LIVE MUSIC IS BACK

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-16-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I might have mentioned this before, but I'm a volunteer usher at the Tarrytown Music Hall. It's a really fun gig where you can take in some great shows and help a non-profit organization service the community. Try it yourself! You'll attend an orientation to learn about the oldest theater in Westchester, and what your duties will be. You'll need to pass a background check, but anything that happens in the foreground is between you, me and the lamppost. Thankfully, you must be vaccinated and wear a mask while you're attending the theater during these contagious times, so we don't all have to sit six feet apart and not breathe very much. I'm looking forward to the day when you can see the sardonic smile under my mask so that you know when I was just kidding.

     The Music Hall was built in 1885 by confection mogul William L. Wallace. It was built in the Queen Anne style, and if you squint your eyes it looks just like her. Wallace was a chocolatier, which I fancy as something of a swashbuckler, with a hat with a feather in it and maybe a sword, a chocolate cigarette dangling from his mouth.

     During the early 1900s the Music Hall was home to extravagant flower shows, where barons of industry living in the "Millionaire's Colony" that was Tarrytown competed against each other in a botanical battleground. We'll never know if Jay Gould's lilies were lilier than John D. Rockefeller's candy tufts, but I wouldn't want to lose to that bunch of pansies that Vanderbilt showed up with.

     It was saved from the wrecking ball in the 1970s by the Ringeisen family, who started a non-profit organization to transform it into a lively music venue. It's an intimate theater, and I've certainly said some things to it that I wouldn't say to just any theater that I didn't have that kind of relationship with. I feel like I could walk around in my bathrobe there, but don't worry, I can never remember where I left my bathrobe.

     As a patron you can become a member of the Music Hall, and get the first crack at tickets and other neat perks. Even a drink and a candy bar brought to you in your seat, and I would be honored to serve you. Last week I was a glorified waitress, and I enjoyed every minute of it because I got to interact with the guests a little and thank them for supporting the theater. I say waitress because as long as I'm glorifying myself I could always use a new pair of Louboutins.

     Sometimes people try to breeze right past me to the balcony, they figure they know the alphabet and how to count. I envy those skills certainly, but what they don't know is how weirdly the seats are numbered. Plus, sometimes the seat numbers are on your right armrest, sometimes your left. If you didn't make it to calculus in high school you'd better let me show you to your seat. I can do it quickly and efficiently, but I wasn't always a seasoned veteran....

     I had to find the right flashlight first. The flashlight isn't just a light source to an usher, it's a means of expression. I can say more with my flashlight than I can in a 900-word column, and it would have saved us all some time if I did that right now. I started out with a flashlight that had 5 illumination modes: 1.) Dim beam, for seeing at things by mistake that you don't really give a crap about. 2.) Slightly brighter, for things your wife tells you to look for but you aren't really interested in finding; low-calorie desserts, spiders and the remote control (when a perfectly good James Bond movie is already on) would fall into that category. 3.) High beam, for shining out the back of your car when someone is following you too closely with his brights on. 4.) Slow-distress-signal mode, which flashes at a leisurely rate when you're not in a huge hurry to be rescued. Being held against your will at a gentleman's club is a good example. 5.) Fast-distress-signal mode, which frantically lets anyone and everyone know that they ran out of beer at the gentleman's club. When I finally had the right flashlight setting I still couldn't make out the numbers on your ticket because I couldn't find my glasses. But they were resting on top of my head, and once I woke them up I got you to your seat without any further ado.

     I'm all sorted out now, so take a look at the schedule and get some tickets for you and your date or your kids. Until then, aisle be seating you in all the old, familiar places. Enjoy the show!

PLAYING FOR KEEPS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-09-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I was out and about last weekend and stopped by a local drinking establishment to hear some live music. I was pleasantly surprised to hear a semi-jazzy quartet with some very fine players, and a couple alternating vocalists on hand when needed. I thought I recognized one of the guitarists, and I won't mention his name in case he owes anybody money (Bernie Williams). I'll just say it like this: I've been in a lot of bands in my day, even at night, and I've played with many talented lead guitarists. Has any of them ever won a batting title? A World Championship? One stinking gold glove? I've been the first bassman in many of those bands and I haven't either.

     People will sometimes tree a celebrity when she's out just trying to unwind and have a little fun, or hound him for an autograph. It's as if people feel that the time they invested adoring someone entitles them to a proportional amount of annoyance. What do people actually do with someone's signature on a slightly used napkin? I've put my own signature plenty of places I shouldn't have, and lived to regret it. I once won a box of Wheaties with Michael Jordan's picture on it and also his autograph. I've kept it for 20 years thinking that it might be worth something and I still have it, even though there have been hungry breakfast episodes with nothing in the fridge when that box of stale Wheaties would have been worth more to me than a stale autograph.

     You probably won't believe this but I'm a little shy, and I could never go up to a celebrity and start chatting away or ask for an autograph. But I wanted to say something nice to Bernie Williams, because I have great respect for him as a Yankee (not just as a baseball player), and a newfound appreciation for him as a musician. I wanted to ask just one simple question: "Hey Mr. Williams may I call you Bernie how about Mr. Bernie are you bald by choice if so who's choice I loved you as a center-fielder maybe not loved you but you know what I mean and is it harder to catch the ball with a gold glove how does it feel to have your own monument I guess it must be monumental ha ha and did you ever want to step on Steinbrenner's toe sort of by mistake and was it hard to leave the game I'm not talking about the traffic and do you find it just as rewarding to have a hit on guitar as at bat and did I leave anything out?" And I picture him answering politely, "Yes."

     If I were Bernie Williams I would have been just as tongue-tied meeting Bruce Springsteen, who performed "Glory Days" with him on his second record. Every athlete secretly wants to be a performer, and every performer secretly wishes they were an athlete. And by secretly I mean they are sometimes overheard secretly yelling, "I WISH I WAS AN ATHLETE!" The other guys on my doubles court are kind of sick of hearing me yell that myself, but they secretly wish I was an athlete too. 

     Bernie Williams has had the best of both worlds, and it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Sometimes you hear of an athlete who is constantly in the news, doing or saying something embarrassing, usually while dressed in a loud, ill-fitting suit with idiotic-looking tattoos (the athlete not the suit). And my wife will say, "Here's a guy who has everything, why does he need to be such a jerkwad?" And I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, because an athlete has to always believe that he's better than everyone else in order to keep a competitive edge. Bernie Williams may believe he is better than everyone else too, I have no idea. But I never once saw him act in any other way but with dignity and class, and I never once saw him in a loud, ill-fitting suit either. And if he has an idiotic-looking tattoo I would guess he's having second thoughts about it.

     "Glory Days" might be an apt phrase for so many ball-players who could not fathom that the team didn't pick up the final year of their contract. They might struggle with residual pains from injuries they got while making a play that no one remembers anymore, and they might miss the roar of fans as they walked onto the field. But you can't do any better after you retire from a job you love than to be able to express yourself in an entirely different way and yet say just as much.

SCORPIO CELEBRATIONS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-02-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     My wife has one of the zillions of mid-November birthdays, and if you have one too, you can probably thank your elementary school teacher. Why, you ask? Because nine months prior to mid-November is mid-February, and that's when Valentine's Day works its insidious magic. I had a crush on Mrs. Franz, my third grade teacher, and I was making her a very special card, with a heart and red glitter on it which I affixed with paste. So much paste that I pasted the card to the desk and it might still be there, and I was about to start over when I heard her say that we had to make one for everyone in the class.

     I had no time for romance because I had to mass-produce about 20 of those damn cards without pasting my eyelids together. So when you wish your November baby a happy birthday, remember that they probably got their start on one of those fateful Valentine's Day evenings, and it all began with some red construction paper and glitter.

     Anyway, we celebrated the event with my other November birthday friend Phil and his girlfriend Athina for the weekend at a lovely inn called Buttermilk Falls in Milton, New York. Thankfully they chose the accommodations, because I usually pick a place where people tend not to holiday at so much as hole up in, after committing a felonious act or two while on parole. We passed a place along the way called "Budget Inn" which I could have budgeted right in between a tank of gas and a pack of Slim Jims, but it sure is nice to stay at a place once in a while that doesn't have any duct tape visible in the room that isn't being used specifically for ducts.

     There is a resident farm there, and the grounds are host to a small herd of alpacas formerly owned by the granddaughter of department store tycoon John Nordstrom. An alpaca is similar to a llama, but smaller in size and less prone to spitting, but more likely to smoke. In the word "llama" the first "l" is silent, like the second "a" in "aardvark," which also has an "l" that is not only silent, but also invisible. The English language is a mystery that is often better solved after several cocktails.

     There were a few goats on the farm who were quite friendly, and if I had brought  a deck of cards with me and a six pack of beer I would have hung out with them longer. There is also an aviary with peacocks, hens and roosters, and an apiary with bees flying around. They are free to come and go as they please, so don't go walking around with your pistil hanging out if you're not in a flirtatious mood. Any one of these would have made a great car insurance spokes-animal, but my wife was most excited of all when she saw a house cat. Maybe someday they could add a cat-iary. We strolled around making friends for a good long while.

