ONE-LEGGED TURKEY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-08-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     How was your Thanksgiving? People ask that all the time, and what they want to know is, how bad did you fight with your relatives? I had a nice holiday, although due to circumstances beyond our control I was forced into the kitchen on one foot, where my basting was lambasted, my stuffing didn't have the right stuff, my mashed potatoes were bashed and even the turkey complained about where I took its temperature. Finally I was told to just prepare the cranberry sauce and stay out of the way. I served it in the perfect shape of a tin can, you're welcome.

     We had a few of my sisters over for the big dinner, and we get along great for 90% of the day. There's never any talk of serving yams, green bean casserole or giblets, so we all agree on that. If the conversation ends up in the swamp of politics, we all agree on who brought it there. But eventually the board games come out, and that's when the gloves come off. Some people erroneously think that games are all about having fun, so eventually the competition filters down to me and my sister Kath, because we understand best that games are just a metaphor for survival in today's world.

     My strategy is to throw everything into the pot and see what simmers. That's also how I got kicked out of the kitchen earlier in the day. Kath's approach is to know all the rules, and tell me only the ones she thinks I need to know. This rivalry goes all the way back to our childhood, when we spent the hours that we should have been studying hidden in attic playing "Life" and "Careers." I had the vague suspicion that not doing my homework might affect my actual life and career, but I thought I might roll the dice and find out. I consider myself a pretty good sport because I don't care if I lose, as long as the other players don't win. I choose to remember that I used to win most of those games, and I choose to forget that Kath maintained a straight-A average while I graduated high school with a 1.7 grade-point average.

     We capped the holiday weekend off with a trip into Manhattan to see "A Prairie Home Companion," which is one of my favorite things to do this time of year. If you are a writer or a musician or both, and you can't find something to love in that show, there's something wrong with you. At my age there's usually something wrong with me anyway, so loving things rarely makes it worse. 

     Garrison Keillor was back onstage after a forced sabbatical during which he was dropped by his sponsoring radio network for "misconduct." I don't know much about a lot of things, but I do know that what goes on between two people is something NOBODY knows much about, which makes it hard to come to black-and-white conclusions. I also know is that "misconduct" sounds like something a maestro should be fired for.

     Anyway, the show hearkens back to the nostalgic days of radio comedy, complete with an old-fashioned sound-effects man. I would give anything to be in charge of sound-effects, but my wife thinks that I would be better suited to noise-effects. Either way I would welcome any excuse to do a little more hearkening.

     Afterwards at the restaurant I ordered veal saltimbocca, a tasty dish which means in Italian, "jumps into your mouth." It was true; I opened my mouth and it jumped right in, but I wish it would have waited until I cut it into a smaller piece. My mouth is open quite a lot, so it wasn't a particularly unusual occurrence.

     Now that I'm working with only one usable leg, I've benefited from the "Stevie Wonder Effect." There used to be a theory that because Stevie Wonder does not have the use of his eyes, all his other senses were heightened, and that's how he was able to excel in music. The theory doesn't account for the fact that Stevie Wonder has more talent in his pinky finger than most of us have in our whole body. Thank god he still has the use of his pinky finger. Anyway, it seems that since I can't use my right foot, all the other parts of my body are proving to be more useful and talented than they ever were before. For instance, I went up and down the stairs at the restaurant on my butt. Then I proceeded to drive home through midtown Manhattan using only my left foot, which as far as I know is neither illegal nor smart. I can't wait to see what else my left foot can do, not to mention my butt, and now I'm sorry that I did mention it.

A CONNECTICUT YANKEE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-01-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     A few weeks ago we took advantage of the beautiful weather to spend a nice little weekend in Hartford. We bicycled around around West Hartford Reservoir, a lovely spot to take in some fall foliage. We were eventually asked to leave by the police because we didn't have helmets. I told the cop that I was shocked that you can ride a motorcycle on the street without a helmet in Connecticut but not a bicycle in the park. He said true, but if someone gets in an accident without a helmet, heads will roll.

     We traveled down the street to take a tour of the Mark Twain House and Museum. It's the place where Samuel Clemens became Mark Twain and wrote his most iconic works. Clemens was a struggling writer at the time, and the 25-room mansion was built not with his money, but his wife's inheritance from her coal baron father. I used to tell my Mom, hey, it's just as easy to fall in love with a rich girl as a poor one, and she said, yes, but good luck getting one to fall in love with you.

     The architecture itself is appealing, as from the outside the home calls to mind a riverboat. I'm always fascinated by large dwellings with so many rooms that they ran out of things to use them for. Our tour commenced in the parlor. The house was built before the time of beauty parlors, so even ugly people were welcome there. We visited the drawing room and the library. All the while our guide was telling us the story of Sam and Olivia Clemens, their successes and heartaches, the ill health of their daughters and financial tribulations. 

     We continued to the sitting room, and I'd love to have one of those, in fact I can't stand not having one. The one room Twain couldn't seem to find in a house full of exuberant young girls was a place to do his writing. He finally settled on the upstairs billiards room, where no one but staff was allowed. He wrote by day and entertained his friends over a cigar and a whiskey by night.

     I always like to ask the tour guide a question here and there. In case she thinks I haven't been paying attention, this proves it beyond any doubt. "Do you think that today Mark Twain would still say that the reports of his death were greatly exaggerated?" 

     I remember visiting the Mark Twain House when I was little with my Grandmother. All you grandparents out there, remember, you're never going to totally understand your grand-kids' world. They may not know how to let you into it. But you can let them into yours, just as my Grandmother did. By instilling in me a lifelong love of birds, gardening, cooking and so many other things, her legacy will live on every time I burn a casserole.

     I don't think a grandparent can buy children's affection with a few toys and some candy. It will take several toys and a lot of candy. Another, more time-consuming but effective way, is to take them out of their house before their parents think of chores for them to do, and spend a little time with them. And adults can learn a lot from children, too; Mark Twain said it best: "The most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they know and then stop.”

     I'd be fine with having grandchildren, but I found out you have to have children first and see how that goes. I'd be a good grandfather, and if my grand-kids had children I would a great grandfather. My brother-in-law Paul reads a story to his grand-kids a few times a week by zoom, which I think is a great idea. I can picture me doing the same thing: "Okay, Rickster III, I'm going to read you one of my favorite nursery rhymes. Ready? Here it is: 'Cursory.' You may not understand that until you grow up to be JUST LIKE ME, but it's a real time-saver."

     The museum offers a unique experience: you can book a writing session in Mark Twain's library, along with seven other participants. If it goes really well and you finish something, I guess you can just add it to the shelf. Anyone caught drawing will politely be removed to the drawing room. I think I'd be too self-conscious to write anything, because I'd spend the whole three hours comparing myself to Twain. In my own opinion, I'm taller, better at tennis, and I think a slightly better writer. Not everyone would agree that I'm a better writer than Shania Twain, but most would not argue that I am taller.
 

ATHLETE'S FOOT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-24-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     My orthopedist's office is my home-awayfrom-home these days. I've been putting some of his kids through college by re-injuring my foot as many times as he has kids. Once I confirmed that he isn't planning to have any more children, he performed a percutaneous skeletal fixation of a fracture in my fifth metatarsal. And each word of that sentence over three syllables cost me a thousand dollars towards my deductible. The medical community has a special committee that makes up words that immediately vaporize if used outside of a clinical context. Too bad, because if I told you that your hair was looking quite percutaneous today, we could both go home happy, and you'd have your truth, and I'd have mine.

     He told me that the injury is not uncommon among athletes. I said, "Then YOU explain how it got into MY foot." There are some things that medical school cannot prepare you for. The hardest part is answering people who ask how it happened. I guess it was from playing tennis, but it's hard to believe I was playing vigorously enough to break my foot. Sometimes things just happen to me for their own reasons. I'm the type of person that could write a "poison pen" letter, and somehow kill myself with the pen by accident. So I made up a more plausible scenario of how I broke my foot: "I was about to go onstage and someone said 'Break a leg.' Obviously I didn't think they were talking about my own, so I broke my foot kicking the other members of my band in the leg."

