, and I have photo evidence of it. I'm just now coming to terms with it." "Mom, you were 10 months old- everybody kissed babies back then!" "Yes but I've finally decided to come forward instead of waiting for everyone else to go backward."

     Rule Number Seven: If it looks like you might be getting close to being elected, make sure to have some cabinet appointees in mind. Trump decided to hire and fire a bunch of retired generals, thinking that they might tell him what to do and that he might enjoy that. He went through General Flynn, he went through General McMaster, he went through General Kelly, he went through General Mattis. The only one he didn't hire is that little general who sells car insurance from a Corvette convertible with a penguin. If he had gone to him first he would have saved some time, so I've heard.

     If, god forbid, you DO get elected, don't stress about it, it's not the end of the world. You don't really have to do anything, as long as you tweet that you'd like to do something, perhaps this weekend if the weather is nice. It doesn't matter if you tweet like a 12 year-old girl. Blame anything bad on the "Dems." Get an Instagram account and try to break the internet before the Russians do. I've got to go now and find some ice for my knee. I was putting together my campaign platform, and I whacked myself with a hammer.

THROWN AWAY IN THE USA

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

     It's not even Earth Day day yet, and we already have a problem. You may not believe this but China is refusing our refuse. They're not going to put up with our garbage anymore, and it's causing a lot of problems. They used to love our garbage. We would buy a crappy plastic thing that said "Made in China" on it, and we'd use it for a while, and eventually it would break, or we'd get sick of it. Should we give it to somebody else? Nah, giving a crappy plastic thing to somebody else just makes us look cheap. Even the needy didn't need it. So we'd just throw it into the recycling bin, and a few months later it would arrive in China in a bag that said "Made in USA" on it, and they would melt it down and make that same crappy plastic thing out of it again, in a different color, and stamp "Made in China" back on it. I call it a "vicious recycle."

     I'm not just trash talking. China's manufacturing boom of the last few decades was built upon the availability of cheap raw materials, otherwise known as America's biggest export: garbage. Because we run a trade deficit relative to China, shipping companies that imported millions of tons of their products to American shores had plenty of room on the way back. And they filled every empty space with plastic, much like the Kardashians did. And now China has too much plastic and they don't want ours, so recycling managers are down in the dumps these days. Crap is piling up everywhere, and it's beginning to look like my office. I read that Great Britain generates enough plastic waste each year to fill 10,000 Olympic-sized swimming pools. Which gives me a great idea to get rid of it, as long as they don't need to send any swimmers to the Olympics.

     I'm guessing that much of this plastic is only used to wrap something else, so it starts out as waste and doesn't really have any lofty ambitions to be anything else. And I'm further guessing that some of the material in that category is plastic that still contains something that I ordered from Amazon but couldn't open. I looked all over for a little tab on it somewhere that says, "OPEN HERE," or a perforation or even a picture of a little pair of scissors that says "YOU deal with it." Even with a pair of scissors I end up cutting myself three times, once with each scissor in the pair and once with the plastic itself, which turns out to be sharper than I thought when cut with a pair of scissors. There is nothing that would allow me to gain entry to this product. So who could blame me if I just lob the whole thing into the recycling bin in despair.

      We're now trying to find other countries to take our garbage, because one country's treasure is another country's trash. So far nobody wants our treasure. Should we put an ad on Craigslist? "Free to a good home: 400,000 tons of plastic containers, about 250,000 tons of which is uneaten Chinese food." Should we send it into space? If we wait around long enough we'll eventually be running a trade deficit with Uranus, and we can send it there for cheap. What we don't want it to do is end up in the ocean. Microplastics have been found in seagulls and whales, which means that it is finding its way back into our food supply, and that's why I don't eat whales and seagulls anymore.

     China will take some of our plastic, but it has to be exactly the kind they need, so we are inventing robots to sort our recycling. A robot can do it faster and more efficiently. Plus, a robot doesn't say, "Wow, I can't believe someone would throw THIS out!" And then stuff it in their pocket.

     Another thing we need to do is simply generate less plastic. My wife tells me that they're not using plastic bags at the supermarket anymore, so if I buy a dozen watermelons I have to take them each out to the car separately. But I'll do it to save the planet, you can thank me later.

