FOOTBALL ACTS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-10-19)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic


     My dog is afraid of loud noises. One of the loud noises he is afraid of is me yelling at the top of my lungs, "GET HIM!" While six New York Giants chase an opposing quarterback around the pocket on third and long, finally extruding him like a dollop of toothpaste into the flat for a gain of sixteen yards and a first down. Football is back! How I've missed it! The elevated blood pressure, the constant juggling of my schedule, the pre-game excitement, the post-game depression. At first my dog thought I was yelling at him. "Who, me? Get who? The guy running around on TV? What am I supposed to do with him if I do get him?" My dog imagines that I have a closet full of opposing quarterbacks that my previous dogs have captured, and he wants to capture one too because he knows he'll get a treat. "Good boy! There's a quarterback sack in the laundry room, so just put him in there."

     Yes, I love football. I even watch the pre-season games, because I like to see what future bar bouncers and real estate agents look like playing football. The coaches don't want their starting players to appear in pre-season games because they're afraid that they will be injured. So the star quarterback comes in for the coin toss, then he's done for the day, and the rest of us are left trying to evaluate his readiness to start the season. "Did you see the spin he put on that coin? It was like a reverse spiral." "Yes but he didn't toss it very far- do you think something's wrong with his arm?"

     There are a couple rules changes for 2019. For one thing, coaches can now call for a review not only of plays where they thought pass interference should have been called but wasn't, but plays where they thought pass interference shouldn't have been called but was. So up in the review booth you have a group of officials evaluating every pass play. "Back up the tape- did you see what he did with his hand there? He put it right on the guy's bottom." "Inappropriate, yes. But pass interference? I think it was just his way of saying, 'I'm here for you, whatever you decide.'" So they overturn the call after further review. Now I'd like to see the other coach throw the red flag, and see if the same officials vote to come to their senses and reinstate the pass interference call after even farther further review. If they review it any further it will end up in the Monongahela River.

     To all the girls I ever made a pass at in high school, and you interfered with it, I wish there was a group of officials in a booth somewhere to consider whether I actually made a pass at you at all. I was kind of shy, and I automatically assumed I would be turned down, so I just went right to the penalty phase. "In your mind you shot me down when I didn't even say anything to you? Well, I wouldn't date you if you were the last girl left on Earth. Unless you want to, of course."

     Another new rule stipulates that a player can be disqualified on the field for both flagrant "football and non-football acts." I take this to mean that you can get tossed out of a football game for throwing a baseball at somebody. If you want to see a non-football act, just wait until someone scores a touchdown and watch what they do afterward. They used to simply "spike" the ball, meaning they would throw it at the ground really hard, and since a football is a weird shape it would bounce back up and hit somebody in the head who wasn't expecting it. If that wasn't entertaining enough, soon players were not satisfied with how little air time they got to further their "brand," and started to develop more intricate and personalized routines. They began to choreograph complicated production numbers, and now the end zone celebration has evolved into a Taylor Swift video. I imagine a bunch of football players pitching their routine to an off-Broadway promoter. "Is this a football act? Because I just had a bunch of bar bouncers and real estate agents in here claiming they were football players, and I showed them the door." "NO, no, no. This is a NON-football act, and we saw the door when we came in. It's very nice."

     There are still rules, however, because you don't want someone executing a three-pump twerk in the end zone when two pumps would have sufficed. So you can still be penalized for an "offensive demonstration." Excuse me for asking, but isn't the entire offensive line offensive? Nobody says a word about them, until now, ME, you're whistle-blower. Excuse me for asking, but shouldn't the guy on the field who has the whistle be the whistle-blower?

     Even more concerning to me is that a quarterback can throw into double-coverage three times in a row for two interceptions when he's getting paid $12 million dollars a year. That's because there is a common misconception that the more you get paid, the better you should be at your job. If that were true I should be much worse at this job and much better at my day job. And if my boss is reading this, I hope she doesn't think what I just said makes any sense, like usual.

SURELY YOU JOUST

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-03-19)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic


     Now jester minute here! Did I really slay that? Last Sunday we visited the New York Renaissance Faire in Tuxedo, a festival glorifying the middle ages. I may or may not be a Renaissance man, but I'm definitely in my middle-ages, especially if I live to be 120, so I felt right at home. The theme is a curious melange, one-third medieval Europe, one-third fantasy, one-third Dungeons and Dragons, one-third Robin Hood, and one-third inability to understand fractions. For a reasonably-priced all-inclusive admission ticket you can stay entertained by shows and performances for the entire day, but the folks who attend are the real show.