     So I got to the hospital for my surgery, and was met at the front desk by a very pleasant lady whom I can only assume was the maître d'. I tipped her first thing, insuring myself a good seat. Every doctor or nurse I came into contact with tried to stump me with the same question: what is my name and birthday? They didn't ask me my address, so I knew I wasn't going to get a birthday card. I answered a different way each time, and that's how they knew it was really me. Then a nurse asked me which foot we were operating on, and I told her the right foot, but I would have said that no matter which foot was broken. Their motto is, if it ain't broken, don't fix it, unless it's covered by insurance.

     There's a lot I can still do even on only one foot: I can still grouse, I can still carp, I can still bemoan, I can still objurgate, I can still grumble, I can still grizzle. That's six things right there. Running a Marathon? Not anytime soon, which coincidentally is also my best time.

     I was informed that the procedure was successful. I was a little groggy as the anesthesia wore off in the recovery room, but the nurses said I could go home as soon as I started making sense. I pictured myself as a modern-day "Jeff" Jeffries, the broken-footed hero in "Rear Window." I'm about to expose Thorwald for killing his wife, but he figures out where I live and now it's just me and him, so I point my camera to blind him with my flash, just like in the movie. "Hold on, my flash is set on a ten-second delay. I have to check the instruction book, but actually the instructions are in a .pdf file on the manufacturer's website. Give me a moment Thorwald, you impatient scoundrel. Found it- nope, it's in Arabic. I'm going to have to poll the 'Online Community.' Stop right there, Thorwald, or these pictures go right on Facebook, and you are not going to love the unflattering lighting."

     Then I imagined myself as a modern-day "Fugitive," hunted by the innocent but relentless Dr. Richard Kimble, but instead of one arm I have only one foot. "Have you seen a one-footed man here?" Kimble asks a guy stacking carts at the supermarket. He says, "Why, yes, he was shopping here at around noon." "NOON! That means he has a two-hour head start!" "Well actually, he's right over there, still hopping towards the parking lot exit." 

     Or I could be a modern-day "Ironside," a chief of detectives fighting crime with my broken foot from a wheelchair. "Chief, this investigation has stalled, what should we do??" "We go where the clues take us, that's what we do." "Sir, all the evidence seems to point to the house at the top of that hill, and we'll be right behind you." "Actually, I think I saw some clues heading DOWN that hill over there, so I'll just take the low road. Later!" "But Chief! CHIEF!" 

     The nurses got tired of waiting for me to make sense and released me on my own recognizance, since they couldn't find anyone else who would let me onto their recognizance.

SPECIAL TEAMS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-17-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     We attended our local high school's football game last Friday, a semifinal post-season meeting that could pave the way to a date at the State Championships. It was decidedly a one-sided affair as the home team dominated on both defense and offense. It was fun to sit in the stands and remember what it was like during those four years that formed so many friendships and forged so much foundation of character. You couldn't read any of that on those teenage faces, consumed by the gravitational pull of an iPhone, making absolutely sure not to hear Mom calling from up in the 12th row.

     I was surprised they even let me back onto high school grounds at all after what happened the first time. Growing up I was never known for my academic prowess, and I had to marshal all of my brain power just to escape from Horace Greeley with a 1.7 grade point average. My SATs didn't go much better. I heard that you got a hundred points just for signing your name, so I signed mine eight times.

     I did not go out for athletics when I was in high school, I was too busy trying to establish my budding career in rock & roll, which is still waiting to flower. Just the word "athletics" implied that I had to be athletic more than once, which seemed unlikely. "All right Melén," the coach would have said at tryouts, "why don't you show us what you can do." And I proceed to put both thumbs behind my knuckles, which not many people can do. Then I perform Chopin's "Minute Waltz" by slapping my cheeks in perfect tune and I bring it in in 58 seconds. I close with a very credible imitation of a family of pigs, papa, mama and baby. Tada! "That was a disturbing display, Melén, but what's any of that got to do with football?" "Nothing, Coach, but I'd like to see YOU try it." I was surprised to find that the Coach was also double-jointed and musically inclined.

     I wasn't strong or fast enough to be a fullback, a halfback or a quarterback. A sixteenth of a back would probably be my top offer, and let somebody else make up the difference. If none of those, what slot would I fill? I'm quite sure that my position would be offensive, much as most of my positions are now. Or maybe I would have tried out for nose tackle. It seems to me that if I could just get somebody's nose onto the ground, the rest of him should follow, if I'm doing it right. Place-kicker might have been the best fit for me, as long as I could choose the place.

     No matter if was sports, rock & roll or the debate team, it was all about attracting the attention of others. I've noticed that a fair amount of individuality is often revealed through teenage hair. I saw a lot of interesting dyes and cuts among the guys on the team. It's possible that when they get to be my age they'll look back on their personal style choices and think, wow, I was way ahead of my time. My time still hasn't caught up to me, considering I wear my hair pretty much the same way as I did then, and I'm pretty lucky to still have it around for people to complain about.

     If high school kids really were as smart as they think they are, they would shave just the top of their head, thin it out around the sides and color the rest gray. That way, 50 years from now they can post some throwback pictures on Facebook and let their stunned friends comment, "WOW! You're amazing! You look EXACTLY the same as you did then!"

     The cheerleaders stayed mostly over in the student section, but at halftime they wandered over to our area, and wherever they cheerled, we cheerfollowed. I expected that cheerleaders would be naturally cheerful, but they had a huge jug of Dunkin' Donuts coffee just in case the school spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.

     Looking at those young faces at the game, dashing by, in a determined rush to find somewhere more significant, grinding through these years as if they were just like any other, made me want to call out and tell them to slow down and capture these times into a snow globe, one that you can look at from the outside, turn upside down and let it settle slowly from chaos into order, only to be shaken again countless times.... But that's something that can't be taught; it can only be learned....

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-10-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     So, what have you got planned for next Tuesday? Most people will be going to the polls, and casting their vote. I'll be having my foot operated on, voting for a cast. After all, it is elective surgery.... As painful as it will be for me, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. Following returns all night long, the potential for a depressing result, obvious losers who refuse to concede, and on top of that I'm never going to fit into your shoes with this cast on.

     At least it will bring a welcome end to those political ads, which I can't stomach for either party. I would love to see political ads banned from television, forcing people to actually read about the candidates and figure out a coherent reason for supporting one over the other. Then I remembered that I work for television, and these ads help pay my exorbitant salary, and now they give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. 

     I have consciously avoided discussing politics here because if I do, afterwards I feel like earthworms have been crawling all over my body, and believe me the sensation is no less unpleasant for the earthworms. These days everything is black or white, all or nothing, good or bad. If you spin something that's black and white it turns gray, and the gray areas are much more interesting. Subtlety and nuance lives there, as does art and music. If politics could be a little more like art and music, it wouldn't sound so horrible all the time.

     Also, and I don't want to sound any more ignorant than usual, but there are some offices that I have no idea what they do, and I mean this with no disrespect. I'm sure that comptrollers are out there every day fighting the good fight, but I can't remember the last time someone said, "This situation is out of comptroll! Only a competent comptroller can keep this thing from going haywire!"

     I also don't know what an adjutant does, but I suspect that if my comptroller had an one, he or she would send them along to do all the dirty work, and then swoop in to take all the credit afterwards. A bursar's duties are a bit of a mystery to me, other than doing the billeting. And here's a bulletin: I don't know what billeting is either. I do know that a bursar sounds like it could be harmful to your skin. "Didn't you used to have a bursar in the office next door?" "Yes, and we had to call a doctor in to have it removed. I was going to lance it myself with a barbecue skewer, but my secretary talked me out of it."

     Just listening to most politicians talk is like watching an embarrassing Oscar speech. Judging by the brainpower of some members of the Senate, it seems easier to get a seat there than on the Number 7 train during rush hour. It's like the old joke that to escape, I don't have to run faster than the lion, I only have to run faster than YOU. Politicians don't have to be smarter than the average high school graduate, they just have to be louder and more annoying than the one running against them. 

     Why not make the race a REAL race, like a pentathlon? Five events to find out which candidate is the worthiest. The first event is the "Skeleton," where we count the number of scandals each contestant has in their closet, and see whose is the seamiest. Next is the "International Spin," where we present each candidate with a tragic overseas natural disaster, and see which one can make it most about THEM. In the "Political Football" event, we take an issue that no one wants to talk about, like lowering their own salaries, and whichever one can keep from making a face like they just ate tainted seafood wins. Next is "Discuss Throw," where, when presented with a specific topic to discuss, he or she thinks about it thoughtfully, then proceeds to answer a question that was never asked. Lastly, "Artistic Pandering" measures a candidate's ability to make a specific and brainless statement designed to appeal to the least intelligent segment of the population, and then tries to get Mexico pay for it.