     There is a great restaurant on the premises, one I also probably wouldn't have chosen if left to my own devices. Even though the food is always really good at a good restaurant, I have to look around to make sure nobody is snapping a picture at the exact moment when I get the bill because I'm probably making the same face I make when Joe Namath pops up on a Medicare Advantage policy commercial. I'll admit it was worth it.

     There is a spa there, and you can treat yourself to a massage overlooking the majestic Hudson River if you like. I can't get a massage because I'm so ticklish that masseurs find it insulting to work on me. A masseur would really have to try and hurt me to get me to stop laughing, and I guess that would run counter to his professional ethic. My friends say, why don't you indulge yourself? Even though they know how self-indulgent I already am. Even if I wasn't ticklish, I heard what they do at the spa, putting hot oils and stones on you, and chemical peels and waxing. How far is water-boarding from that? Do they expect me to talk? All they have to do is ask me not to talk.

     So if you have a birthday coming up, give me a call and I'll take you on a wonderful weekend getaway. I'll choose the accommodations. Are you familiar with the Bates Motel? It's a fine establishment with plenty of wildlife right in the room. WiFi is free if you know how to hack. There is a racoon-iary by the waste bins and to use the whirlpool tub just lift the seat. I can't wait to see your face on your special day! 

A WING AND A PRAYER

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-25-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic


     For your sake I hope not, but you might be thinking the same thing I am: how is that damned supply chain going to screw up my Thanksgiving this year? I'm perfectly capable of screwing any holiday up just fine all by myself without any help from the supply chain. The good news is that I've never had something so convenient and pervasive to blame things on before, and I'm making pretty good use of it. I missed the easiest overhead on the doubles tennis court the other day, and I blamed it on the supply chain. "Did you see that shot?" I complained. "I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I can't get good tennis balls right now because they come from the Azores, and nothing is flying in or out of there for the last 15 months." My opponent correctly pointed out, "You've been missing the same easy overhead for 20 years and your balls never had anything to do with it until today."

     One thing you might not get this year is the proper sized turkey for your gathering. If you ordered it from Turkey, there is a labor shortage there right now. Last Thanksgiving no one was really in the mood to fly and family gatherings were smaller. So we were able to find more paltry poultry, enough to feed ourselves and a few vegans with an iron deficiency. This year however, our group is going to be considerably larger, and unless we order that bird right now, I picture it sitting in a shipping container somewhere off the coast of San Diego for three weeks, waiting for President Biden to get out there in a pair of overalls and unload it with a cargo hook.

     This year, for some weird reason related to the supply chain, you can only get big turkeys. I don't know if my family is going to be large enough for all those giblets. I might have to invite family members I barely remember, like, say, my first cousin once-removed. Hopefully he wasn't removed for anything serious. I'm going to need a bigger dining room table, but it's impossible to get dining room tables these days because they come primarily from Vietnam, and I'm not sure if we ever actually ended the war with them.

     I see turkeys in the woods sometimes on our property, and maybe one will just walk over and plop himself in my oven where it's nice and warm. I'll leave the door open with a note about how to turn on the light. Once it does it's just a matter of getting my family to arrive from various points of the compass, but I picture them sitting in a shipping container off the coast of San Diego. The ones who are coming by airplane have it the worst. Flying these days is not for the faint-of-heart, and that's why it seems like only the annoying-of-heart are in an airplane right now. The airlines are understaffed, cancellations are rampant and travelers are on their last frayed nerve. It's hard to get a five year-old to wear a mask, and even harder to get an adult who acts like a five year-old to wear one. I feel sorry for flight attendants, who were already part aviation expert, part usher, part waitress, and I guess you can add part bouncer to the list now.

     Tom Hayes, the CEO of Ocean Spray has warned that while cranberries will be abundant this year, the prices will be higher due to an increased cost of plastic and aluminum. And I just know that if I can find cranberries that don't contain plastic and aluminum, it will somehow cost even more.

     There are workarounds, of course. One obvious answer is to outsource some or all of your dinner to a local restaurant. It helps them out during this difficult period, and leaves you more time to argue with your family about how rarely they visit, even though all you do is argue when they visit. This solution kills two birds with one stone, three counting the turkey. If you need stuffing, try old newspapers. Be creative with the vegetables. Brussels sprouts are plentiful this season, if you think your family doesn't visit quite rarely enough.

     They're sorry for your inconvenience, but companies are going to have to pass all these delays, shortfalls and price increases along to the consumer. They're passing just about everything they don't like along to the consumer, and we're going to get stuck with it unless we can think of someone else to pass it along to. I plan to be consuming plenty this Thanksgiving, and the only thing I want someone to pass along to me is the gravy.

PLEASED TO MEAT YOU

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-18-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I hate the fact that even before Halloween, sometime after Labor Day, advertisers are already making you feel guilty for not getting moving on your Christmas shopping. I feel guilty enough that I'm a little late for last year's Christmas shopping. Even worse, important dates that are sandwiched in between are being lost in the shuffle. National Sandwich Day, for instance, which is celebrated November 3rd. 

     In prehistoric times man slapped a small stegosaurus in between two rocks for lunch, and although it provided traces of iron, didn't taste very good. The invention of mayonnaise was an improvement, and when numbers were discovered and seven ate nine, the development of the sandwich began in earnest.

     One story attributes the popularization of the modern sandwich to Lord John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich. Rumor had it that Montagu led something of a profligate lifestyle, and when gambling did not like to leave the table. He ordered his servant to bring him a snack that he could eat easily during the game, and he returned with some meat between two slices of bread. That way the Earl could hold the snack from the footman in one hand and his hand in the other hand. Thus the "sandwich" was born, although if the story is true it should have been called the "footwich" since it was the footman who thought of it. How many important innovations were invented while eating lunch during a poker game? I myself have terrible luck gambling and if it was me I would have lost the hand, my entire stake AND the sandwich, but at least I would have invented the stake sandwich. 

     Further along the historical timeline, in 2006, Massachusetts Superior Court Judge Jeffery Locke ruled that a burrito is not a sandwich. I could have told you that and I would have charged a lot less, but nobody ever tried to tell me that a burrito WAS a sandwich. The boundaries of what is called a "sandwich" are being stretched all the time. I read that at the Budapest Burger King they didn't understand the concept of a "veggie burger," and would serve you two slices of tomato and some lettuce on a bun. In their defense, I don't understand the concept either.

     Some restaurants put whatever they want in between two pieces of whatever they want and add "wich" to the title, as if "wich" means "two pieces of whatever they want." Americans love to butcher language that way. Decades ago a scandal occurred at the Watergate Hotel, and now it's common practice to add "gate" to any word, so that everybody knows it's a scandal. And ever since the "alcoholic" came to describe compulsive drinkers, you can now add "oholic" to any compulsive behavior, as though "work-oholics" are addicted to "work-ohol."

     An astute reader named Tom wrote me and suggested that I single out and possibly embarrass the olive loaf, which I will be happy to do. There are some things I would never even try, based on the name alone, and olive loaf is one of them. Tongue is another; why would I ever try tasting something that could taste me back? I could run the risk of liking it much less than it likes me, and then what? Another is corned beef. I love corn and I love beef, but if they want to get together, let them get their own house- while they're under my roof they'll live by my rules.

     I have some strict opinions about sandwiches, which I would be surprised if you were surprised by. I like my ham so thinly sliced that you can see through it. If the guy at the deli slicer holds it up, looks through it and says, "Oh. You're still here, I guess," then I tell him to wrap me up three fifths of a pound, and we can all see how well he did on his math SAT. I like lots of mayonnaise, some Swiss cheese and I eat it on a toasted English muffin so crunchy that it makes a big mess all over the poker table and even the Earl of Sandwich wouldn't invite me back. 

     John Montagu achieved the title of Postmaster General, First Lord of the Admiralty and Secretary of State. And yet he will probably be forever best remembered for being hungry while winning big. If I had been there at the time I might have asked for some chips to go with the sandwich. And then I would have been forever best remembered for inventing the poker chip, instead of being remembered for what I probably will be remembered for, which is about 20 minutes or so.

CAT TALES

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-11-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     If you didn't know that October 29th was National Cat Day, and you didn't get your cat a present, and today that really good book you had almost finished is shredded into a million pieces, now you know why. A cat is a cute, cuddly, furry, friendly, curious, inscrutable, somewhat dangerous, evil, diabolical, devil-worshiping, homicidal bundle of joy, and last Wednesday was his day to shine.

     I always seem to have a cat, and I'm not really sure myself why I like them, if I indeed even do. I think it has to do with the fact that inside a cat's brain there are many lobes and cortexes and synapses, and not one of them is on speaking terms with the others. There is something about the way a cat is wired that seems like it might not be up to code. Every cat I've ever known did something weird, and no matter how embarrassing it was to either of us, was oddly unapologetic about it.

     I had a Siamese cat that used to eat holes in your sweater as if it was a moth. Did you ever see anyone in Siam wearing a sweater? I didn't think so. I had what's known as a "tuxedo cat," which used to enjoy shinnying up your entire body with its claws and perching on your shoulder, which was disconcerting but at least it was impeccably dressed. Once he did it to a contractor that had come to install new windows, and I can't help thinking that we paid more than we should have for those windows. And I had another cat who used to like to play the piano. He wasn't very good at it but he was definitely better than me. The cat I have now (there might be more than one of them) pretends to hate me during the day and at night likes to nestle next to me only if no one else is looking, just like a girl I used to know in high school. I once had a cat that had six toes, whom I guess would have been better at the piano.

