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.