     If YOU want to help do something for Earth Day, you can help by recycling your metal items, even your old recycling-sorting robots. On Saturday, April 20th, my friends Margaret and Judy, along with Mike from City Carting will be hosting their annual metal and electronic waste recycling drive at the Somers Intermediate School. I'll be there to help, along with Gidget, the World's Most Prettiest Dog. Bring us your scrap metal, your ancient electronics, your old appliances, yearning to be free, and a five-dollar bill that will also be recycled to help benefit important programs supported by the PTA Council.

     In the meantime, let's figure out what to do with all that waste, because the Earth is suffering. I was in a greenhouse recently and I feared for my life. There were plants everywhere, giving off those greenhouse gases. I had a teacher in Middle School once who told me point blank that he wasn't going to take any more of my garbage. I could certainly understand that, but that did not prevent me from producing more garbage.

'TIS THE SEASON

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-11-19)

     Baseball Season is unlike Deer Season or Duck Season in that you don't actually shoot the baseball players with a gun. Do you sometimes WANT to shoot the baseball players with a gun? Yes, maybe not a loaded gun, just enough to slightly alarm them once in a while. Maybe when I pull the trigger a little flag could come out that says, "Why, every time you get a two-strike count, must you then waste two pitches way out of the strike zone and then end up walking the guy?" Can I fit that onto a little flag?

     But I still love baseball. I was talking to a gal at a bar who was trying to watch a soccer game. "Don't you hate soccer," I asked, to see if she was watching it only to confirm the fact that she hated it.  "No, I love it. I think BASEBALL is boring." "You think WHAT is WHAT???" Baseball is like a nine-act play, a drama, an epic. It has one-on-one confrontations and team conflict, all of it choreographed to really bad organ music. A game of soccer plays for two hours to a zero-zero tie. They give you a red card, they give you a yellow card. Let's just play cards, at least I could win something. Let's use Tarot Cards so we can see what's really going on. If the ref hands you a Queen of Pentacles AND The Moon card, you'll probably turn into a newt within the hour anyway. I explained all of this to the back of her hand as she was walking away, and I hope she heard the end of my monologue through the ladies room door.

     It's only a week into the Yankees season and our star pitcher is on the Disabled List because he experienced some tingling in his shoulder. At my age tingling in anything should be cause for celebration, even tingling in somebody else's shoulder. OMG what if he has rotator cuff? What if the whole rotation gets rotator cuff and can't rotate anymore? What if he needs "Tommy John" surgery? What if he has Lou Gehrig's disease? If you play baseball long enough to drop dead right on the field you could have a disease named after you, and possibly go to the Baseball Disease Hall of Fame. By the way you should write your induction speech in advance.

     I am fighting a sports injury myself from playing tennis, and it could be pretty serious. There's a bump on my little toe, and my wife looked it up on the internet and said it was a bunionette. Doesn't that have something to do with your hair, I was going to ask her when she stopped laughing but she never stopped laughing. When I went to the podiatrist to try and get him to diagnose something more serious, he said I could call it a "tailor's bunion" if I wanted to, and I told him he wasn't getting his co-payment.

     If you're a Yankee fan you have to get used to the envious critics and the rich-get-richer nay-sayers. Admittedly, the Yankees had Seattle Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson working out in spring training, making it possible that the Yankees might secure the quarterback of the future before the New York Giants did.

     Baseball is the only sport where you can have a serious and heated discussion about a pitcher's "stuff," and still get people to believe that you have any idea what you're talking about.  "He has great stuff, he just can't get anyone out." "Yes he's always been great stuff-wise but he just doesn't trust his stuff."

     The Baseball Commission also has the responsibility of setting an example for the kids, so they would rather not portray ballplayers chewing a big load of tobacco and then spitting it out. Instead, many are chewing bird seeds and spitting the shells out. There is still spitting involved, so there's no need to worry. I don't think eating bird seeds sets a great example for children either, because how are we going to grow any new birds if people keep eating the seeds?

