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.