     My dog will fetch a tennis ball once in a while, although she won't bring it back to you. A dog is focused on the thing it's playing with, trying to remember what the rules are. But a cat is out there racking it's brain to find a game to beat YOU in. It's making up the rules, then not playing by them. It's personal. My wife has a particular chair that she likes because it's comfortable and easy on her back. The cat has zero interest in that chair the 99 percent of the time that my wife doesn't want to sit in it. For the other one percent, the cat will figure out a way to get into that chair. The go-to move is to use the litter box so vigorously that civilized societal norms dictate that my wife leave the chair to go clean it.

     I had another cat when I was growing up who, if you stared into its eyes, would charge directly at you like a deranged psychopath off his medication, and just when your life had finished flashing in front of you, wold stop and give you that "Aw, I was just messing with you" look. It was surprising both how disturbingly dark that cat's moods were, and boring my life was when it flashed in front of me.

     For once I would like to have a cat that was evil, yes, but not to me. I picture one like Blofeld's Persian cat in the James Bond movie, that sits on my lap and sometimes I let her push the button that drops Bond into the alligator pit, and we both share a laugh over it. Or maybe a cat that torments the moles that are digging up my lawn, and brings me one as a gift. I say, "I'll unwrap it later, because it's kind of gross," and we both share a laugh over it. Or maybe the cat and the mole figure out a way to pay the real estate taxes directly from my bank account and get themselves listed as tennants-in-common owners of my property, have me evicted and share a good laugh over it. See what happens? All cats will eventually come for you, but it does keep you on your claws.

     If I ever catch up with Charles Darwin, he's got a lot of explaining to do about his stupid theories. For instance, If he were here right now he would probably be spouting that crap about homo sapiens being at the top of the food chain. I'm a homo myself, and I get up at 6:00 AM, work 12 hours a day including the commute, pay for the dry cleaning, make dinner and pick up everything the cat knocks over. Felis catus sleeps on the couch for 22 hours out of the day, wears the same outfit all the time, gets all meals for free and licks whatever he wants, whenever he wants. YOU tell ME who won evolution.

OLD SCHOOL RULES FOR GHOULS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-04-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 
     When you're out trick-or-treating do you ever think about WHY you're doing it? For the candy, of course, is the short answer to the $100,000 Bar question. The longer answer is a mish-mosh of religious ritual, superstition and modern embellishment. Some of the traditions that we now celebrate as Halloween can be traced to Samhain, a Celtic observance dating back to the 10th century. Held on November first, it marked the beginning of the "darker months," a day when communion with the netherworld was thought to be easier.

     When the Romans conquered much of Europe, All Saints Day was already on November first and their version of Samhain moved up a day to become known as All Hallows Eve, or Halloween. Dressing up as ghosts or fairies was a way of bridging the distance between this world and the next, and honoring the dead. How we got from that to the "sexy dentist" costume is just America working its magic.

     The practice of trick-or-treating possibly evolved from the practice of leaving food or gifts in a sacrifice as thanks for a successful harvest. A recent poll found that "Sour Patch Kids" is the most popular 2021 Halloween candy in six states. Here I'd like to point out that if I were a god, I would not be thrilled by that as a gift, and you should expect to see some wilted crops next year, and possibly a plague of locusts. Did you happen to notice that the cicadas came this year? This should prick up the ears of anyone who gave out Sour Patch Kids as a Halloween treat last year. I feel a certain responsibility to inform the public about things like this.

     Some of what we do around holidays seems pretty random. Bobbing for apples? I just don't see me putting my whole face in a tub of cold water and the prize is a wet apple that already has the teeth marks of someone with worse aim. Maybe if the payoff was a little more in line with the possibility of ruining my hair I'd give it a try. What about bobbing for magnesium-alloy wheel rims, or bobbing for insurance vouchers?

     Yes, there are some new rules about Halloween, like you shouldn't appropriate other peoples' ethnic identities by dressing up in goofy versions of their costumes. If you're not Native American, it's not as nice these days to traipse around in a headdress waving a tomahawk at people. If you ARE Native American, then it's not exactly a costume so you shouldn't wear it on Halloween either. Trick-or-treating is tricky these days. Once I dressed up like one of the Beatles, but I wasn't actually one of the Beatles, so it was probably culturally inappropriate and I hope I didn't hurt anybody's feelings.

     You're probably wondering how all this relates to the fact that my next-door neighbor Dave's parents made him this great "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" costume out of a refrigerator box, and I hounded my parents day and night but they refused to buy a new refrigerator just so I could have a really great Halloween costume. I don't know why, because our refrigerator was so old that there were fossilized spare ribs in the back of the freezer from the Cretaceous period. I was left to fashion my usual "hobo" outfit, which was basically whatever I wore to school the day before with a few extra rips and more dirt than usual rubbed into the knees. Dressed thus you really could believe that we were the only poor people living in Chappaqua who could not afford a new refrigerator.

     Halloween has definitely done a 180-degree turn over the centuries, evolving from a dark, pagan observance in service of the dead to a light-hearted excuse for a party with people whose identity you won't find out until they either remove their costumes, or you read about them the next day in the police blotter.

     Appropriately, there are at least two black cats that live in my house, and I can see why people are superstitious about them. If you consider something that throws up on your newspaper fairly often to be bad luck, then I sympathize with you. In their defense, a lot of what I read in newspapers makes me want to do the same thing. I wouldn't waste your time being afraid of them, though. If they cross your path it only means you're standing in front of the food bowl.

MISSED MANNERS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-28-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I was leaving somewhere recently with friends, and without speaking, in a familiar dance, we almost came to blows because everyone wanted to hold the door open for the others, and no one wanted to proceed through it. It's literally a rite of passage, and it made me wonder why we still bother with such archaic niceties. Thank goodness it wasn't a revolving door or it could have been much worse. 

     Many customs that are accepted behavior today were related to simple survival when they were conceived. "Ladies first" probably originated back in the Stone Age, when you brought your wooly rhinoceros back to the cave, and all the knuckledraggers from next door heard about it and rained a hail of rocks and crudely-designed arrows towards your entrance. You tell your family, "We're going to have to get out of here. Honey, I'll get the door. After YOU." And you courteously wave your arm towards the great outdoors.

     Or possibly in the heyday of maritime travel. By the time the Titanic sank, "women and children first" was the order of the day. "Crew, man the lifeboats. Women and children, into the water you go and the rescue officers will pick you up. And let us know if the water is totally freezing, or if it's doable."

     I haven't figured out why people say "bless you" when you sneeze. You can ordinarily recover from sneezing without the blessings of others, whereas coughing might be more problematic and in need of a quick invocation. I'm allergic to cats, and I can sneeze 20 times in a row before the cat leaves to go lick something. You might count my blessings once or twice, but after that you'll probably cut me loose bless-less. Incidentally the cat sneezes a lot too and may be allergic to me.

     There are a lot of table manners to keep track of, too. My wife is always telling me, "Don't talk with your mouth open." I say, "I thought it was 'don't talk with your mouth full?'" She answers, "Okay, well maybe it's better to err on the side of caution." There are quite a few forks and spoons on the table, and they might look exactly the same, but don't be churlish and try to eat salad with a fork that was not designed specifically for that purpose.

     Don't put your elbows on the table. Already there's a thigh of turkey, a rump roast, a rack of lamb, meatballs and a breast of chicken on the table. My elbows are about the most polite body part on there, but whatever. Someone asked me to pass them a dinner roll, and even though I put it right between the numbers with a perfect spiral, everyone gave me a dirty look.

     Chivalry is just the kind of thing that will make me look bad in front of the Queen. I'm on my way to a dinner at the Queen of England's house with a Damsel in Distress by my side, and of course it's pouring outside. "Look at dis dress," she says, "it's going to be ruined if I walk through that puddle!" Without a second thought (I can't share what the first one was) I take off my jacket and spread it on the ground, and she walks over it, sinks in the mud, ruins her dress and starts crying her eyes out. Being a gentlemen I extend her my handkerchief and she blows her nose in it a few times and hands it back. I offer her a cigarette to calm her nerves. "Take one, they're quite bad for you." I don't smoke so I'm trying to get rid of them. She lights it and goes back to the car even more distraught because she doesn't smoke either. When I get to the Queen's house she gives me a disgusted look, more disgusted than the one she usually gives me, and I see that she's looking at the muddy jacket with the snotty handkerchief sticking out, and I'm pretty sure she's not grasping how polite I am.

     I always laugh when I remember seeing photos of Trump in the rain with someone holding an umbrella over him while Melania tags along behind him with beautiful wet hair. If anyone can show us the way out of the era of all this annoying common courtesy, THIS is the leader that can DO it! Until then, I'll still hold the door open for for you, but I might also rudely interrupt the conversation with a joke that only I thought was funny.