     Major League Baseball has found out that we now have shorter attention spans, and they want to make the game go faster. So they have been experimenting with a "pitch clock" to keep the game moving in a timely manner.  As it is now, the pitcher shakes his head at the catcher to say, "I'm not comfortable with that pitch right now, and I have a fly in my nose." The catcher puts down one carefully chosen finger as a signal, to say, "I don't really care." Then the batter steps out of the batter's box so he can tighten his glove and adjust his crotch. It's unclear what may have changed in the adjustment of his crotch since the last pitch was thrown, but you shouldn't underestimate the forces at work in a man's crotch. If you're still with me at this point in the paragraph, then your attention span is longer than normal and you probably don't need a pitch clock. All of this is why I still love baseball.

     OMG I just learned that another member of the team has been put on the Injured List. What if he has a concussion? If you get a concussion in sports today they take it very seriously, and if you don't think they should examine your head, you should get your head examined. To get back on the field you need to clear "concussion protocols," where they check for spine and head injuries, and ask some questions designed to test recall, concentration and orientation. If you can't remember where you left your wallet, don't know what the word "ubiquitous" means and lose concentration during a soccer game, you might have a concussion, or you might have Rick Melén's disease.

SPRING HOPES ETERNAL

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

     I've been waiting all winter for spring, and now that it's here I'm wondering if it was all worth it. Spring may not be all it's cracked up to be, and I'm the one who's been sitting here cracking it up for three months. When I was slogging to work from Grand Central on my bicycle during the polar vortex, all I wished for was a 40-degree day. I thought it would make me happy. But now it's spring, and it's 45-degrees out. I am not as happy as I thought I would be.

     Spring is a time of renewal, and one of the things that is renewed is an endless supply of biota and nefarious organisms seemingly designed to make my life less trouble-free. I was sitting on the couch the other day minding my own business when I saw a stink bug fly by, and I thought, "Isn't nature's inexorable cycle awesome?" When it came out of my mouth it sounded like, "Jesus, those damned pain-in-the-asterisks again," but they say it's the thought that counts. I watched the stink bug fly all around the room five times, then all of a sudden it was on my nose without actually flying there. It said, "Dude, you're cross-eyed!" as I was trying to pry it off my nostril without detonating it. I did what they do in all those movies where the hero disarms a bomb, and I looked for a red wire so I could snip it with a pair of diagonal cutters- that usually does the trick. I couldn't find one so I coaxed him gently into a Kleenex and wrangled him over to the toilet for a burial at sea. So civilized I was, like a bouncer throwing Kirk Douglas out of a bar, I dropped him into the bowl, the stink bug not Kirk Douglas, and WATCH IT there's a sudden riptide and and swimming is not his strongest event, and down he goes and I dust off my hands victorious. And what does he do? From beyond the watery grave he airmails me a good one, like somebody farting in the hot tub. So insects might not be smarter than we are, but they're certainly just as vindictive.

     Another thing I'm holding my breath waiting for is these little swarms of tiny bugs that come out in the spring. Do you know what I'm talking about? Each bug is teency-weency, but all together in a street gang they are a menace. And you have to hold your breath if you see one of these little bug clouds, because if you time it wrong you're going to run out of breath mid-cloud and inhale a few hundred of them, and it will spoil your lunch. I'm not sure what happens to them after I suck them in, where could they possibly go? Not one of them makes the slightest effort to come back out even if I exhale 30 times in a row, so I guess they are still in there playing cards or something. I try to use the same technique as I do with my barber, when he combs my front hairs waiting for me to exhale, then snips just when I turn blue and it all rains down into my mouth as he pretends not to notice. Covering my mouth with my hand doesn't change the outcome and only makes me turn blue faster.

     And now the pollen is starting to come out of wherever it comes out from so I'm starting to sneeze all over the place. They say it's tree pollen causing all this misery, and why do trees even have flowers on them when flowers don't have trees on them? I do nothing but sneeze when I'm in my downstairs office, and my wife thinks that there's some kind of mold growing down there. My Mom used to say that when they made me they threw away the mold, ha ha, but it got back there somehow. I remember one year at around this time I was sneezing almost nonstop for an entire week before we left for our vacation in Greece. Once we set foot in Athens I stopped, so I might be allergic to the entire United States of America. My doctor said I should use my asthma inhaler, which lets me breathe more efficiently, and my intake of teency-weency bugs and tree pollen has increased as prescribed.    