     Last Sunday was "Pirate Weekend," so I was fully prepared with some pirate jokes in case I had to create a distraction if someone tried to shiver my timber. A priest, a rabbi, a pirate and a parrot walk into a bar. I can't remember what happened next, but my guess is neither can they. How did parrots get involved in the privateering game in the first place? Probably somebody with a Southern accent tried to say "pirate" and it came out "parrot," and before you knew it there was one on every ship, repeating everything the captain said. "Avast, ye mateys, get down and SWAB the decks!" "YOU swab the decks." "Who said that?" "YOU said that!" "Now cut that out!" "Go sit on a sea urchin!" By this time the crew is snickering down to the sternpost and the parrot has assumed command of the ship.

     We went over to Roselawn Field, where the Joust was ready to begin- it's one of the highlights of the festival. Attended by an entire court of characters, and after much fanfare, the two principals face each other on horseback. There is some Anglo-Saxon trash talking, the contestants making disparaging remarks about each other and the horse they rode in on, the horses making some snide comments about each other and the knights who rode in on them. On command, they spur their mounts and raise their wooden lances to try and knock a wooden shield off of their opponent's chest at a full gallop. It's a test of skill and daring that I can fully appreciate, because every time I've ever been on a horse it's been hard enough to get it to go, and once gone harder still to get it to stop.

     We hung out at the Fortune Stage for a few songs with the Jackdaws, a trio in period costume singing Irish medieval-flavored songs. "Here's a song about killing the English!" The lead singer cheerfully explained. Through mob incitement he got us all to agree that we would like to kill the English. I personally have nothing against the English, but I don't like the way they spell "tyre" or "centre," so I guess I could go along with it. If they're talking about the English language, no one is killing it faster than Trump and his tweets. If I look at the writings of Trump for more than 20 seconds I start to feel as if I wasted a whole year by attending the fifth grade.

     If you have a special skill you might be able to make some extra cash at the Renaissance Faire. Do you know how to play the autoharp? If it's truly an autoharp it ought to be able to play itself. You know how to work a catapult? There's plenty of time to learn for next year. I know the perfect cat you can pult into enemy territory, and believe me, for the one hour out of twenty-four that this cat is awake, it can do plenty of damage to their furniture. Can you swallow swords? If you can, as god is my witness, you'll never go hungry again at the Renaissance Faire. Even little kids are armed to the teeth. Can you falcon? The practice was popular in medieval Europe as a means to control the rodent population. The falconer flies the falcon, who I'm assuming is the falconee. I'm not sure how the rest of us fit into the equation.

     If you don't know what to wear, just take out a deck of playing cards or a chess set and try to copy the wardrobe. You can buy everything you need right here. If your hourglass figure seems to be running out of time, a figure-flattering bodice can re-distribute the wealth better than a panel of Democrats at a House subcommittee meeting. Have you ever heard of anyone selling Elf Ears? Well you would have heard of it if you had elf ears. You can pick up a paire at the Faire. We browsed around the craft shops on Penny Lane. "Would you like chain mail?" One proprietor asked. No thank you, I have enough of that in my in-box, and I've been putting off not replying to it so I don't get two weeks of bad luck. Do you need an extra skull? Buy a thinner one here if you can't get anything though your thick one.

     All flavors of the rainbow are represented at the Renaissance Faire. Whether you're a swashbuckler or a swish-buckler, whether you're a cis-wench or a trans-wench, you can find a home here. If you're legendary, military, super-scary, really hairy or a day-to-day fairy, nobody will judge you too harshly. Even if you are a heterosexual male you can meet a lovely damsel here, if you don't mind that she has horns coming out of her head. For the Faire is like a Halloween party that goes on for six weekends. You get the feeling that many of the people here are just barely existing for the 44 weeks leading up to it, because they look like they've been living a secret fantasy life for years.