 

WINNING WAYS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-21-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Just to get out of the house we decided to check out the Mohegan Sun casino in Uncasville, Connecticut. The easiest part of going to the casino is finding out roughly where it is. You can drive yourself into the vicinity using a GPS, but then you've got to park your car and get to the actual building, and that's the hard part. I don't like leaving my car with a valet, because what if everyone goes bust at the same time and they besiege the valet? Then it will be like every wedding I've ever gone to, where you appraise the guests and try to game the moment at the end of the night when they've talked to everyone they know and danced as if no one was watching and they're looking around for where they left their tie or shoes, and you try to beat them to the car park, but you can't remember where you left your tie and shoes. Plus, don't you recall a Cheech and Chong movie where they're valets but instead of parking the car they take it to the La Brea Tar Pits and then come back following a truck carrying chickens with loose feathers and end up in a hail storm? I don't either but there are a lot of things from those times that I don't recall.

     So I finally find the self-park garage, and I drive up three levels, and I only see "EXIT" signs that look like they go around in circles, and still nothing that says "ENTER." The garage at Mohegan Sun has a sign that lights up and says "SPACE 12,692 AVAILABLE," and I picture 12,691 cars ahead of me all racing to get to that space. It makes me wish Cheech and Chong were here so we could all drive around in my car looking for the La Brea Tar Pits.

     But there are spaces on the rooftop, and we finally park and take the elevator and walk down a hallway for about 15 minutes. And when we make it to a map that says "You Are Here" we have no idea how we got there. We're already exhausted and hungry, easy marks for the croupier that I imagine is leering at us from the "eye in the sky." "Those two are mine," he gnars, "HA HA HA ha ha!" Villains in the movies find the least thing amusing.

     We're trying to decide where to eat, but there are so many choices. It's like using the remote control on my cable box, where I start at Channel 2 and dial up the menu, and "Casino" is on, but it's not a pay channel so they'll probably cut out all the good parts so I keep dialing.  There's a "Monk" which I've seen four times, but I liked it three of them, yet there might be something better so I keep dialing. Lo and behold, "Mr. Mom" is playing on a movie channel, but it's almost over. This goes on for a half hour until a different "Monk" comes on that I've only seen three times.

     We walk around in a big circle looking at all the menus, and everything sounds appetizing to me. There is a Thai place where I could order a fresh water eel. Maybe me and the eel could take our bests shots and let the waitress decide which of us is fresher. There's a south-of-the-border place that serves a cocktail called a Mexican Standoff, which I like the sound of but I probably wouldn't remain standing for long. There's a sports restaurant with a lot of video screens to take your mind off the fact that there's nothing good on TV at home. There is always Johnny Rockets in case I want to fast forward right to the milk shake. We settle on the Italian place, which is what we always settle on. It's a little like the "Monk" of casino cuisine, but I like it every time.

     Once you make it to the casino floor you feel instantly energized. There are bells and buzzers going off all around you and you feel like you're inside a pinball machine. I read somewhere that they pump oxygen in through the air conditioning ducts, and it makes me wonder what I was breathing before. We pass by the 1/2 penny slots, something that I never saw before. We could double our money and still only have enough for your thoughts. Even in the low rent section it doesn't take us long to lose fifty bucks, and that's my limit, so we go back to the bar and check out the band.

     If you think that all this sounds like I'm having a rotten time, you couldn't be more wrong. The little peeves that most people don't even notice are life-affirming to me, and they give me something to talk about that sounds like a lot of complaining, but it's not. I love it all, even if I pretend not to.

IT AIN'T ROCKET SCIENCE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-14-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 
     Did you hear that William Shatner is going to blast off into space on Jeff Bezos' NS-18 rocket? A thoroughly jazzed Shatner said, "I've heard about space for a long time now," so it appears that he's really done his homework. Also, he was the commander of the original "Star Trek" Enterprise, so he may be able to help if there is a time distortion and the entire crew travels back in time. Plus he knows how to use the lirpa, a traditional Vulcan weapon, in the event they run into trouble. Should they encounter a Tantalus Field which attempts to vaporize the crew, Shatner is well acquainted with that. Also, from his portrayal of Sergeant T.J. Hooker he understands the effects of gravity on television ratings. Let's just say he's a valuable man to have aboard. He was overheard saying that he couldn't wait until launch time, although he might have said "lunchtime."

     Accompanying him on the trip along with others will be Vice President of Mission & Flight Operations Audrey Powers, who describes herself as "an engineer and lawyer." I don't know if that qualifies her for a space mission, but it certainly qualifies her to make out my will on the way up. 

     Didn't there used to be a rigorous training session you had to go through to be considered as an astronaut? You had to be in peak physical condition, you had to undergo extensive anti-gravity acclimation, and you were dropped into the middle of a Central American jungle armed only with survival gear. You had to be well-versed in the operation of the craft's guidance, navigation and control systems. It's true that William Shatner has appeared in a commercial for a nasal irrigation system, in case that comes up during the flight.

     What are we going to do when we get there? Is there a beach near the Sea of Tranquility or anything? With all that tranquility, it doesn't sound like there's going to be a band. It would be fun to go during the "Miss Universe" beauty pageant, so we can really open up the field of competition this time. At least we should be able to find a parking space, since the place is literally called "Space." If they charge for wi-fi I'm going to make a really nasty face, since we'll be passing right through the Twitter-sphere.

     Why are we even going into space in the first place, you're asking yourself, but I heard you anyway. We could be spending all that money here on Earth, where we would never decide how best to waste it. One reason is, look at all the discoveries that were made during the heyday of NASA. For instance, the Dustbuster was originally invented to suck up Moon particles for study back in the lab, and that's why when you look up at the Moon, you can't see one speck of dust on it. What about MREs, or "Meals Repulsive to Eat?" Those freeze-dried Communion wafer-tasting devices that contain all the nutrients you need to exist in an Olive-Garden-free atmosphere. What about de-hydrated water? You just add water, and presto, well I just made that one up.

     There are plenty of others, but I'll tell you why we're REALLY going: Wouldn't it be fun to show up on someone else's planet, find the biggest skeptic and yank his chain a little? "Dude, I heard you don't believe in life on other planets- is that true? If it is, I'm going to have to abduct you and perform a few experiments on you. If it isn't, I'll abduct you and you can perform the experiments on me. Do you speak English by the way? My Spanish is not conversational."

     I don't want to be a pain in the asteroid, but I can't even figure out how to empty the voice mail on my smart phone, so I hope Shatner knows what he's doing. The spaceship itself looks like a giant can of roll-on deoderant, and that's the most G-rated thing I can say about it. I know that there are other privately-funded "space tourism" programs out there, but I'll stick with the one founded by Amazon executive chairman Jeff Bezos. He guarantees one-day delivery, and even though it may cost $28 million for the trip out there, returns are ALWAYS free.

A 1767-POUND PUMPKIN WALKS INTO A BAR....

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-07-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Because we wanted to see what farm produce stands would have looked like if we had moved to Chernobyl, we attended the Pumpkin Weigh-Off in Ridgefield, Connecticut last Saturday. There, the huge behemoth giganto-gourds were sitting in a row waiting to be measured, to see which would claim the title of most pumped-up pumpkin. I had no idea that Ridgefield was known for giant pumpkins; I was scanning the fields for giant ridges instead.

     A festive atmosphere surrounded the proceedings, and there were vendor booths, food stands and children's activities. We brought Gidget, the cutest dog in the world with us, and she wanted to check out the petting zoo. There she could have served either as a petter or pettee. She was fascinated by the goats and couldn't fathom that these animals are the Greatest Of All Time. No argument from me, nor did they even look capable of the easiest goat yoga pose, whereas Gidget does "downward dog" all the time except if we say the word, "down."

     There were some other awards leading up to the big event. There was one for the "Prettiest Pumpkin" (I'm not kidding actually), for instance. I don't usually get too excited about winter squash, but I thought this particular one WAS kind of sexy, and I couldn't help thinking that the feeling was mutual. If there was a "Miss Congeniality" prize I didn't hear anything about it, and the "Best Supporting Pumpkin in a Musical or Comedy" award must have been handed out before I got there.

     The gaiety carried on, a duo made mellifluous music under the gazebo, and then a ceremonious official announced that it was time to declare the winner. The runners-up were named, and in the event that the largest pumpkin could not fulfill its duties, I assume one of those would be pressed into action. At last the moment came, and lifted onto the scale with a backhoe and block and tackle, the largest pumpkin weighed in at 1767 pounds of exciting, dynamic, un-kinetic energy. I had a growing list of questions, like how do you know when a 1767-pound pumpkin is finished growing? And where does a pumpkin like that go after the last scale reading has been recorded?

     You could make about three thousand pies out of it, but don't expect your friends to take your calls after the first week. I guess you could refurbish it into a carriage like in "Cinderella," but you'd better park it out in front of the Ferrari stretch limo when you arrive at the ball so the handsome prince can't see that, and be sure and dress to impress. If you're wearing glass slippers, he's going to see right through them to that band-aid on your foot.