     So, Melén, I guess you think you could do any better? Hell no, I would be disqualified after the first hacker gets hold of my browser history. Oh, I don't have any more to answer to than any other normal guy, but anyone looking at the weird searches I do to research this column would have to conclude that I should be institutionalized sooner rather than later.

LIFE IS A MASQUERADE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-03-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 
     Last weekend we went to a fun Halloween party with our friends Mark and Laurie, and I know what you're probably thinking: "Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" And to that I say, "Yes." Here's where you're expecting me to say, "HOWEVER," and say why Halloween is fun for children of all ages, etc. But really, I'm just in it for the candy, plain and simple, plain and peanut.

     The hardest part is figuring out what I'm going to be. Being me is hard enough for people to put up with. Furthermore, any costume I put together has the Dolly llama to be compared with. That was the time when I went as Dolly Parton, with my acoustic guitar as an accessory, except that my face was that of a llama, which I constructed out of my wife's bathroom rug. My llama face had a movable mouth which I controlled with a string, and I could accompany myself on the guitar in a chorus of "9 to 5" or "Jolene." Picture it in your mind, if you will, and if you won't it's probably for the best.

     Two weeks later when my wife asked me if I had any idea what happened to the bathroom rug, I had to tell her the truth. "Honey, I think we may have been robbed. That was probably a Persian rug, and it could have been very valuable. We were no doubt the victim of a cat burglar, my guess is it was a Persian cat."  

     I always think of a better costume the day after the party. I won't tell you what I was this year because it was kind of dumb, but I had to fashion a war service medal, and I needed a metal piece from one of our light fixtures. "No, Honey, I don't know why we always get robbed this time of year, but don't worry, next Halloween I'm going as Sherlock Holmes, and I'll get to the bottom of this."

     I love a good party, but I've always wanted to be invited to a real masquerade ball. You know the kind of affair I'm talking about, with beautiful women dressed as Queen Victoria, wearing an exorbitant wig, holding up a flirtatious eye mask, her husband dressed as a handsome viscount, whatever the hell that is. "So, madame, who am I talking to? All I can see are your eyes, but I feel like they are looking straight through to my soul. It's like you can see right through me, and somehow know that I got my viscount costume at a discount. Did you make that mask yourself?" "No, it's a certified N95 mask I got on Amazon."

     You know that if someone invites you to a costume ball, it's going to be big, expensive, and the food's going to be top-notch. You know this for a fact, because no one wants to be known for their small balls. But if I was invited, would I even go? It could be dangerous, because at every costume ball I've ever seen on television or the movies, someone gets killed. And there are always two people dressed in the same costume as the killer, which creates a whole lot of confusion and mayhem. I guess if I want to play it safe I'll dress as a gangster, carry a violin case, and you'll just have to guess whether there's a machine gun in there or if I'm just planning to kill you softly with my song.

     If you want to enjoy a successful evening I have some tips for you: 1.) Avoid anything served in a cauldron. Yes, it's probably just chili, but if somebody spits out the eye of a newt, you'll think of me kindly for once for warning you. By the way, I see a lot of newts bumping into things towards the end of October, because depth perception suffers with only one eye. 2.) Remember that you're eventually going to have to go to the bathroom. I always manage to overlook that simple fact when designing my costume, and it results in me eventually tearing a hole in something that shouldn't have a hole in it, and then I have to cover it up with something inappropriate that dropped off of somebody else's costume. 3.) Don't drink too much at the party. Have you ever been stopped by the police dressed as a policeman? It's probably not going to go as well as you thought it would.

     It seems like at every Halloween party I've ever been to, I end up watching a Yankee playoff game in a crowded room with a television set. While all the Mets fans are having a good time forgetting about baseball, dancing in the other room, we're looking glum because the Yankees always lose on the Saturday before Halloween. It results in sore dinosaurs, morose monsters, pessimistic pirates and woeful wenches. And there's some sad things known to man, but none truly sadder than the tears of a clown.

BEARLY A SCRATCH

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-27-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Habitats are shrinking every day, and if we're not careful there's a species that may soon find itself on the endangered list. And that species is US. When we went into the woods behind our property the other day we noticed a tree missing half its bark from about 3 to 8 feet from the ground. We posted a picture of it on social media and everyone weighed in with their theories: Deer rubbing their antlers (they would have had to find a stepladder); a woodpecker (you'd have to be an awfully big pecker to peck that much wood); a cougar (maybe a cougar holding a woodpecker); a beaver (building a dam in the middle of the woods?); lightning (if lightning struck using a Milwaukee Sawzall); Sasquatch (the most plausible of the bunch). 

     But at the very top of the damage was a gouge in the exact shape of a paw with sharp claws on it. It couldn't have been more obvious if it had left fingerprints, a DNA profile and a written confession. I couldn't figure out what a bear would want that's inside that tree- was it GOLD? I started scratching into it in a frenzy until my wife calmly escorted me back inside to research the phenomenon. Apparently bears dig into trees when they are desperate for food, and the inner sapwood provides a source of nutrients that is at least, obviously, high in fiber. It made me wonder what the other bears thought of the first bear that suggested eating raw wood. "Wow what a great idea! What wine goes with wood? Hey, look over there- it's a storm drain cover! Why don't you give that a try! It's high in iron! In fact, its... grate!" 

     It seemed a little scary to me that a bear can inflict this much pain on a full-grown tree. I had an image in my mind of bears as a somewhat benign and friendly group. They usually talk, have a hug named after them and sometimes dance. I think of Winnie the Pooh, a bear who likes poetry, speaks in an accent, has a best friend who's an ass, and wears a shirt but no pants. Maybe this is a bad example. 

     Yet they always seemed caring and helpful. When I was a little kid, Smokey the Bear would come on TV and tell me, "Only YOU can prevent forest fires!" And I thought to myself, "Who, ME? What the hell am I supposed to do about it?" I didn't even live near a forest. There was nobody else who could help?

     Even in the story of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," the bears let her go without so much as a blonde hair out of place even though she was technically guilty of breaking and entering. If I was Goldilocks, and I'm pretty sure she HATED being called that, I would get into the Bears' garbage cans and spread their trash all over the driveway, add a little ironic comic twist to the story.

     Nowadays there is a family of bears starring in their own television commercial, and come to think of it they do not really come out looking too good either. The family has chosen toilet paper as the focus of their budget, and they're trying to cut down. They argue incessantly about how many sheets they should use. Winnie the Pooh never did THAT, and his last name is POOH.

     And of course there were Teddy bears, whose name came from an incident in which Theodore Roosevelt refused to shoot a bear that had been treed and subdued during a hunting trip, deeming it poor sportsmanship. That turned the bear into a cuddly stuffed toy that lived on your pillow. Mine was a kind of scary-looking old soul with only one eye and mangy fur and looked like he shouldn't be left alone with children.

     Bears have other weird habits. There are many reports of them raiding bird-feeders, as if some sunflower seeds are going to satisfy a 500-pound appetite. Does that sound like the work of a sane animal? Also, who, besides my Dad, could spend the entire winter in the den? Maybe my tree-eating bear is the most normal of the crowd. We have a beautiful cherry tree in our front yard and I don't want him getting any ideas about becoming the "George Washington of Bears." Even if he doesn't lie about chopping it down afterwards, it's just as dead either way, and I couldn't bear the thought of it.

UNDERSTANDING FOOTBALL

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-13-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Now that we've settled a few weeks into the football season, I must confess that there are still some things about the game that remain inscrutable to me. For instance, I don't understand the running back who just finished running 40 yards for a touchdown. He's tired, that I can understand, too tired to lift that plastic bottle of Gatorade, so somebody runs up to him and squirts it in his mouth. First of all, he has to blindly trust that the guy has good enough aim to get it in his mouth, and not squirt some of it up his nose. Then, as thirsty as he is, he spits it all right back out. How is he going to recharge his electrolytes doing that? Thank god no one offers him a bowl of borscht after the touchdown.