     If you're going to renew all those flowers and trees, you're going to need a boatload of rain. And now because of global warming, we don't just get rain anymore, we get severe weather events. Climate models predict that heat-trapping gases will adversely affect weather patterns in the coming years, because warmer air can hold more water vapor than cooler air. Climate models often know just what to say. Luckily, around here we don't have to worry about mudslides, so worrying about them is optional if you run out of things to worry about.

     People who are observing Lent have it worst of all, because on top of everything else they have to give up something they love. I observe Lent every year by watching my neighbor, who stops drinking for 40 days, so now he has to go through all of the above completely sober. Everything that happens in the Bible happens for 40 days, they don't kid around. If you have any kind of problem in the Bible, just be patient, take two of these and wait 41 days and it will go away. Lent is a way of commemorating the 40 days that Jesus spent fasting in the desert, and by the way he also gave up air conditioning. I told my neighbor that if it was me I'd give up drinking for 40 days, but who said anything about night?

     Listen, I don't want to ruin it for you, there's plenty to love about spring. Look at the beautiful flowers! I almost stepped on a bee because we were both looking at the same flowers.  And love is in the air! So go outside and breathe it all in. Watch out for those little bugs, though. I'm going inside because it just started to rain- see you in 41 days.

FOUR GUYS WHO CAN IMPROVISE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-28-19)

     I know you didn't ask me, but I think you should get out of the house more often and see some live music. I'm not your mom, and I wouldn't try to tell you how to live your life, but it also wouldn't kill you to call once in a while. If you do manage a night out, there are plenty of options right here in Westchester, if you look around online or check the More Sugar monthly paper. Two weeks ago we went down to the Jazz Forum in Tarrytown to catch a show featuring the Levin Brothers, two accomplished veterans,  with a fine drummer and guest guitarist David Spinozza sitting in as well.

     I'm kind of picky about jazz, because I like music to have a melody, something I can hum in the shower. I can appreciate the artistry of a solo played in all 32nd notes, but if it sounds like you simply packed a million of them into a big hat and just emptied it in front of a giant fan, I'm going to have to upgrade my shower. That's what I don't like about electronic dance music, rap and hip hop. I'm looking all over for a melody, and instead there's just Nicky Minaj shouting at me, "I went to Starbucks I wanted to get a frapo, then had a Snapple apple with the capo." That may be brilliant cultural commentary, but no melody, no tune. I hope this doesn't make me sound like your mom again, but maybe I'd be able to find a melody if you cleaned up your room. And that goes for you too, Nicky Minaj. I read the lyrics to several Nicky Minaj songs just now and I'm convinced that her brain cells are being held in solitary confinement.

     Anyway, the Levin brothers performed a civilized program of original and re-imagined versions, which we thoroughly enjoyed. They've amassed quite a resumé, and played with everybody from Miles Davis to Alice Cooper. If you're going to be a top session player you have to be able to switch gears, play eclectic styles and get along with different types of personalities, and it makes you a better musician. I've heard that Alice Cooper is pretty easy to get along with but he often works with a boa constrictor who can be demanding, although he knows his scales. You can tell that the Levins are real professional musicians because they don't have a tip jar. These days everyone has a tip jar to help them get to college, even if they are 50 years old. If I had a tip jar I would have gotten into a better college, if you wouldn't mind stuffing a 3.8 GPA into it. My deli counter guy has a tip jar, and when I wanted my ham sliced so thin that you could see through it, he glanced over at the tip jar. I didn't fall for it, and as a result I couldn't see anything through my ham, and I was trying to look through a slice of turkey when my wife walked in and asked me why I was looking at things through meat.

     If you're going to be a successful jazz player, you should have a "jazz face," which is a look of tortured concentration as you are transported by the music. It should fall somewhere between looking like you are passing a stone and watching a Trump press conference. Appear as if you are suffering for your art, like Van Gogh when he cut off his left ear. That's fine for a painter by the way, but if he was a jazz musician he'd have to ask the band to stand over on his right, where he could hear them. I was in a jazz band for two years, and then they replaced me, and the only reason I can think of is because my face is too handsome for jazz. Although if somebody eats a banana in front of me I make a disgusted face that I could use for a solo if I wanted to.