     Alas, the knight was getting long, it was hot and I knew we had a long walk back to the car. I couldn't remember where the car was, but I had taken the precaution of leaving a trail of ice cubes from my soft drink to guide us back to the parking lot, and I was just looking for the first one. Hey, the same kind of thing worked for Hansel and Gretel, and they found their way back to the cottage AND came up with a couple new recipes on the same day.

SHRED IT OR FORGET IT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-26-19)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     No instrument has captured the essence, energy and evolution of rock and roll music like the electric guitar. Over the geological eons of rock history, the stage personality of each member has been carved out even before they joined the band. The drummer is the goofy one. What is the difference between a drummer and a savings bond? One will mature and make money. The bass player is the quiet one. Just ask one and he probably won't tell you the same thing. The keyboard player is a bit of a milquetoast, if you ask me, running around tickling the ivories. The guitarist? He's the guy the lead singer is looking at enviously, waiting for him to make a mistake so that his envy can turn to scorn. The guitarist is the one looking blissfully at the heavens, his fingers moving skillfully over the fretboard, coaxing mellifluous melodies from a 8-pound piece of ash hewn roughly into the shape of a woman.

     When an engineer at the Gibson Guitar Company named Lloyd Loar started experimenting with sound amplification by mounting an electro-magnetic coil of wire underneath the strings of a viola, things changed for future generations of teenage males who had plenty of manual dexterity but little chance of capturing the imagination of the fairest of the fairer sex. They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and when the mother of invention found out that playing guitar was just a way to impress girls, invention was grounded for two weeks.

     Last Thursday night I went with my friend Errol to see one of the best, electric guitar virtuoso Frank Gambale, at Daryl's House in Pawling. I found out about Gambale due to Errol's great taste in guitarists, and I met Errol because of his great taste in local journalists. Errol is a guitarist too, and I'm struggling along myself, trying to learn the instrument after 45 years of playing it. I first started playing the electric guitar at about 14 years-old when I heard "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones and realized that the song started with a guitar part that was only three notes. I learned those three notes, then spent the next five years trying to figure out what to do during the rest of the song. I couldn't have found a worse teacher in Frank Gambale, since the resemblance between his guitar playing and mine is the like comparing apples that can play a guitar to oranges that cannot.

     You want to see a knock-down, drag-out fight in Congress? Table the budget and tell them that they cannot adjourn for recess until they figure out who was the greatest guitarist of all time. "Clapton? Are you kidding me? He couldn't hold a candle to Jimi Hendrix!" "Well that's because the guy always had lighter fluid all over his guitar! The damn thing was a fire hazard!" "What about Chuck Berry? He invented all those riffs AND played them while doing a duck walk! If it walks like a duck-" "I got TWO words for you: STEVIE... RAY... VAUGHAN. I don't have to say anything more. But I'm a politician, so give me about 20 minutes to rattle on regarding some unrelated extraneous crap." "Eddie Van Halen literally revolutionized the guitar solo under almost intolerable conditions: putting up with David Lee Roth. And I bet he could have done it while walking like a duck, but for reasons of personal dignity chose not to." "Prince played a guitar shaped like a punctuation mark, played it amazingly, and still managed to look cool while wearing that Aunt Jemima thing on his head." "Duane Allman played a million great guitar licks and never once got his hair caught in the strings. You know how hard that is?" "If there is a better guitarist on this Earth than Jimmy Page, may a bolt of lightning come down from the heavens and strike you dead right now. By the way, if there actually is a better guitarist and you are struck dead, I apologize in advance."

     What makes a great guitarist great? My criteria have changed over the years. When I was in high school I loved to hear a lead break that was so fast that I could play it on my car stereo and not catch up to it in fifth gear. As I've matured, I've come to appreciate a solo that is melodic enough to hum in the shower. Every one of George Harrison's leads sound really good soaking wet. I want to hear a solo that enhances the dynamics of the song. And I want to know that the guitarist is making a weird face while playing it.

     Frank Gambale riffed on, as we mortals watched in amazement. His fingers performed a triple full twist, double flip and then stuck the landing. I turned to Errol and said, "You think playing thirty-second notes is so difficult? I play a note, and then thirty seconds later I'm ready to play another one, and it all comes right out my f-hole."