     I don't understand why some of the penalties seem way too severe, and others seem way too lenient. If your kicker kicks a kickoff out of bounds the other team gets to start from their 40-yard line, which seems excessive to me. Yet, right after the quarterback throws the ball, you can pick him up by the nape of his neck, shake him like a squeaky toy, and toss him back down on his head and no one will think any less of you, except the quarterback. 

     I'll admit I can waste a lot of time doing dumb things. For instance, I can easily spend 20 minutes scraping all the mayonnaise out of the bottom of the jar, not because I'm so cheap that I can't just buy another jar, it's because I don't want the mayonnaise to win. But I can't fathom the amount of time people spend playing fantasy football. My friend Paul says it's not a waste of time, he won $100 last year. He said he's been doing it for about six years, and it only costs $200 a year to get in. We have different ideas about some things I guess, because I'm pretty sure there aren't any guys at all on MY fantasy team.

     Sports betting has spawned a whole new industry of stat-keeping, if you can understand the bets themselves. You can just choose your favorite team and bet the spread if you want, and either give away points or take points, based on who is projected to win. If you're feeling frisky you can choose a parlay bet, explained in simplistic terms on the internet as, "a single bet on three or more unrelated events. Each of those events is referred to as a ‘leg’ of the bet. The entire stake is applied to the first leg. If it wins, the total return from that first leg is used as the stake for the second leg." A picture is worth a thousand words, but that's going to require a two or three thousand-word picture.

     They have something called "sabermetrics" for baseball, which means: the quantitative analysis of data relative to the comparative performance of individual players. Before I knew what sabermetrics meant I was totally against it, because it sounded like an exercise class that my wife might try to shame me into taking. But now that I've seen the definition, I have even less idea what it actually is than I did before.

     I don't understand the need to see a player sustaining that gruesome injury in super slo-mo, over and over, from different angles. Players have gotten so big and so fast that they can cause the human body to twist in directions that are not represented on the average compass. If someone's knee ends up looking like a German wurzelbrot, I do NOT want to see how it got that way. In fact, even if you invite me to dinner and cook a German wurzelbrot, I do not want to see how it got that way. 

     I don't understand why anyone plays the game at all. Through the years, safety equipment has come a long way, but helmets still have those guards around the player's mouth to prevent them from biting anybody. And today there is much stronger attention to brain injuries, which can be hard to diagnose. The symptoms can mirror other conditions such as amnesia. If a player forgets who he is after a blow to the head, it can be time consuming to narrow it down using the process of elimination. 

     I'm six-foot-two, and if I enter any home built before 1955 I will definitely knock my head against a low-flying beam at some point during the visit, possibly damaging the structural integrity of the house. When that happens, I want you to administer the following test: Ask me what a parlay bet is, and if I answer it correctly, please have me airlifted to the nearest hospital.
 

A FIRE-STRUM OF ACTIVITY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-20-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Last Saturday I attended a "friends hootenanny," where a bunch of us get together with our guitars and some percussion instruments and see if we can get the neighbors to call the cops. There was no square dancing, and if there was dancing I'm quite sure it would have been in a shape that Pythagoras would need a new theory for. There was no barn with bales of hay to sit on, and the only cowbell there did not have a cow attached to it, which made it much easier to play.

     There were no jugs of bathtub hootch, but there were plenty of libations in keeping with the spirits of the occasion. There was a full fall lineup of mulled cider, mulled wine, I think there was even mulled water for those mulling a long drive home. I brought my own domestic, mass-produced light beer with me so that if I get stopped by the police on the way home, they're not going to ask me if I've had too much to drink, but if I've had enough. People assume that I am glum drinking such banal brew. "Wouldn't you be happier with one of these full-bodied, hoppy IPAs?" No one bothers to ask the IPA if it would be happier with ME. "It has hints of chocolate and cherry-wood!" I don't need any hints, I'll get it my own. "This one is so bitter it will make your uvula furl up. I hate it! I've had three already!" "This one is a white-coffee stout. It's very well-balanced, like a really good checkbook." "This one doesn't even have a label, but I add a little to my gas tank every now and then and it cleans out the carburetor." I'm good, thanks anyway.     Our host Athina prepared a wonderful outdoor supper. When people go to great lengths to cook nice food for their guests, I try to slow down my devouring process so that I can appreciate it more. Usually I'm like a raccoon with an eating disorder, rummaging through the refrigerator looking for something that seems lonesome, and I eat it before I can positively identify it. 

     When the sun went down the guitars came out and the fire blazed. We came together over music and friendship. There were Republicans, there were Democrats. There were no Independents that I know of, and if there were we would have brow-beaten them until you could hardly recognize their eyebrows. I'm just kidding about the eyebrows. If you can't put your differences aside around a campfire, then where can you put them aside? "Are those your differences over there next to the woodpile?" "Yes, that's them." "You didn't put them very far aside, I can see them from here. Tell you what, I'm going to put mine over there too, and if we want to stoke up the fire we're going to have to get past our differences."

     The only argument we had wasn't even about politics, it was about what key the Beatles' "In My Life" is in. I say it's in the key of A,  and Phil insists that it was recorded in A-flat, and sped up to A. My suggestion that we play it in A and do it slower was met with scorn. I ended up playing it in A while Phil did it in A-flat, and as a result we discovered how jazz was invented. We also did one of my favorite Springsteen songs, "I'm on Fire." The whole time I was tapping my toe I didn't realize how close it was to the flames, and as a result I nearly discovered how "I'm on Fire" was invented. The music chugged on.

     It reminded me of sitting around the campfire telling ghost stories. You try to scare each other with the most chilling tale you can think of. I don't remember ever doing that, but I'll get my chance after I'm long gone, and I sit around the campfire with my friends telling stories about people who are living. They're much scarier than ghosts could ever be. If I ever want to frighten people at a campfire I'll just tell them that at one time I was thinking of becoming a teacher.

     I hope we can pass the tradition on to the next generation. The thought of a bunch of DJs sitting around a campfire mixing snippets of EDM together makes me want to root for the fire.

     Was my guitar out of tune this whole time? I used an electronic tuner, but apparently I had it set to "oboe." It didn't matter. It was just another thing to laugh at. And if you can't laugh at yourself, anyone of the people there would be happy to do it for you. Remember, you can pick your friends, and you can pick your guitar, but you can't pick your friend's guitar.

COMMERCIAL INTEREST

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-29-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Sometimes I feel that Madison Avenue and myself are not on the same planet. I'm not criticizing the entire avenue, there are certain street corners that are entirely blameless. I'm talking about the Madison Avenue that used to be known as the advertising industry, which is probably not even Madison Avenue anymore anyway, but somebody's living room with a guy in shorts and a tee shirt. And that guy, wherever he is, is out of touch with my needs.

     He could very well be a "she." One very annoying lady who looks like she shot her entire commercial with a selfie-stick, proceeds to inventory all the human body parts that might create odor, and what she intends to do about it. Her face is in such a tight close up that no matter how far away I am from the screen she feels like she is invading my personal space, evaluating my odors. She seems like she is on a personal quest to remove any sense of mystery related to women. In order for there ever to be mystery again, a woman is going to have to kill me and leave very little evidence. Whenever I see a commercial like that I thank god that poets probably never watch television.

     Another overzealous pitchwoman is out to convince you that you have more bags under your eyes than the claim carousel at JFK, and she has the "hottest videos on social media" to prove it. Using only people who looked like they went to the trouble to escape from prison to test out this magic cream, she gleefully extols the virtues of a product called Plexaderm, which sounds like either a dinosaur or something that caused their extinction.

     Emeril is a television chef who is most famous for yelling the word "BAM!" while he's preparing dinner. My Mother-in-law was a great cook, but if I ever heard her yell "BAM!" from inside the kitchen I would begin to wonder if whatever she was cooking was even dead before she put it in the oven. Anyway, he's back on TV selling something called the French Door Air Fryer. It's a cooking device that has French doors, so that you can look inside from its balcony and see if the food is comfortable. If I peek in and see that my rump roast is not reclining on the cabriole sofa underneath the chandelier that I provided for it, I will be disappointed. Très contrarié.

     In another commercial a group of people at a grocery store have cornered an insurance salesman in the produce section. "You're Jonathan, from the TV commercials," they exclaim, giddy with the excitement that comes from being in the orbit of insurance salesmen. Soon, the entire clientele of the supermarket is firing questions at the poor guy from all sides abandoning any interest they once had in cauliflower. I've never actually felt sorry for an insurance salesman before, and it gave me a weird feeling inside, as if I may now start also having feelings of compassion towards television psychics and lawyers who have overestimated the amount of time I've spent at Camp LeJeune. I don't have the heart to tell my lawyer that when I was there I only drank bottled water ("You did WHAT?").