     Anyway, we heard some great musicianship. During a jazz solo, I like to listen to the other players. How they deal with the rhythm of the song and the chord inversions is often just as satisfying as the solo itself. Some people clap after each solo, but my policy is to clap harder at the end, and let the players divide it amongst themselves. You never know what you're going to get with jazz since it's so free-form. They did a Steely Dan song, but these are jazz guys, and they're going to make you work to find any hint of Steely Dan in there. I actually had to perform a DNA test to find out if two versions were related at all. One song they did had bird calls in it, and the audience started chiming in by chirping up. It was the first time an Alfred Hitchcock movie ever broke out in the middle of a jazz set. I tried to get into the spirit by performing my famous barred owl call. If you've ever been out in the woods and heard that familiar "woo-hoo hoo-hoo!" it sounds like somebody goofing on you, but translated into owl parlance means, "I had a Snapple apple with the capo."

     So get out of the house, go see some live music and get some fresh air. All the fresh air is outside and even if you opened a window, it has little incentive to come in. If I was your mom that's what I would say. Plus I must have told you a million times not jump around on the couch, you'll break your neck.

INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-21-19)

 

     Last week was International Women's Day. What is an International Woman? It's probably a woman who has dual citizenship, or someone with a lot of stamps on their passport. I was in Sweden a couple years ago, and I said could you please stamp a couple stamps right on my face there on page two- I HATE that picture. Anyway, let's celebrate all the International Women out there, and in fact let's just celebrate ALL women. There is something to like about every one of them. Women put up with a lot of crap when you think about it- just the idea of bearing children alone is enough reason to bake them a cake. My Mom had six children, and she used to say she loved her children to death. I said, "Hold on a second, Mom, but just to clarify, I'd be okay with you loving us to a point just short of death."

     Now that there are female Supreme Court Justices and presidential candidates and leaders of industry, young girls have more role models. They used to have just their mom, and Shirley Partridge. Even Barbie was considered a role model, because she had a Corvette and a Dream House. Barbie just celebrated her 60th birthday, and what International Woman has had a bigger impact on young girls? Barbie has always kept herself in shape- she wears the same extra tiny size she always did and she hasn't gained an ounce, and if she did it would certainly show. Sure, Barbie may have had a little work done- maybe she had a little Botox, but only for migraines. I read that Barbie's fashions over the years have become popular for real girls, although I imagine the fit is a little tight.

     Celebrating women means we are re-evaluating interpersonal behavior more so than at any time in history, except perhaps for the nascent days of the "feminist movement," when we started calling people "Ms.," which I still think sounds dumb. If I was in charge at the time I would have suggested we get rid of "Mr." and "Mrs." instead and call people either by their names, or "Dude." We've come a long way from the '60s, when women used to burn their bras, which seemed like a weird thing to do. I would have recommended that you just not buy one in the first place, instead of burning your bra and setting off the sprinkler system and causing a wet tee-shirt contest just when you're trying to start a feminist movement, not a "HELLO, I'm up HERE" movement.

     I'm a guy, and if you're a guy too there are probably things you used to do that you just can't do anymore, and some of those things you shouldn't have done in the first place. Ladies, you can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm willing to bet that it's never, ever Brad Pitt that's whistling at you. It's a myopic, barely-employed guy with bad skin and food on his shirt that's not from today who is able to whistle so well because he is missing a tooth. Has a "cat call" ever gotten you anywhere with a woman? Has it ever gotten you anywhere with a cat? Even simple affectations are being called into question. Should you still let a lady go first? Only if you promise that your motives are completely honorable and you're not just trying to check her out from every compass point. I held the door for a lady the other day and she gave me an exasperated look. Okay, it was a revolving door but it's the thought that counts.

 

     The problem is that things get complicated, and not all women want the same things. You simply can't always decide for people what they SHOULD want. If you ladies had any sense you'd date a guy who knows how to code, drives a 2008 Honda Accord, uses the same hair conditioner as you and let's you talk now and then. Women always say they want a guy with a good sense of humor, and I like that, too. It took me years to find out that if she laughs at my jokes, she probably doesn't have one. But the fact is that certain women cloud the conversation by hitching themselves to a "Bad Boy." You know the type: a guy with a long, dark wavy hair who rides a motorcycle, has a tattoo of a dragon eating a guy who knows how to code, speaks in monosyllables and has never balanced a checkbook.