     I guess that beached whale will end up in my garage, along with everything else that I can't figure out what to do with, like the hot tub motor I've been saving, either because it does work or because it doesn't, I can't remember which. Every morning I find an excuse to be out of the house when my wife wakes up to corner me and ask me what I'm going to do with that damn pumpkin. I know in my heart that each time I glance over at it, it will have moved closer to the stairs, until one day, when I wake up with a start in my bed in a cold sweat, there it would be, it's eye-less face looming over me. Far from being frightened, I'm ecstatic, because I've been fine-tuning my Rod Serling impression all my life for just this moment.

     The last thing I want to do is fat-shame a defenseless pumpkin, but this is the end of the column so it will be the last thing I do. That huge pumpkin is basically a vegetable at this point. To call it a squash is the understatement of the year if you happen to be underneath it.

     In America, anything that's worth doing is worth overdoing. Bigger is always better and loudest usually gets the most attention. We are not a nation known for subtlety. If people can get this excited about a huge pumpkin, what is the future of small claims court, or the compact car, or the mini-skirt, or Tiny Tim, or all the good things that used to come in small packages? I'm not sure. Even though we exchanged numbers, I don't think I'll be calling the "Prettiest Pumpkin." I guess I still like a pumpkin that leaves a little more to the imagination.

GRILLS AND BOYS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-30-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Barbecue season is almost over, and I'm going to miss it when the old spatula has dispatched its last batch of brats. I've been to two cookouts this week, and that is not even a record for me. One was at a friend's house and the other was a fireworks spectacular staged by my town to celebrate, well, I'm not exactly sure what, but I'm not somebody who needs much of an excuse.

     I have always had an appreciation for that one special person who is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, put himself in harm's way, run towards the fire while others are running away, and tend the grill for the guests. That's the guy who knows if you want cheese just by looking at you. He's not putting chipotle on anything, anywhere at any time. He takes his job seriously. He would never use the word "frankfurter." He is always armed. If you ask for it medium-rare you're still getting it well done. He's turning hot dogs with relish. 

     You don't have to tell me, I already know I'm not the best guy for the job. If you look at my face the day after the party and I have no eyebrows or eyelashes, that means someone erroneously left me at the grill for too long. My attention span wanes pretty quickly, and by the time I remember about the hamburgers the place is a crime scene. The arson investigator says, "Looks to me like a flame accelerant might have been used." And the other one says, "Possibly lighter fluid. But this is Rick Melén's house. Isn't he considered a retardant?" 

     Which brings me to my freestanding brick barbecue, which I constructed when I entertained the thought that I might be able to handle it despite the fact that I had no prior experience in masonry and also am a complete idiot. Mixing the cement correctly is tricky. It has to be roughly the consistency of an early Martin Scorsese movie, just before the plot thickens. And I nailed that, which is the hardest part, but it turns out I wasn't any good at all at the easy parts. If you can imagine the Leaning Tower of Pisa, with hamburgers on it, smaller, that's what's in my backyard. I tell people that don't know I don't have kids that my kids made it.

     I've never really regretted not having children (I'm sure they would have felt the same way), but if I ever did decide to have children, the prevailing reason would be so that I could wear an apron that would embarrass them at a barbecue, that said things like, "Kiss The Chef!" or "Stick a Fork In Me, I'm Done!" or even, "World's Greatest Dad!" If my kids had ever bought that one for me I would have to question their judgment.

     My own Dad would never wear something like that, but he did turn up one day with this contraption that plugged into the wall and lit up bright hot like a stove element, and when you put it underneath the coals it heated them into red molten ash in the space of about 19 hours. Since it plugged into the wall, if you were camping out you'd have to find a campsite near a wall. 

     The spaces in the grill grate are only about half an inch or so, and I have to maneuver the hamburger sideways while I'm trying to turn it over to get it to fall into the hot coals. I still think I can pass off that crusty gray disk as the latest thing: The Pompeii Burger. We could all save some time if the spaces were bigger and I didn't have to wait until the hamburger was almost done to ruin it. 

     At the celebration in the town park I don't have to cook anything, just wait on line under the sign that said "Lions Barbecue." I was excited because I've never had one of those before, but I heard it tastes a little like rattlesnake, which tastes a little like chicken. By the way, chicken doesn't taste as much like chicken as it used to.

     I'm hoping to squeeze few more patties out of the lopsided barbecue before the snow starts to accumulate on my head. No one one will be around to complain about my cooking then. I remember back when I was in high school, working at McDonald's, thinking that flipping burgers was the perfect job for me: A position of standing with a high turnover rate.

UNDER THE COVERS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-23-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     When I was in college my rock band did all original material. We were pretty good, people loved us, bar owners liked us, and we averaged about $30 dollars each a gig. If I was working my way through college I would have had to moonlight as a waitress and possibly as an exotic dancer also, because I had textbooks that cost $40 dollars each. I offered to play two sets at the bookstore, but they only took cash, even after I also offered to dance exotically.

     Back then tribute bands were considered a novelty act, like a magician who works with cats. There was a band called Beatlemania that performed on Broadway in the '70s, with the mop-top wigs and the pointy boots and the skinny ties and players who tried to look the part. Whenever I hear about a Beatles tribute act I always check out the Ringo guy first to see what I'm in for. If he looks like an accountant for Ernst & Young, I strap myself in for a long ride, because he could either be a really good drummer or a really bad accountant. Who possibly works with cats.

     We used to look down on the tribute bands, and scorn them as cheap imitations of the real thing. And then something happened that nobody saw coming: the passage of time. First those super-groups that we loved broke up, then they had a solo album, then they got married, then they got a divorce (repeat as necessary), then they had a drug problem, then they got sober, then they did a reunion tour and then they died. When I saw Blood, Sweat and Tears a few years ago, there was a ten-piece band on stage and not one of them was in the original line-up. Blood, Sweat and Tears is now essentially a tribute act to itself.

     I went to a Fleetwood Mac tribute act a couple years ago, and darned if the Stevie Nicks girl wasn't going with the Lindsay Buckingham guy. In fact they announced their engagement right onstage. If you're going that far into the zeitgeist of the original Fleetwood Mac era, I wish you good luck because I already fast-forwarded to the ending, and I just know somebody's going to get hurt. And I'm not sure how or why but it's probably going to be me.

     If you're going go that route as a musician, be aware that wardrobe might set you back a pretty penny. Performing as Stevie Nicks, you'll have to shop at a Wiccan store for the essentials, a Renaissance Faire for the accessories, then stop at a magician's store for the hat. If your boyfriend happens to be performing as Slash in a Guns n' Roses act you can share the hat. If you're going to do Kiss, those outfits ain't cheap, and you'll probably have to do your own makeup. If you're playing the part of Peter Criss, for god's sake put your cat out of the room before you paint that face on or you're never going to hear the end of it.

     And now the tide has turned and the tribute bands are the ones raking it in. Some of them perform the material live much better than the original bands ever did. I've heard it myself- the bass player for Letterman started a Beatles tribute band that does flawless live performances of the studio records, complete with strings and horns. And when Journey front man Steve Perry refused to come back out on the road, the rest of the band plucked a guy from a tribute group in the Philippines who knew all the words in English, and he's been on tour with them ever since. 

     They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but in this case it's also the mother of invention (they say that too, but usually not at the same time). If you want to see a Tom Petty show these days your're going to have to find yourself a tribute band that knows four chords and can put them in 200 different orders. I'd be surprised if someone doesn't start a band paying tribute to some of the best tribute bands. I'd start one myself, but I'm afraid that my form of flattery may not be the sincerest.

THE LAST HURRAH

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-16-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     It seem as if, due to global warming and other factors such as time flying because we're having so much fun, summer keeps getting shorter and shorter. Labor Day is now in the rear view mirror, and even though it's technically not fall yet, I already miss the summer. I know a lot of people who don't even like the summer, and they should just give me their share. My friend Paul won't even entertain the thought of summer and refuses to mention it by name. I on the other hand have to entertain every thought I have, because if I don't they'll just go elsewhere.

     We spent the long weekend at Sylvan Beach, a cute little spot on the eastern shore of lovely Lake Oneida. We weren't the only ones with the idea, but judging by the number of cabin cruisers tethered within wading distance, we were one of the few to arrive by car. We brought our dog Gidget along for the ride, and she is so tuned in to our habits that she started preparing for the trip a week before we did. 

     She knows what the words "trip," and "pet-friendly," and "I know you're going to forget the beach umbrella again" mean. She knows a lot more words than we think, and in fact I had to ask her what "perspicacious" meant. While I was making some coffee she saw the Thermos and she started jumping up and down. I never saw a dog so excited about coffee. She would have jumped through the car window if I had taken one more second to open the door. Once we pulled out of the driveway she slept in a coma the entire trip until we checked into the hotel.

     After a pleasant day at the beach there was such a beautiful sunset that even my hair couldn't possibly ruin a selfie, so I held my wife's phone at arm's length for a shot of the two of us. I snap eight photos as I say the sentence, "I think I'm making a dumb face," and it turns out I'm making a dumb face in all of those. During the eighth one I'm smiling nicely but my wife is saying, "QUIET." But since it's her phone, the one that ends up on Facebook is NOT the one where I'm smiling nicely. 

     While I'm checking in on Facebook I answer a couple quizzes. "Your band's name is the thing you ate last followed by the make of your first car. What is it???" I have to start eating and wearing things that are Facebook-friendly so I don't end up with a stupid band name. "Your alter ego is the the street you grew up on plus the color of the underwear you're wearing right now. What is it????" I hate having to lie about the color of my underwear.