     Everyone is talking about nasal irrigation! At least that's what they're saying on the Navage commercial, and if true, is certainly no dumber than some of the other things I've heard everyone talking about. Did you know that germs and allergens can enter your body through your nose? Once you irrigate them with a nasal cleanser how can you be sure they won't grow and thrive like last year's avocado crop?

     Two-thirds of all automobiles sold in the United States will need a major repair during the first seven years of ownership. Ever since I made up that statistic I've been hearing noises coming from my engine. I don't think it's anything important but a light started flashing on my dashboard recently that says, "PURCHASE NEW CAR." Plus, every time I applied the brakes I heard a squealing sound (that turned out to be my wife; I was going a little fast). I was told by my mechanic that I needed a complete overhaul of my car's endocrine system. I asked him where exactly that was and he pointed in the general direction of my car. So, it's obvious that I should have gotten Car Shield after all.

     Maybe Madison Avenue does have my best interests at heart. Maybe I do need my car protected, my nose irrigated, my life insured, my air fried, my dark circles reduced and my odors neutralized. But I'm not going to get any of that done unless I ACT NOW. So if you see me later and wonder what exactly I'm doing, I'm acting.

ENDLESS SUMMER

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-22-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     My friend Paul hates the heat and wants nothing more than for summer to be over a couple weeks before it begins. I, on the other hand, want to prolong the balmy weather for as long as possible. I want to wear white long after Labor Day, knowing full well that I will spill spaghetti sauce on it as often as necessary. My fall season consists of keeping summer alive on life support, applying warm compresses to its forehead and whispering words of encouragement in its ear. At least I HOPE that was its ear. I'm not ready for the last hurrah of summer, so if you hear me say "hurrah," you'll know it was for something else.

     So we headed upstate to our favorite little town on Lake Oneida for the Labor Day weekend to scratch out a few more golden rays. The drive up was pleasant, I was daydreaming a bit, and when I woke from my reverie I found I was behind two motorboats, and they were going pretty fast. If I'd have known you could go that fast on land I never would have put my boat in the water. We arrived just in time for a beautiful sunset over the lake. 

     The weather was perfect for outdoor dining at the cafe. There's still a drought going on so restaurants were serving only dehydrated water. A musician was playing guitar and singing, and he also had a drum machine, a harmonizer, keyboard tracks, bass tracks and a truckload of reverb and guitar effects. One of these days all that technology might eventually get together and decide that he is superfluous. He did look a little lonely on stage; without anyone to fight with what's the point of being in a band?

     Next day we settled in at the shore beach, and I found an AM station on my transistor radio that brought me right back to my childhood. I was afraid it was going to leave me there with only a paper route as a means of support. It was a time when Jeremiah was best known for being a bullfrog, a time when you could walk like a man, talk like a man, even while singing like a girl in falsetto. It was a time when love grows where my Rosemary goes, and I wish I could get her to stand on my lawn for just a few seconds, so at least SOMETHING would grow there. It was a time when music was really, well actually it was not as good as I remembered it. But it was the feeling that that it brought was very comfortable, which was a refreshing change from my beach chair. Who knew that you could still find such a station on a transistor radio? Who knew you could still find a transistor radio?

     About 30 boats were tied up together in a festive flotilla. I don't have my boat anymore, and it's a good thing because it would have been ME who waved farewell to the other rowdy revelers after my picnic, put my throttle to the metal, only to remember too late that I was tied to all those other boats. What a coincidence that we're all going to my slip! I waded closer to the boats from shore to see their names. One was called, "Ya Gotta Love It," it doesn't say what, so I decide to just play along and love everything. One was called, "Go With the Floo" (there is no spelling test to get your boat registration), there were TWO named "It's 5 O'clock Somewhere," so between the two of them I guess it's 10 o'clock somewhere. There was one named, if you didn't already guess, "El Duderino." If your boat is named "El Duderino," you've already told me everything I need to know about you.

     At night we went over to the casino. Even though we are not gamblers, we love the energy and the selection in restaurants and nightlife. We settled on Chinese cuisine, there they wait on you hand and feet, even though I don't need my feet waited on. Asian chefs and I disagree about the actual minimum daily requirement for celery. I feel that celery is good for demonstrating the principle of capillary action to grade school science students, and for stirring bloody Marys, and that seems more than enough. At the end of the meal I ask for three fortune cookies, in case I have to break a tie.

     At the bar a country band was playing, so at least I knew I would not be hearing any Britney Spears for the evening. That observation held true only for two more songs, and then oops, she did it again. The country band may not have been from this country. We wandered back out to the slot machines to try our luck, and we beat the one-armed bandit. If he had had two arms I'm sure he could have taken us. We won just enough money for two more drinks to toast a summer well-spent.

THE EMPTY NEST SYNDROME

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-15-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     It's now September and as I sit in my car, stuck behind a school bus that stops at EVERY kid's house, I have plenty of time to think that if I only had children, at least the bus driver would probably be yelling at my kid, saving me the trouble of doing it myself, and I'd actually be saving time right now. When I was that age I had to walk a good half mile to the bus stop, and usually the half mile wasn't even that good. 

     Sometimes somebody asks me, do you ever regret not having children? There are pros and cons. To bear children is to cultivate a source of cheap labor, and maybe you can eventually get them to mow the lawn, but these days, kids expect to be paid for it. From the time your children are old enough to babysit for each other, you can expect their Venmo account name to come up during any conversation they have with you. 

     I was never asked to babysit when I was younger, even though I was extremely responsible. In fact, if you were to ask my parents, they'd tell you that everything bad that ever happened in our house, I was responsible for. We didn't get paid for the work we did, instead we were given an "allowance." Which was ironic because we weren't allowed to do anything.

     What if my kids ask me to play sports with them and they learn I'm not that great at it? "Dad, can we kick around the soccer ball? I have a game on Saturday." "Tell you what, Son, I have a project coming up at work, why don't we kick around a few ideas instead? Or how about Scrabble? I was quite good at it when I was in better shape. I was going to go out for football but my feet weren't as athletic as the rest of me wasn't." "Dad, my sports are soccer and lacrosse- you should know that by now." I say, "Ah, lacrosse, I am quite familiar with it. That thing that looks like a stick with a jock strap attached to it. The game was actually played by Native American tribes and named by the French colonists. In French, 'lacrosse' means 'the crosse.'" Eventually the kid leaves and I win father-of-the-year AGAIN.

     What if they ask me to help them with their homework? "Dad, can you help me with a math question?" I say, "Of course I can, son. What is the answer to y=7x?" "Exactly Dad, what is the answer" "I have no earthly idea, you only asked me to help with the question." I guess I could instruct him in English, since I am sort of a writer, right? "Son, just remember this rule: 'i before e, except after c.' It carries a lot of weight." "What about the word 'weight?'" "Okay, Son, well if you're not sure just look it up in the dictionary. It's the big fat book over there with all the dust on it." He says, "How can I look up how to spell it if I don't know how to spell it?" If kids are already so smart what are all these school taxes for?

     What if I have to have "The Talk" with my son? "Why don't you ask Mom?" I ask. "Mom told me it's a Father/Son thing so ask YOU." Nobody had "The Talk" with me, but mostly my Dad yelled at me, so he might have yelled "The Talk" at me at some point. "Here: why don't you watch this movie." I hand him a DVD. "Dad this is the movie, 'After Hours.' It has nothing to do with any of this." "I know Son, but it's a really good movie. Do me a favor and let me know if you think Teri Garr and Rosanna Arquette are hot in it. If not, we'll need to have a completely different Talk."

     I always hear parents say, "I love my kids to DEATH," and they don't seem to be just kidding. I'd like to think that it's no reflection on how much my parents loved me that I'm the one who's still alive. I'm sure they somewhat loved me, but I also know that children are like burritos; the further you are removed from your experience with them, the better they seemed.

     I'm in the process of making out my will, and I don't have any kids to leave my fortune to. Come to think of it, I don't have the fortune either. But there's something slightly comforting about the fact that no one will be that upset when I spend my very last dime on a really ugly and expensive watch that confirms everyone's suspicions that I was senile.