     So we still have a ways to go before we've completely worked things out. Should we stop enjoying the work of artists or celebrities who did things that were not nice? We might need to find a way to separate the great works of history from the people who authored them, but it might not always be easy. The answer is always respect. I like to make fun of things, but that doesn't mean I don't respect them.

     Does all this mean that romance is dead? I don't think so. Don't I still speak French to you during those tender moments? Even though it's only English with an Inspector Clouseau accent, not everyone can do it just right. And think of how nice it was when I jumped out of the driver's seat to run around and hold the car door open for you in the rain. Now think of how much nicer it would have been had I remembered to put the car in "park" first. So to all you International Women out there, big and small, old and young, I hereby celebrate you!

ABOVE AVERAGE JOE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-14-19)

     Every weekday morning before work I stop at the coffee cart in front of my office building. The proprietor is a deft multi-tasker and pours me an excellent cup of java, finds two Sweet 'N Lows, adds a small amount of milk and makes my change all while discussing the merits and shortcomings of every member of a certain fifty percent of the species that happens to wander by. For my own part (I'm not under oath or anything), I attempt to educate him on the #MeToo movement, and discuss alternative body-positive imaging philosophies with him.

     Who has the best coffee? Some say Starbucks. There they don't have counter people, they have "baristas," and that fancy name alone will cost you about two extra dollars a cup. They can serve you something called a "Cloud Macchiato," which is a coffee-related substance with a "light, airy 'cloud' of cold milk foam, topped with espresso shots and a caramel drizzle." It sounds more like a weather forecast than a cup of coffee, and just saying the words "Cloud Macchiato" inside a Starbucks will cost you Fourbucks, Tenbucks if you actually order it.

     My wife can't pass by a Dunkin' Donuts without yelling, "DUNKIN' DONUTS!" Meaning that she wants me to stop there but knows I will not, because she hasn't finished that huge cup from the last time we stopped. I think McDonald's actually has great coffee. It's not as hot as it used to be, because a lady sued McDonald's and won $2.7 million back in 1994 because she poured hot coffee onto her crotch and was hospitalized for eight days. I've never spilled hot coffee in my crotch but only because it had never occurred to me, and for that reason I haven't worn white pants since 1994.

     On the weekend I make my own coffee. To make things easier, I purchased an automatic coffee maker that grinds its own beans and then brews a perfect cup of liquid bliss every time, at least according to the ad. When I bought this machine I figured that since it was automatic, it could go up into the mountains of Peru with Juan Valdez, on its own donkey, harvest the coffee beans and figure the rest out on its own. But the coffee maker immediately began to push most of the responsibility back on me, and we had a big argument about it. I'M supposed to get the coffee beans, I'M supposed to set the automatic timer, I'M supposed to change the filter, I'M supposed to put water into the reservoir and I'M supposed to adjust the strength of the brew. There is even a setting for cup size. What do I know about cup size? If I had to guess I would say I wear a size 36 double-A, but I don't want it pinching at my sides.  That's a lot of steps to go through, not the kind of thing I would normally undertake without having a cup of coffee first.

     Restaurants never bring me a hot enough cup of coffee. Unlike the Kardashians, in my opinion there is no such thing as too hot. If I pour the coffee onto my crotch and don't sue you, it's not hot enough. Don't forget to bring the sugar and cream with the coffee, and by the time they arrive the cup is cold again, so I ask them politely to microwave it for me. Don't worry, I leave a 25% tip (on the coffee part of the bill). Now my coffee is back, piping hot, YAY! For some reason the coffee cup has a teeny-tiny handle that is not big enough for me to put my finger through, so I have to hold the cup in my hand, sustaining third degree burns while maintaining my "YAY!" face, because my wife has been looking at me this whole time waiting patiently for me to change into someone else.

     I even had a dog once that actually liked coffee. I know this because I left a cup sitting nearby as I was playing tennis, and she lapped it up without even putting in cream or sugar. My tennis did not improve that day, but my dog started barking in run-on sentences and moved up her entire schedule for the day, which consisted of sleeping, then a short nap, and some rest. After that day she always has a cup of coffee in the morning along with a cigarette and a copy of the New York Times.