     Plus my cynical side thinks I'm getting scammed by Russian hackers. 'Kremlin Gremlin' posts, "Your secret agent name is your first pet's name plus your Social Security number. What is it???" My gullible side doesn't want to be a spoil sport but it seems like I'm over-sharing.

     At night we take a ride over to the Turning Stone Casino, where we try to think of innovative ways to make ourselves believe that we beat the house. "Well we're only down $30 bucks, and if we had gone someplace way more expensive the drinks would have been $10 each, with a $10 dollar cover charge, and we wouldn't have gotten the entertainment value of the gaming experience. WE WIN!" By the end of the night we've made $7,000 dollars by not flying to Paris first class.

     We eat at the Italian restaurant there, and to save time I just look for something on the menu with "parmigiana" at the end. You could put "Distributor Cap Parmigiana" on the menu and I would order it. There's a gal who comes by to fill up my water glass every time I take a sip, and she seems a little too dialed into my life, so I try to regain control of my narrative by only pretending to take big gulps, and that seems to satisfy her.

     On the trip back home I was already counting the hours until Memorial Day. I saw two leaves falling off a tree and it reminded me: do leaves have to leave so soon? It might already be winter the next time you see me at the beach, so please greet me warmly.

WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-09-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 

     My friend is always telling me how impossible it is to pry her kid away from his phone. He sits there all day and never takes his eyes off it. By comparison, if you see me staring at my phone for more than 15 minutes it means I forgot how to turn it on. But it's a serious issue: how do you keep your kids active and engaged with the world away from cyberspace? It's not like you can just tell your kids to go out and play in the street, who would do something like that? My parents. They encouraged me to play in the street all the time when I was a kid. Your parents too, probably, and why your parents would encourage ME play in the street is a mystery. And before you go saying that you would have done the same thing, I'll just tell you that they allowed all of my siblings to do that, not just me.

     We would play for hours outside, thinking up different games to play that coincided with the traffic patterns. We lived on a cul-de-sac, so cars would have to go out of their way to run us over, and most concluded that it wasn't worth the effort. We would be outside until 9 o'clock at night, which at the time was like 10:30, adjusted for inflation. We might make up our own games or play something traditional like "hide and seek." I was very good at hiding, but I was not often sought. 

     My Mom used to let us hang out at the playground. Who DOES that? I can't imagine what kids now would think of it. "Mom, get this: there's a contraption at the playground that spins around while you're actually on it and throws you off by centrifugal force." She says, "That's nice, Honey." "And there's a thing with two seats perched on a fulcrum, and I sat on one side, and a fat guy plopped down on the other and I was launched into the sandbox." She says, "We don't say 'fat' anymore Honey, we say 'doughnutically challenged.'" "And there's a giant jail cell with metal bars, and people were climbing on top of it, but you can get out any time you want." She says, "Well, you know I'm in favor of prison reform." "And there's a big metal pole with a ball attached to it on a string and when you hit it it comes around from the other side and pops you in the head." And she says, "All right Honey, let's just go through some concussion protocols, and then you can help me with your homework."

     When I was a kid I used to have a lizard as a pet, and I had a snake at one point, too. As I remember, the lizard escaped his terrarium and was never found. I don't think my Mom found out, or I would have tipped over the scales of justice. I know I'm not the first male to suffer from a reptile dysfunction, but I'm not sure today's moms are into exotic pets.

     As a teenager we used jump off the abandoned train trestle in Yorktown into the Croton Reservoir. Jumping 40 or so feet off anything into anything else is one of those things that is great fun if you're not the one doing it. It's like riding in a convertible, which looks great from the outside, and from the inside every single hair on my head has blown into my mouth and nose until we stop at a stoplight, at which time I'm broiling in the open sun like a baked potato.

     I don't know why I felt it necessary to tempt fate. Bad luck goes back a long way in my family, back to the days when my ancestors came to Ellis Island in New York to gain entry into the United States, and there was a sign that said, "Please Use Maine Entrance."

     It's a wonder I survived long enough to grow out of childhood. My aunt used to comment on my growth every time she saw me. She'd say, "Wow I remember you when you were 0, months before you were born. You've certainly grown since then." For the first year of my life I was laying down all the time, so my height was basically my width. I tripled my height in one day just by standing up. But looking back, now I see why they were so surprised, since most of the stuff we did back then would be illegal today, and probably was back then. And I haven't even told you about going to college in the in that active mine field known as the 1970s. But I made it out alive. Mom's, you can swaddle your kid in bubble wrap and lock him in the basement, or you can encourage engagement with the outside world. I know it seems dangerous out there, but children were designed to last a lifetime.
 

PAST PERFECT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-26-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I'm not writing about a concert in Bailey Park in Somers just because it's going to be fun. I'm not mentioning it just because I happen to be playing in it. It's not a shameless plug since I do feel a certain amount of shame. By the way it's on Saturday, August 28th at 5:00PM. I'm not trying to get you to come to park that evening just to say hi to me (although that would be nice). The purpose of this column is to point out that this event is brought to you in part by the Somers Historical Society, and history is important.

     I'm a great lover of history, since I've been living in the past my whole life until just this very moment. I used to write a column about the beginnings of Westchester County called "Historical Laughter," and I think it's a great idea to find out about the town you live in.  Wherever it is, it has a story. And some of them are real doozies.

     Like when the New York City Water Commission needed new sources to supply the burgeoning population and used the doctrine of "eminent domain" to buy up properties in Katonah, condemn them, and flood the entire town to build the Croton Reservoir. The townspeople bought their houses back at auction, jacked them up and moved them along soaped rails pulled by horses to their current locations. There are photos of these original "mobile" homes, residents living inside them during the trip. This was an inconvenience if you happened to be running away from home, because you had to run at least as fast as your house was traveling behind you.

     Or the time a receding glacier dropped a huge boulder onto four other rocks about 10,000 years ago in North Salem, where it has sat balanced ever since. It's a good thing it didn't land in the middle of the road, or traffic could have been snarled for centuries. Whenever I see a glacier coming I get the hell out of the way, as I prefer to remain unbalanced. You can check it out along Titicus Road, but keep your eyes peeled, because history often repeats itself. I know it did when I had to take it again in summer school.

     What about the time founding American statesman John Jay went to Paris with Benjamin Franklin and John Adams to mediate the peace treaty after the Revolutionary War? You can find out all about it at the John Jay Homestead in Katonah. He demanded that the British recognize American independence and cede the territory east of the Mississippi. It was Jay who cut France out of the negotiations to forge a more favorable deal, possibly because he was angry that they had not invented champagne yet and he was SO looking forward to it.

     Here below Bailey Park are some of the several hundred acres once owned by Gerard Crane in the 1800s. He was an entrepreneur who became successful in the menagerie business, acquiring exotic animals and exhibiting them on tours. One was an elephant called "Little Bet," sold to him by Hachaliah Bailey, who also owned the famous namesake for the Elephant Hotel. They say an elephant never forgets, but I can't remember why. Another is the rhinoceros for whom the reservation visible along Route 202 near Heritage Hills is named. Here on this park's land, ostriches were trained to race with riders upon their backs. Back then a collection of unusual and dangerous beasts was a lucrative business, and the precursor to the modern circus. The closest thing we have to that today is the United States Congress.

     Before our concert the Elephant Hotel will be open for tours to learn about him and other historical figures. Who knows? One day you could go down in history. Maybe you'll invent something useful like an "easy open package" that's easy to open. Or a self-driving exercise bike. Or a binary computer code with only "ones" in it. If I ever go down in history I'm unlikely to come back up. But I do know one thing: People who fail to learn from the past find out the hard way that there's no future in it. See you on the 28th!

NOT ON MY WHALE WATCH

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-19-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 
     Every time I vacation in Provincetown, Massachusetts, I learn the same lesson, and I don't mind learning it over and over because it's so important. The lesson is that no matter how far out there somebody else's lifestyle seems to you, it doesn't seem that way to them. And further, they don't care that you think they're out there. The natives here welcome tourism, they know how to entertain and they don't mind if you stare until the novelty wears off.

     If you come here you're going to see gay men, gay women, people who populate any number of gray areas in between and a whole lot of dogs on a leash. Some people came here to see if they really were what they thought they were (they were), and never left. It's a microcosm of what society can be if it learns the above lesson, because since most of these folks have experienced the same sexual prejudices at some point in their lives (maybe most points), their tolerance for racism, jingoism and other forms of bigotry is very low.

     There's plenty to do. We've been coming here for 40 years and we've never been on a whale watch, so we went on one. The ship cruises about 45 minute north of town into the Stellwagen Bank Marine Sanctuary, a natural shelf rich in diverse forms of ocean life. The crew shares information about the whales they see and collect data about their habits. Humpback whales feed here during the summer, coming from as far away as the Dominican Republic. Known as baleen whales, they take in huge mouthfuls of seawater and express it out through the baleen tissue, which holds the krill and plankton they source as food. If I was a 50-foot whale couldn't I think of something more satisfying to eat, like a 10 foot submarine sandwich? "Mom, when's dinner? It's only two o'clock and I'm STARVING." "Why don't you have a few diatoms? That should tide you over until high tide." Thanks, Mom. 