     People used to ask me if we were thinking about having children, and I would say, maybe one day. At the end of that day I wouldn't be surprised if they asked to be put up for adoption.

GREETINGS FROM ASBURY PARK

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-08-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic
 

     Time is running out before the days get shorter, so short you can barely make them out even with your reading glasses on. The Jersey Shore is still open though, to help you wring out the last drops of summer. I stayed for a weekend near Asbury Park, and you'd think that with the word "Park" right in the name, it would be easier to do. By the time I found an open space I had worked up quite an appetite. 

     I don't mind tavern food for dinner, the choices are limited so it speeds up the decision process. We're in a drought so I thought it irresponsible to order hot wings and have to wash them down with gallons of water. The girl next to me ordered them and spontaneously combusted. Instead I ordered a beer as an appetizer, and the barmaid who served me had false eyelashes so long that they arrived a few minutes before my beer did. It's probably not good form to use the word "barmaid" these days, I don't want to imply that she's there to tidy up the place. She could be a qualified mixologist for all I know, after years of schooling to become a lawyer but never passing the bar without actually working there.

     After dinner the place filled up and a DJ started spinning records, or whatever the electronic eqivalent of DJ is, perhaps also "mixologist." All of a sudden a huge cloud descended on the dance floor, and I thought great, this might help the drought. But it wasn't a rain cloud, it was just a superfluous cumulus. I've looked at clouds from both sides now, and still somehow, I'm not sure why they sometimes form in bars.

     The dance floor was so crowded that the last thing you'd expect was for a limbo contest to break out, but that's exactly what happened. Who knows where people would get a limbo stick, but I guess Security was too polite to mention it when they patted you down at the door. Excuse me sir but is that a limbo stick in your pocket? It was goofy and fun however, and useful to see exactly how low some people are willing to stoop.

     The following day, the beach is the perfect place to nurse a hangover, because your misery has plenty of company. I trudged out there with a beach chair, my broken foot still in a walking boot. I read that they discovered new dinosaur tracks in Texas and the ones I left walking around in that boot were bigger. Millions of years from now when they discover those tracks, they can speculate on how tall I stood and if I was carnivorous or not. 

     I lie around under my umbrella, read a book, do the crossword and people-watch to see if anyone is doing anything they'll regret later. I used to court danger at the beach, I'd go body surfing in big waves, parasailing, or I went snorkeling in places that barracuda are known to frequent. I read someplace that the barracuda are attracted to your watch, but if they eat me to get my watch, the joke's on them because it's a cheap watch. It's supposed to be water-resistant to 50 meters, and if it stops working under the ocean it's because I don't know how many feet are in a meter. 

     Anyway, I've learned in my old age that the shore is no place to test your bravery. There were a bunch of people on a banana boat, that floatable tube that's shaped like a banana and towed behind a speed boat, and even that looked like too much fun for my own good. "Rick Melén perished falling off a banana boat yesterday, although it was not moving at the time. He was likely attacked by barracuda, possibly for his watch which, while water-resistant, was sadly not barracuda-resistant."

     The weekend ends totally uneventfully, just the way I like it. Even the ride home was pretty smooth, and so little traffic that I didn't know what to do with myself. I was daydreaming a little, and when I looked down at the pavement there was the word "ONLY" written on the road. I missed the beginning of the sentence but I guess certain drivers are not allowed on the Garden State Parkway. It must not be a very exclusive club if I'm allowed in it. I thought things were going quite well in fact, but for no discernable reason my GPS lady announced that she was adding 20 minutes to my trip. Why is it that no one ever thinks to add 20 minutes to something that I ENJOY doing?

A BIT ABOUT A BOOT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-01-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     So, I did something to my foot and now I'm in a walking boot. This boot is made for walking, but that doesn't seem like it's first choice for things to do. Walking is about the last thing this contraption wants to do, but I guess that's the point. Plus they only give you one boot, and it has about a two-inch heel. I suppose I could get one for my left foot and go on tour with Elton John. But right now I'm listing to the left, a little like the Titanic. Actually the similarities are striking, in that we both must have struck something. I tried to ignore the injury at first, and "play through it." I was "toughing it out" thinking that playing tennis while weeping uncontrollably was the manly thing to do, but finally I went to see a doctor.

     The moment you make your first appointment with a podiatrist, you are from that day forward officially old. I thought it was a tendon injury that I had a few years ago, and that he would tell me not to play tennis for a couple weeks, because I could re-injure it, and not to play the piano for at least a month, because I'm lousy at it. I stood up, shook his hand and I was just about to say, "Well I guess I won't be seeing you again until I do something else stupid, so, see you soon," when he said, "Just to be on the safe side, let's get an x-ray." Folks, when a doctor says "Just to be on the safe side," get the out that door and run as fast as you can. With my bum foot I knew the x-ray technician would have caught me, but I think I still could have outrun the podiatrist. He said that it isn't a bad break, but what exactly does that mean? I know divorced couples who said the same thing and it was a complete disaster.

     He told me I had a "Jones Fracture." I said, "Jones? Who the hell is Jones? Is he the guy who first broke his foot, or is he the first guy who stepped on somebody's foot and broke it?" If I was Jones, I wouldn't want people associating my name with something negative, especially an x-ray negative. It's like if I was at a meeting at work and somebody said, "This is a good time to use the 'Melén Spreadsheet.'" And I say, "Oh, so you're familiar with the Melén Spreadsheet?" And he says, "Yes, we use it to get people to unlearn the software so we can re-train them correctly."

     The dumbest thing is that I don't even know how or when I broke the foot. Guys are like that sometimes. My wife asked me a couple weeks ago, "Why are you bleeding from your arm?" I had no idea I was bleeding, so I didn't have time to get a story together about how I was chased by a secret agent trying to get the microfilm, and he was shooting at me but missed, and then he ran out of bullets and threw the gun at me which opened up a considerable flesh wound. The microfilm was from the library reference section so I'm not sure why he wanted it, that was the secret part I guess. But you get to a certain age and there's no reasonable causal relationship between action and result. You could jump out of a plane from 6,000 feet, land in a tree and break only a few branches, or you could step out of a car and fracture your tibia in three places.

     I guess I must have done it playing tennis. I certainly hope so, because it would imply to the guys that I play with that I'm exerting much more effort than they currently think is possible. And my opponent could boast that he broke my serve AND my foot at the same time, so it's a win-win for all of us, except my foot. One of the other guys on my court saw me last week with the boot and said, yeah, at our age everything breaks twice as often, and then takes twice as long to heal. I told him I agree with everything he said except for the part about us being the same age. I would have put my foot down on that one, but it would have hurt like hell.

     One unexpected benefit is that the cat runs away from me whenever he sees me with the boot on. We got this cat from the veterinarian's office because he was abandoned by someone, maybe someone who just came back from the podiatrist. They told us it was a rescue cat, which I don't believe, because the cat has never rescued us from ANYTHING. Where was he when I broke my foot?

     So the doctor said I have to stay off the foot for a few weeks. He said the same thing about alcohol once when I was supposed to take some sort of a test for my liver, and we were scheduled to take a trip to New Orleans in the meantime. I picture this being about as successful.
 

AMERICAN IDLE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-25-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 

      Some people would tell you that there's nothing worse than killing time. Time is money, after all, and you wouldn't kill money, would you? Others would tell you there's nothing more satisfying than just doing nothing. Trying to figure out who's right is a waste of time. But now that Americans have tendered their resignations in unusually high numbers, many people are going to have a lot more time on their hands, and they're going to have to figure out what to do with it. Almost 48 million workers quit their jobs in 2021, and while many of them hired on with new employers, others have since taken a satisfying position on the couch.

     What do you do to pass the time? I used to spend hours doing Sudoku, because there are so few number puzzles where you only need to know how to count to nine. I got better at them, and then I found harder ones so that I could waste even more time while accomplishing less, which seemed like keeping with the target objective. My wife finally got me a Sudoku book with puzzles so complicated that it took me a week to finish one, and I congratulated myself from my padded cell while an orderly waited to give me my medication.

     Since then I have limited myself to completing crossword puzzles, because I have convinced myself that there is an educational component to them. You can learn words that don't usually come up in normal conversation, if you expect people to converse with you more than once. The word "Eno" comes up in a puzzle every day, and it's the name of an extremely innovative musician. He'd probably love to be remembered for something other than his ground-breaking work on 94-Down.

