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.