     We came upon a 48 year-old cow named Freckles, and if you're wondering how she got her name, it's a good idea not to get close enough to find out. I'm not interested in going viral in somebody's selfie video where the whale comes REALLY close to the boat and starts following it and bumping into it, and everyone goes gaga and yells isn't this great, it's trying to make friends with us, let's get closer and BFF the whale, and tell it some intimate details about last year's vacation and perhaps overshare a little bit and then the whale performs the ultimate act of friendship by eating us. Yes folks, whales have a more normal idea of friendship than some of our friends do, which is having us for dinner once in a while. 

     It was a surf-and-turf kind of evening, and back on land, Drag Queen Karaoke is an institution at the Goveronor Bradford Restaurant. You can hear just about anything you want here, but you'll mostly hear things you don't. Karaoke sung by someone who can really sing is a rare gem, and butchered by someone who can't is a train wreck that even the most stringent safety measures cannot prevent from happening over and over again. People have been subjected to countless trials and tribulations through time immemorial, but it's nothing compared to the abject horrors that the bartender here has endured on a daily basis.

     A guy with a pair of wings on his back sauntered in to sing a song, and I meant to ask him if those things really work. I wouldn't ind flying to work once in a while but I have no idea what my wing size is. The introduction to his song was 24 bars, according to the screen, so I could have finished the whole conversation with enough time left over to introduce the song to my mother's entire side of the family, which goes all the way back to Norway. 

     Perhaps humans have evolved while I wasn't paying close attention, but everything I've seen since 2016 tells me we're going in the other direction. We may be crawling back into the sea before too long, so whenever I go to Provincetown I hit the beach and brush up on my swimming skills.

     While there's a 64-bar guitar solo in the song, did you know that whales have not been observed mating, but have been seen engaging in "seductive behavior?" The male blows bubbles underneath the female, and that tickles her fancy in an inappropriate place: Massachusetts Bay. You think that's little weird do you? Well, I've got news for you: whales don't care what we think, and the sooner we all understand that, the better.

CHASING WATERFALLS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-12-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Last Saturday the weather was so nice we decided to take a little motorcycle ride. It's nice to feel the wind lapping at your face, and it's one of the few things I don't mind lapping at my face. Our destination was a day trip to Kent Falls up Route 7 in Connecticut, with a visit to the Eric Sloane Museum along the way. At the end of Dog Tail Corners Road we stopped at the Bulls Covered Bridge for a photo, but you can't see the bridge at all because they built a cover over it. The good news is that if you drive over it in the rain, your car stays dry the whole time. 

     At the Eric Sloane Museum, an enthusiastic docent told us about his life and accomplishments. He was a prolific painter, author and lover of Americana. His collection of antique hand tools is on display there, because he viewed them as a utilitarian art form. If you've often wondered what a picaroon was, or a winnowing machine or a bark spud, this is the place to find out. There was something called a "flail with eelsking thong," which if I'm not mistaken was also the title of a Kim Kardashian Instagram post.

     Eric Sloane had a lifelong fascination with weather, clouds and the atmosphere, and he was commissioned to paint the 7 storey-high mural that is on display in the lobby of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. 

     You can tour his studio, recreated with the tools he used and the books he found inspiration in all sitting there as if he just got up for a beer. I pictured myself painting in the studio, trying to figure out how so much paint got in my hair, and how I might get it out, and I end up trying to actually use my hair to paint something, and my wife walks in and sees it, makes a noise that I am well used to and walks quickly out again without further comment. I realized it was time to go before I pictured anything else.

     Kent Falls is a nice place to have a picnic or get a good selfie or take your kids. If you want to bring them back home again that's up to you. We watched one girl set up an entire portable selfie studio with a light ring and a tripod, and she clearly had invested some time in hair and make-up. Perhaps she was an influencer, and I hear that crayfish are easily influenced, so I just hope that she was using her powers for good instead of evil.

     You're not allowed to scale the falls themselves, but there's a precarious path you can walk up near the side of the water if you want to get a nice view from the top. I'm guessing it's the place where Kent actually fell from when they named the place after him, because going back down wasn't that much easier than climbing up.

     My grandmother used to take me to Kent Falls when I was a little kid. I remember catching crayfish in the brook, a fact that my wife did not believe. "No way you did that," she said, but it's not like they run all that fast. Neither my Grandmother nor the crayfish are around to corroborate the story, though. "What did you do with them?" She asked. I said, "I roasted them on the spit and made crayfish thermidor out of them. It's like lobster thermidor only smaller." She didn't believe me anyway so why not.

     Our final stop was a chocolate shop in the town of Kent, where they peremptorily apologized for the chocolate shortage, another unfortunate by-product of the pandemic. Most of the good stuff was already taken: fudge was sold out, no chocolate chip cookies or tree bark. All that was left were chocolates made by people who tried to ruin them by putting stuff in them that was clearly not chocolate, like coconuts or fruit syrups or even liquor, which is where the term "chocoholic" probably comes from. Folks, the way you can improve my chocolate experience is by leaving a little more of it for me.

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-05-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     This August marks my anniversary at the company I started my career with 41 years ago. I could have been a brain surgeontist, or a rocket scientologist, or a quantum physician- In America I could be anything I wanted to be. All I needed was the will to do it and hundreds of thousands of dollars in tuition costs. And a brain transplant. But instead, I've been a part of bringing you your favorite shows for over half the period of time that my television network has been in existence. When a show says, "brought to you by so-and-so," I'm actually the so-and-so they're talking about. They say it's unheard of for people to spend this many years at one company. I don't know where I heard that, but it's true I had to listen very closely. These days, employees want to leave their jobs after a short time and move on. I'd like to leave at about 2PM myself, but I guess I'll stick it out.

     In some ways working for a major television network today bears little resemblence to what it was like 41 years ago. In other respects, not much has changed. "60 Minutes" is still on the air, for instance, but back when I started you could only watch it through the "air," received on a television set through an antenna. Now only butterflies have antennas, so they can watch TV whenever they want.

     To give you an idea of how long I've been there, my first job was to sit in front of the screen for an entire eight-hour shift and write down the start and end time for each commercial, as a legal record that the spot aired as scheduled. Most people would have folded under the demands of such a job, but TV and me were made for each other. I know the words to every jingle that aired in the year 1980, and I'll sing them for you just before you hit me over the head with a ball-peen hammer. In 1981 the company discovered the VCR and I moved on down the hall. Every year or so I moved down the hall to a different position, and all of a sudden I was at the end of the hall. And that's where I've been ever since. 

     People often ask me if I'm in "production," and I usually say yes, since it's harder to describe what I actually do. My job is to help compile the Operations Schedule, an assemblage of every element that airs during the day across the broadcast network. Programs, promos, interstitials and most importantly, commercials, are all filtered through facilities that my department schedules. And when football season rolls around, I create a document that tells everyone in the building the outgoing paths for each game, and what the facilities are used for the programming that follows it. It may sound complicated, but I usually describe my work as something that a monkey could do, provided he's been in the position for 40 years or so and can type just a little bit.

     Maybe the thing that's changed the most since I started is me. Back then I was known for roaming the Broadcast Center after hours with my shoes off, and wearing my glasses askew on my nose so that I could read close up. When I walked into my first NFL meeting and the Vice President of Sports Operations took a look at the long-haired, non-corporate-looking specimen who was taking over the network switching, he looked vaguely suicidal, and then vaguely homicidal. But we soon bonded at the diner over our love of pancakes. I guess when I graduated from communications school with a degree in television, I thought I might land in an industry where I could be myself, and when they hired me they probably were hoping myself was somebody else. Maybe I only assumed I've changed because so much time has passed. After all, the new Vice President of Sports Operations refers to me as "Darth," convinced I came from the "dark side."

      I'm aware that what I do doesn't save lives or discover new galaxies. But being part of a team that brings the work of talented people to the public is good enough for me, and during a pandemic when people can't get out a whole lot, maybe a little "Price is Right" can save a life here and there. I've had a long and satisfying career, and it ain't over yet. I'm not a great fan of change, but it's the reality of my industry. In 1980, who would have guessed that the world would come this far, only to wish it was back where it was then. But then again in those days the phrase, "Do you accept cookies?" would have been just another dumb question.

SECONDHAND SMOKE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-29-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     On the way back from tennis today I looked up and saw a beautiful pink moon hanging in the sky and I couldn't take my eyes off it. Usually if I see in the news that it's going to be a rare "blood-red harvest mariner's blue guacamole-with-cheese moon," I get all excited and put on my pajamas and go outside to see, and when I look up it's the same color it always is. But I've never seen a pink moon- I guess maybe it was just going through a phase. Well, it turns out that it wasn't the moon at all, it was the sun, filtered through the haze of an atmosphere filled with smoke from wildfires in Oregon, about 3,000 miles away.

     If this doesn't prove that we're all sitting here on one planet at the vulnerable mercy of what each other does, I don't know what will. In the grand scheme of things it's not that much different than me sitting next to the campfire toasting marshmallows, and then the smoke blows my way and I move, and it manages to find me wherever I go, and it's so frustrating that I have to take drastic measures and my wife comes out of the tent looking for me and asks me what I'm doing in the car with the windows rolled up holding a marshmallow on a stick? I don't even bother to say that there's a reasonable explanation for it.