     Just the other day the clue was, "One of the Spice Girls," and I wracked my brain trying to remember their names. I'm pretty sure there was a "Dances Better Than She Sings Spice" and a "Really? Look Who's Talking Spice," and a "No One's Ever Noticed Either One of You Spice," but those didn't fit. I took a casual glance at the Spice rack, which reminded me to go check the one we have in our kitchen. Maybe their reunion didn't last long and maybe their act hasn't aged that well, but "Old Spice" didn't fit either. I put "Eno" in as the answer, it's not like anyone is checking my work.

     Another thing I like to do when I have nothing to do is scroll down the internet news. I don't think you can call these wasted moments, because it's informational and keeps me up on current events. One current event I totally caught up on today is that "Alessandra Ambrosio Looks Like a Mermaid Rocking an Aquamarine Bikini in Montenegro." Which IS informational because I looked up where Montenegro is on the off-chance that she might still be rocking there. I also had no idea that mermaids could even wear a bikini.

     My spare time is definitely better spent now than when I was a kid. I remember sometimes being bored at home, and I was not allowed to take a car even though we had two (I was 12 but I could reach the pedals). I would ask my mother what there was to do. Her suggestions were not helpful, they were bland ideas like why don't you clean your room (if I cleaned my room I'd never be able to find anything), or why don't you write thank-you notes for your Christmas presents (it was July), or why don't you play with your pet (I had a snake) or doesn't your friend have a house over by the quarry why don't you drop in (she never said that but she must have thought it)?

     I sometimes see people on the train typing away on a laptop, and I assume that they're members of a think tank, adding more thoughts to try and fill it up to the top. But when I look over their shoulder, they're playing computer solitaire. What fun is winning at a game if the person you beat is YOU? 

     What is your guilty pleasure? Not everyone has the same definition of "wasting time." Some parents tell me that their kids sometimes play online games for hours. It seemed like a senseless waste of time to me until I found out how much money a professional gamer could make with sponsorship deals. Having my employer pay me to do something I think is a waste of time is a career goal of mine. "Free time" is what a lot of people have now, since no one is paying them for it. I would tell you my guilty pleasure, but I may take a plea bargain the jury reaches a verdict.

THE RHYTHM OF THE NIGHT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-18-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Some might say that anyone who remembers the word "discotheque" is probably too old to be at one. Even if you went to all the trouble to find one. But I don't mind, sometimes it's fun to go back and remember what it was like to survive the '80s. 

     I like to stand back and people-watch at the disco. To me people are the most entertaining things to watch, besides robot battles and conspiracy theorists. I can be amused by the dumbest things. For instance, one guy there had a beard so monstrous that you wouldn't trim it so much as prune it. There was also a girl had a gum wrapper stuck to her shoe, and another girl stepped on it in a chivalrous act that then attached it to her own shoe, and this went on for a while like a disco "Hokey-Pokey." I probably should have thrown out my gum wrapper.

     I like people-watching but I don't want people people-watching me, because it usually means I'm doing something ungainly. For that reason I have a long-standing policy to dance as little as possible. As a public service, I "dance as if no one is watching" only if no one is watching. But every time I hear that Rihanna song where she sings, "We found love in a hopeless place," for some reason I can't stop myself. It has an infectious beat that causes an infection in me even though I have taken the proper precautions, and I shake some body parts to make sure it's not something more serious. Plus I imagine that the hopeless place she's singing about is my garage, which I will get around to cleaning one of these decades. If anyone wants to try and find love there go ahead, but I can't even locate my lawn mower.

     I also like that song where they sing, "If you got a $20 dollar bill put your hands up!" But I'd hate it if I was then actually robbed by the song. Some tunes I can do without, like the one that lists all the vowels, "A-E-I-O-U," I'm not really sure Y. If there's a song that runs through the multiplication tables, I could use some help there.

     Back in the '80s you never had to worry that there might be lasting evidence that you dance as if you're trying to put out a fire that started in your pants and spread to your shoe. But now anyone who has a phone can point it in yor direction and immortalize you on their social media page. There I am in the background, finding out their number and calling them, the fastest way to wrap up production.

     I like watching the individual styles of people on the floor, mostly the guys. It reminds me of intricate mating rituals, like that of the peacock jumping spider, who waves his hands in the air like he's landing a plane on an aircraft carrier, and then displays his colorful "tail." The female is intrigued that he would even attempt to land a fighter jet considering he is the size of a grain of rice. The tail is garish but she mates with him anyway. Then she kills him and eats him, surprised to find that he had good taste after all. It's stories like that which deter me from learning to become a better dancer.

     Many of the real movers and shakers had a signature move. One guy was so fluid it looked like he might not have any bones in his body. I bet you could take him over to the lab, pour him into an Erlenmeyer flask, test his pH with a piece of litmus paper and dump him back out onto the dance floor in time for the next segue. My own signature step was to trip over my pants legs, which were either too long or the floor was too short. I must have done it 10 times, but no one gave any indication that it was a particularly bad move in comparison.

     I also like watching the waitresses, who can carry an empty wine glass using any part of their body. They can deliver a martini to its rightful destination without spilling a drop, in those damn glasses that seem specifically designed to prevent it from happening. If I had to do it, I'd have to ask at the table, "Who ordered the dry martini? Because there's actually nothing left in the glass."

     If I do show up in the background of your facebook video don't be alarmed, the condition is only temporary. But don't share the post with any members of my rock and roll band, in case I'm out there pirouetting to ABBA. I don't want "Dancing Queen" to be my Waterloo.

A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-11-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I consider myself an amateur ornithologist, which is someone who studies birds just for fun. I don't get paid for most of the things I do on a daily basis, so for instance I also take out the garbage and do the dishes "just for fun." Birds are all around us, offering clues about our history and about our future on this planet. Their migratory habits are affected by climate change and a shrinking natural environment, and their behavior might offer insights about when we can expect cheaper flights to Florida.

     Unlike most other wild animals, they don't even bother to hide from humans, since it's obvious that we aren't as smart and can't fly. Most of the time you hear them before you even see them. Some even engage in a constant stream of chatter, and without seeming presumptuous I can only assume some of it is about us, like whenever I hear two Russian people conversing. In fact I KNOW birds are talking about us, because as I was just about to get into my Dodge Dart the other day I heard a bird say, "Cheep! Cheep!" The word "parsimonious" is apparently hard for birds to say.

     Here are some common bird calls you might recognize. If you hear, "Cheer-up cheerily! Cheer-up cheerily!" It may be an American robin, or it may be this girl I know at work who never seems to know when she's had enough coffee. The Eastern phoebe sings, "Phee-bee, phee-bee," in two notes, always in the same key, has never learned a third note in all this time. If they're using this call to attract a mate, and they actually succeed, it's going to be a match made in boring heaven.

     The black-capped chickadee and the whippoorwill also sing their own name, and it makes me think that if these birds can be taught to sing their own name, why can't they learn at least a couple verses of "Row Your Boat?" The titmouse issues a chirping "Pee-per, pee-per, pee-per" call. It's not much, but the bird is just relieved that it doesn't sing its own name like the others do. 

     We have a crow living in the woods near our the house that sounds a little like Edward G. Robinson. I'd like to know if it does any other impressions, because I do a pretty good Peter Lorre and I imagine us striking up a conversation and dishing about Barbara Stanwyck.

     You can identify a catbird because it really does meow like a cat. And if you're still unconvinced, it will fly over to your kitchen table, sit on the newspaper you're trying to read and knock all your pens onto the floor. "Who cooks for you!" Is the call of the barred owl. It's not unexpected that they would ask for a recommendation, because they generally eat raw field mice without even a pinch of garlic.

     The cardinal says, "Pick-a-girl, pick-a-girl" and follows it up with a series of fast tweets. It has an active social life. The common grackle makes the same sound as when you get an answer wrong on a television game show. If you guess correctly it makes the same sound, so it's hardly worth the effort. The mourning dove slowly coos, "Whoo, whoo, WHOO (this one three whole tones higher) whoo." It's been singing that same sad dirge since they canceled "Game of Thrones." The Northern bobwhite sounds more like it's saying "BLURtle, BLURtle," but whoever first heard one probably thought that would be a dumb name for a bird.