     Is all this coffee good for me? YES! Studies have shown coffee drinkers less prone to have type 2 diabetes, Parkinson's disease and dementia. They have fewer strokes and fewer heart rhythm problems. Other studies have shown that statistically, you'll more than likely drop dead after your next cup. The same thing happened with the poison industry, when it came to light that poison was bad for you. The Poison Producer's Association threatened to sue the FDA for millions of dollars, but unfortunately they all passed away before the case went to trial.
 

KEEPING UP UPSTATE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-07-19)

      If you travel about two hours north on the New York State Thruway and then exit the highway, you'll find yourself in an enchanted foreign land. An exotic place where there is less pressure to keep up with the Kardashians. I have to admit, I'm starting to fall behind, their names sound alike and they look alike, so from now on I'm only going to try to keep up with the slower ones. Anyway, the place I'm talking about is called Upstate New York, and it's challenging, beautiful and inscrutable. It's not hard to get here, but if even you're using your GPS you still have to pay attention. There's Route 28, there's Old Route 28, and then there's a Deceased Route 28 out there still drawing Social Security checks. Our GPS said we should turn right at an "Unnamed Road." How hard could it have been to just name the road? Name it "Different But in No Way Inferior Route 28" for all I care. It's like going all the way through the desert on a horse with no name. Just name the damn horse already and let's all have lunch. We went over a bridge that said "Esopus Creek." The second time we passed over Esopus Creek we thought it was an unusual coincidence that there were two Esopus Creeks. Maybe one of them was "Old Esopus Creek?" The third time we figured we might be lost, but the fourth time we realized that Esopus Creek might be lost.

 

      Where I live, a bunch of rusted out pickup trucks on my property is considered an eyesore. I knew a guy that had four Saabs and one wife. The wife and one of the Saabs worked. Then two years later he had no wife but two more Saabs that didn't work, and he considered it an even trade, since the wife wasn't working anymore either. But up here, for some reason, a bunch of junk on a lawn is scenery, and a glimpse into your personal history. As I pass by your house, I can guess the number of people who live there, and whether or not they were ever able to get the hang of jumping on a trampoline or not. I can guess the ages of your kids, since that Big Wheel hasn't moved since 1983.

 

     I've never heard anything about a leash law in these parts, so your dog is on the honor system here. My dog will destroy all your toilet paper rolls if she gets into your house, so you'd better put them under lock and key. And don't let me catch yours on my lawn unless it's pushing a lawnmower. There are owner restraint regulations in my town, so if you live upstate you should put your dog on a 128-mile leash.

 
     I've decided that I need a tractor. If I had one I could do all my tracting in half the time, and spend the rest of my day feeding the livestock. There are a lot of places to buy feed around these parts. Whatever it is you are trying to grow, you can find something to feed it with at the feed store. You can buy 50 pounds of all-grain feed for $14.99, if you're grain isn't growing well enough. if you have a chicken that you are trying to fatten up for tonight's barbecue, feed it the whole bag and you've got yourself a 52-pound chicken. If you have very high standards, consider a 30 lb. tub of Purina Honor Show High Octane Power Fuel for $52.99. I know that's expensive, but it is high octane, so they'll also clean your pet's windshield for free.

 

     There's not as much good pizza up there, but there is a whole lot more good barbecue. I'm sure you could get a kale salad up here, but it seems like precisely the type of thing you're trying to get away from for a little while. If you're looking for a place to stay, there are plenty of motels. The sign in front says "COLOR TV!" Sometimes "HBO!" Or "AIR CONDITIONING!" The air may not always be in mint condition, but speaking for myself (since everyone else thinks I'm nuts) I feel a whole lot more comfortable in a place where the maintenance guy is also the concierge. I even went down to the pool, and it wasn't crowded at all, since it's an outdoor pool.
 
     The subject of politics did not come up. Could these be the same people that handed such a poor specimen the keys to the country? I don't know, but they couldn't have been nicer in person. Proving once again that politics is an unreliable barometer of just about everything. On the way back to the highway we narrowly missed a collision with either a very small coyote or a very large fox. There's no leash law for coyotes either up here, but if that happens to be your scrawny coyote you might want to start him on some Producer's Pride Hog Grower, 50 pounds for $13.99, and he'll be starting at left tackle for the high school football team before you know it.