     I've been refining my guitar sound to use more effects that will effectively obscure the fact that I can't play. I don't use echo, because if I do you're going to hear the same mistakes twice. But I keep practicing. Sometimes I picture myself closing the show at Woodstock. Half a million people are all looking at me, waiting for my solo. Most of them are soaking wet, putting more pressure on me. If I disappoint them, they probably couldn't smell any worse, but that's not the point. I play, I shred, I conquer, and afterwards the crowd is stunned. All you can see for miles around is smoke and flames rising from the stage. "Dude! You burned your guitar like Jimi Hendrix?" "Well actually, the crowd banded together and burned it, but the end result was the same."

BIG DAY FOR SMALL BUSINESS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-19-19)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

Big day for small business
     It feels good to live in a town where people aren't afraid to come out and get together for an afternoon of self-celebration. Last Saturday the Somers Chamber of Commerce organized such an event and closed car traffic to the Towne Centre so that we could meet some of the people behind the small businesses that make each town unique and give a community its character.

     I was escorted by my four-legged friend Gidget, who loves small business. Sometimes when I take her out to "do her business," she takes so long to find just the right location to make her business successful that I think she must be quite a businesswoman. Going anywhere with Gidget is a time-consuming endeavor, because everyone wants to pat "The Most Prettiest Dog in the World." She was exhausted by the time she got home, but she had made a lot of friends. There hasn't been so much petting since my sophomore year in high school. We walked by all the booths, soaking in the sunny day, drifting through the crowd, saying hi to acquaintances and trying to figure out which direction the pizza was coming from.

     I ambled over to the Somers Women's Club to see if I could join, but I was not accepted even though my credentials are impeccable. The Library Foundation was here, and I wanted to ask them what was holding the library up if the foundation was over here. I'm often asked to be quiet at libraries, and most other places. There was a loose tooth loitering around near the orthodontist's booth, which had to be led around by a human because it couldn't see too well, so it obviously wasn't an eye-tooth.

     I was chatting with Eileen and her dog, who almost became a seeing-eye dog for blind people. Not all dogs make it through the rigorous four-phase training program, but all dogs who attempt it come out better for it. What I really need is a hearing-ear dog to watch television with me. I always have to ask my wife what's going on in the show because I keep the sound very low so I can't hear the commercials. Bark once if the husband killed her, bark twice if it was somebody she didn't know. Hmmm... That's what I thought.

     There were demonstrations by martial arts and exercise groups, performances by dance teams, and a DJ kept everything moving along. I remember when I was a substitute disc jockey for WAER when I was at Syracuse, working the overnight shift when somebody called in sick. I had a captive audience of ne'er-do-wells who couldn't have had any legitimate reason for being awake at four in the morning. I was the only one there, so if you heard "Stairway to Heaven" that means I had to go to the bathroom.

     By mistake I wandered into the area where the cheerleaders were about to perform. I got out of there just in time before I had to do any high kicks, but I think I could have held my own. Certainly no one else seemed willing to hold it. But since then I've been practicing some routines in case the same thing happens to me next year. Let me know what you think of this. It starts with, "Give me an 'I!'" Yes, I know that there's no "I" in Somers, but you never heard of "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?" You can mine a lot of great cheers from the Old Testament, and I can get the tooth from over at the orthodontist's tent.

     I'm not sure why so many bees are attracted to small business, but there were quite a few of them flying around. They say you can catch more bees with honey than you can with vinegar, but be careful because the bees may be employing a similar strategy. I started to feel a little like a rhododendron, and I think I may have been cross-pollinated.

     My friend Lise had just signed up with the Somers Litter Task Force. They gave her a 20-inch litter grabber, locked and loaded, and she looked like she wasn't afraid to use it. She says she sees litter everywhere she goes, and come to think of it so do I, especially near the laundry room where the cat box is. What is the take-away from all this? Just about everything if you have a 20-inch litter grabber. If I know Lise, and you're on the couch buried in your cell phone, either you better have done your homework or be sitting 21 inches away.

     Small business is the backbone of our economy, and everybody behind a booth last Saturday started with the dream of doing it their own way. The odds against you are high, and success takes work, commitment and a little luck. When I think that Richard Branson dropped out of high school and yet became a billionaire, I realize that I have that same kind of dedication since I graduated high school with a 1.7 grade-point average.

     We wandered through the streets, alone, a man and his dog, some bees, a tooth, four girl scouts and two slices of pizza, like something out of a novel. By the way, what do you think of my novel so far?