     I can't think of anything scarier than wildfires, nor anyone braver than the people who fight them. What does it take in a person to sign up for that? A lot more than I have, and I've looked all over. Whoever it was that said, "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen" was amazing, because how did they know I started a fire there underneath my Jennair grill the other night? I know you're thinking that I was pretty brave, running towards the fire while some of my cats were running away from it, and fighting it with the plant mister. Within a matter of minutes I had the fire 30% contained.

     The Oregon fire, by the time I read more about it, had scorched an area half the size of Rhode Island, and thwarted the usual strategies of the professionals fighting it. I felt sorry for the people affected by it. I also felt a little sorry for Rhode Island, because every time something bad happens, Rhode Island gets dragged into it. Remember that huge pile of garbage floating around the Pacific Ocean? It was twice the size of Rhode Island, and remember that BP oil spill? It left a scummy ring the size of Rhode Island. When people think of Rhode Island, I hope they don't think of an oily garbage patch that is on fire. I met a guy who said he came from a place that had enough nuts in it to fill the state of Rhode Island. Turns out he was from Rhode Island.

     I read that the Oregon "Bootleg" fire is so large that it created a pyrocumulus cloud that generated its own lightning. This is unusual, and not nearly as helpful as creating a cloud that could make its own rain. Officials are trying to get scores of people to evacuate the area, but people who recall other, smaller wildfires in the past are reluctant to leave and want to "ride it out." Folks, my Mom's parallel parking is something you "ride out." A million-plus-acre wildfire is not. I know it seems far away at the moment, but I may just evacuate myself to be on the safe side.

     Did I ever tell you about the time I burnt down kitchen at my family's home in Chappaqua? The rest of the clan was on a nine-hour cruise up the Hudson, and just me and my father were there. I was cooking some French fries when my sister called from college, and me and my Dad were chatting away blissfully unaware that my French fries' patience was wearing thin. They burst into flames, which spread around the wood cabinetry of the kitchen in short order. The fire department came and quickly extinguished the flames, and my father elected to use the insurance money to send one of my sisters to college and repair the kitchen himself.

     This led to several revelations, 1.) You should keep at least three working fire extinguishers in your home and know how to use them, as we sort of did. 2.) French fries are not fire-retardant. 3.) A nine-hour cruise up the Hudson is WAY too long. 4.) If you're thinking of making French fries at your own home, you should know that it costs much more to send a kid to college today than it did in 1980.

     No, nothing about fire is funny, but trying to excavate a smile in a desolate area is what I do. It also gives me a chance to say thank you to those who keep us safe from people like me who underestimate the combustible nature of food. So, thank you.
 

 

 

 

SEARCHING FOR SAND

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-22-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     When summer rolls around I love to have a couple places that we go to every year, because that way you don't have to waste any time thinking of new and different things to keep you entertained. If you know the drill and you like the drill, it puts holes in the theory that you need a new drill. We head out to the Hamptons every year to visit our friends Mark and Laurie, and it's such a comfortable feeling to fall into the routine.

     I'm not an expert on the Hamptons, but I know it has a reputation for being somewhat la-di-dah, and I only say that because I don't know the words. But I've never had the feeling that the people who live there thought they were better than me, although they would have said "better than I," which would have been better. It's just a nice, clean section of the universe where people don't feel the need for too many tattoos. The friends who have invited me out there over the years have always been a kind and patient breed of humans, so maybe they are better than me. I'm learning to be patient, because in the summer any trip to Long Island is long.

     Should we take the Throggs or the Whitestone? The three of us disagree. My wife says we ALWAYS take the Throggs and it's ALWAYS a nightmare. I say yes, but that's only because everyone is trying to avoid the Whitestone, which is a worse nightmare. If we sneak up on the Throggs pretending to look like we secretly wanted the Whitestone, we should be fine. The GPS doesn't believe we should attempt the trip at all, and thinks we should go where we went last weekend. I guess I forgot to type in the new destination.

     There's a huge queue in the exit lane to get onto the Cross Island Parkway. "This is why they call it a parkway, we've been parked here for 15 minutes," I say. "Everyone's passing us in the weasel lane only to cut in front of us right before the exit." I feel I should treat the entire highway as an exit, so we're all on a level playing field. I politely cut in front of someone and wave a "thank you" to make it look like his idea. Meanwhile, the GPS says "At the next available opportunity, make a legal U-turn," but it sounds like she's saying, "make illegal U-turn," and I have to rely on my inner compass.

     To avoid the constant jockeying for position on the LIE, I head into the HOV lane. How many occupants does it take to make your vehicle "high occupancy?" Any of them now that marijuana is legal in New York.

     When we get to the beach club the next day, the weather is iffy but it doesn't matter. In the Hamptons you just bend everything into a shape you can use to your advantage. "This crappy weather is the best idea we've had all day. Without a little light rain we would have waited a half hour for a menu at the cafe." The umbrella we brought to the beach finally gets a chance to show what it's made of.

     Saturday night is game night. I found a couple board games on the internet, and they're supposed to teach you something about each other and something about yourself, by trying to make you guess the answer that you thought the other person would say to a question that they are obviously answering differently than they normally would because they know you are trying to think of the answer they think you thought they would say. The thing we learned about ourselves is that the smallest amount of cocktails can make the instructions sound like that last sentence. So we changed the rules to make the game remarkably like charades. Everyone told me not to say one word out loud while I was giving my clues, and to try to cut down on them in between, also.

     At the end of a fabulous weekend I realize I've come to terms with not having a second home. It might have been Diogenes who said, “He who has the most is the most content with the least.” I think that's what he said, it was a while ago and I'm not sure I heard him correctly. The point is, I may not have a house in the Hamptons, but I have three things that are just as good: my ability to find fun wherever I am, and two friends who have a house in the Hamptons.

RUNNING FOR THE HILLS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-15-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 
     My friend Margaret is running for town council. She is a gregarious, honest, caring, passionate and hard-working individual who would be an asset to any organization, and certainly my town. It takes a special kind of person to espouse politics at even the most local level. At a small get-together to introduce her candidacy, some current members of the Town Board said a few words about what they do.

     They spoke about new ideas, and how not every idea is a great idea just because it's new, but what IS great is having them, welcoming them and considering them. They spoke of how diversity is something not to be feared, but to be embraced as a way to keep a town from stagnating. They talked about what a nice place we live in, and ideas to make it even better.

     I wondered what it would be like to be in that world for just a moment. That's how long it would take for people to say, "I wouldn't vote for you if you were the LAST politician on Earth!" But what if I WAS the last politician on Earth? I have a couple of questions before I agree to run: 1.) Is anything boring going to come before the Board? I'm not sure I want to have to read a bunch of legal-sounding stuff like, "all abuttals will be accepted ab initio as absolute according to accounts accumulated by the acquittal of adjudication administrated by the aforementioned, ad valorem. And that's just the boring stuff that begins with "A." 2.) Do I have to kiss any babies? Most interactions I have with babies result in one of us being disappointed in the others' behavior. Maybe the baby wouldn't be offended by a solemn bow like in Japan. 3.) Will I be expected to know the answers to peoples' questions? If the baby asks me something I can probably answer it without having to look it up in a YouTube video, otherwise I'll have to get back to you.

     I don't want to get caught in a lie, but the truth is sometimes painful, so I have to obfuscate it by saying things that sound like I made them up, like "obfuscate." Why do I use a word like "ubiquitously?" It's difficult to say. "That bum Rick Melén said in a speech that my taxes would always almost never not hesitate to sometimes every time not go the opposite of down, and yet they always almost never hesitated to sometimes the opposite of not did!" I wouldn't have said something like that unless I meant it.

     You have to be good at posing for photos. "Would you mind a photo?" Someone at my rally asks. "Sure, but what's my hair look like?" I reply. "An endangered species habitat," they say, "but I meant for you to take a picture of US." You have to make sure someone is photographing you every time you're doing something good, like rescuing someone who is about to eat haggis, or delivering great oratory about why "F Troop" is better than "The Brady Bunch."

     You have to be willing to compromise. If you're not, just get out of the game now, I'm not budging on that.

     I'm not sure if there are any skeletons in my closet. There's a weird smell coming from in there, but it could be that broken toaster oven that I can't bear to throw away because at some point it might be less broken than the one I have now. What if someone from the opposing party hires a private detective to dig up some "dirt" on me? The first thing he's going to do is check my internet browser history, and his eyes will pop out of his head. Not for the reason you might think, but because when he sees queries like, "legal terms that start with 'A'" or "what exactly is haggis," he'll automatically assume that I'm unfit for office.

     So good luck to you, Margaret. I guess you just have to be true to yourself and hope for the best. I said to my wife that the one thing I could do was write a speech. I'd open with a joke and close with a joke, not the same joke. "What goes in the middle?" She asked. I'd put a couple funny stories in there and a gag, I said. "What kind of politician would you be with that speech?" She asked. "I don't know," I said, "but I'd feel funny trying not to be."