     My sister Kath finally got around to taking her front door Christmas wreath down, and when she heard a cacophony of chirping she was so startled that she dropped it on the ground in a panic. There was a nest with babies in it and one of the neighbors kindly put it back where it was. Contrary to common lore, birds will not shun a nestling that has been handled by humans, unless you have really smelly hands, and in that case you're probably used to shunning.

     So next time you leave the house, listen for some of these colorful avian friends and see if you can decipher what they're saying. Is it the goldfinch mating call? If directed at you it's kind of awkward. For myself, I don't find the mockingbird particularly endearing. I can't go out to the mailbox and back without this so called "songbird" chiming in about my hair, or what I look like in shorts.

THE OTHER HALF

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-04-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     We spent last weekend in the Hamptons with our friends Laurie and Mark, who are lovely, down-to-Earth people. But there is no denying that if you pay close attention, you can see exactly how the other half lives. They are everywhere out here, people who are made of money, rolling in dough, worth zillions of dollars. They don't want you to know it, and they don't want you to forget it. The last thing they would do is drive around ostentatiously in a $200,000 convertible. Actually that might be the second-to-last thing they would do, because I see it all the time.

     We didn't have a limousine waiting for us, so we had to brave the Friday traffic ourselves. I prefer the High Occupancy Vehicle lane so I don't have to worry about people trying to pass me to get there faster (we're all going four miles per hour). We High Occupants drive in one long lethargic line, single-file, slowly saving the planet. I like the HOV lane so much that I once mistakenly took it driving by myself, a Low Occupant, and I passed a cop in a cop car. At first I was afraid that he would light me up and tell me to pull over onto the High Occupancy breakdown lane, which is only for people with at least two flat tires. Then I realized that the cop was just as afraid of me as I was of him, because if he stopped me, I could place HIM under citizen's arrest for being in a Low Occupancy cop car, and we'd both have to try to drive with handcuffs on. Then I saw a sign that said:  "HOV Violations = Points on your License." Usually the person with the most points wins, so I drove with renewed confidence.

     Anyone named Rick has missed being born Rich by one letter. But I just know I would be totally worthless in the role of someone worth a lot of money. I wouldn't know how to act the part, and I'm not sure I would even like the part. When I used to go to clubs in Manhattan there was a roped-off VIP area that you could only get in if you impressed the bouncer and ordered a lot of champagne. Everyone in those rarified seats always looked miserable, like they were imprisoned inside those ropes, wishing that they could trade places with me, just for a moment, just long enough to catapult me into a horrible tax bracket.

     People who were born into money seem to know what to do instinctively. They come out of the womb knowing what a bowsprit is. They know which wine goes with foie gras. They know what foie gras is. They hire domestic help based on foreign policy. They belong to golf clubs at which they use... golf clubs.

     For me it would be a long learning curve. If I was in the song "You're so Vain," for instance, I would have showed up at Saratoga to see the total eclipse of the sun, and after missing it, I would have continued on to Nova Scotia to see my horse naturally win, but there's no race track there. My Lear jet pilot is paid by the trip so he doesn't care. I heard about "court side seats" often enough from rich people, and when I finally scored some, it was a really boring case so I'm not sure what all the fuss is about.

     I really don't need much, just a nice place in the south of France and a super-yacht, one with super powers, say, from the planet Krypton. I'm already well on my way to achieving these goals, because I bought a some property in Antarctica, which is as south of France as you can get. I'll put in pool, and then just wait for global warming to work its magic. I'm using as many fossil fuels as I can get my hands on to speed things up.

     But really, there's nothing more boring than people who are bored by the mundane. Most of life is unexceptional, and you have to learn to embrace that. You have to add something to it to get something out of it. The "other half" is really about one percent, which means that the other 99 percent are the ones that make the world go 'round. So Rich People of the Hamptons, don't make me feel bad just because I haven't had "work done." I'd rather be poor and homely than, well, who the hell am I kidding, I'd rather be rich and homely.

     Oops I have to go, my helicopter is here to pick me up. I couldn't afford a private one, and it took a lot of convincing to get into this one, so I don't want to be late. Every 20 minutes I just have to give the traffic and weather together, even if they're not getting along. I don't want to spoil my report, so I'll just say that if you have a face that can stop traffic, now would be the time to use it.

SHORE POINTS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-28-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     When I reach a certain point sometime after June has been laid to bed with some warm milk, it starts to feel like the summer has not really been put to the test. That's when it's time to head to the Jersey Shore. We chose Wildwood for a long weekend, because if the name of the town already has the word "wild" in it, I feel like we have a head start.

     We were running low on gas about halfway down the Garden State, so we pulled off the parkway into the Jon Bon Jovi Service Area. I was not sure exactly what services Jon Bon Jovi might provide, but if he offers, I'll ask that he fill my tank with regular, fill my oil pan with 10W 40 synthetic, and fill my heart with song. I'll let him know that we're headed to Wildwood, and... "We're halfway there!" (maybe he'll sing that part with me). And I don't want to start any bad blood or anything, but the next time I run into Bruce Springsteen I'm going to casually drop into the conversation that Bon Jovi has his own service area, and see what he says. I doubt I'll be the first person to mention that the highway's jammed with broken heroes and they're all stopping at Bon Jovi's service area.

     Back on the road, I checked the ETA on the GPS, which said 5:00PM. When I looked a half-hour later, the arrival time was 5:30. In moments like these it seems like they keep moving my destination farther away when I'm not looking, and I feel that maybe the Earth isn't really round at all, maybe its elliptical or something. And don't call me a conspiracy theorist, because so far I haven't found anyone else to conspire with me on that idea.

     We rolled into town and unhooked our bicycles to pound the sidewalks looking for a place to eat. I can manage to drive my wife nuts by stopping at each place, taking a look at the menu and then convincing her that there's someplace better close by. After we finally settle on a place that's no better she confesses that she was never really convinced. 

     After dinner we went out to take in some live music, which is plentiful at the shore. A good band makes everything more festive. Even a bad band playing good music is better than a DJ playing bad music. Some groups take a lazier trajectory than the work ethic I'm used to as a musician. The band we saw only did half of each song, and right before the guitar solo they were off to the next one. It certainly saved them money on a lead guitarist. They didn't bother with a keyboard player either, and when the piano part came up they had it on a pre-recorded track. And when the key change in "Living on a Prayer" rolled around, they just held the mike out to the audience and said, here- YOU sing it. Any dude who can sing that high should get a service area named after them.

     The next day we found a good old-fashioned diner for breakfast. Service is slow everywhere these days. The pandemic, the "Great Resignation," the Ukraine war and other factors have contributed to a shortage of help. Issues with the supply chain have prevented workers from being supplied I guess. There is always a "Now Hiring" sign up, and I thought it might actually be quicker if I filled out an application, punched the time clock, made two orders of pancakes and then quit just after I got my tip and right before I sat down to eat.

     I'm tipping a little more these days, even though smoke comes out of the top of my head because of the extra math. I take the total on the bill, move the decimal point one place to the left, then divide that number in half and divide it in half again and add both numbers to the first number and then add the whole thing to the bill. It came out to over $7,000 dollars so I had to start again. This time I didn't "carry the one," I let it get there by itself. I'm so used to just leaving 15 percent. I always understood that a tip was meant for exemplary service, like whatever would normally qualify for the Congressional Medal of Honor. Nowadays, if somebody comes to fill my water glass I get misty-eyed with gratitude. 

     We hung out at the amusement pier for the afternoon, and my advice is that it's better to take a short walk off a long pier than the other way around. We hung out at the water park, which was exhausting, not because we were so active, but because watching other peoples' little kids is almost as tiring as having your own. How many times do I have to tell you, when you're at the pool, WALK, don't RUN. Some kids looked like they were having too much fun, and I had to restrain myself from telling them to tone it down. Kids, you have a whole lifetime of fun at the shore ahead of you, so don't use it up all at once.

ROADIE FOR A DAY

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

     The Pleasantville Music Festival was back in 2022 after a few years in dormancy. It wasn't dead, just living in a state of suspended animation. Once it got woken up, it was as good as new. When the Festival comes to town I enjoy volunteering for the Stage Crew, toting the bands' gear on and off, helping to set stuff up and getting in people's way whenever necessary.

     It's also my way of giving back to the community. I try give back a little more than usual so that the community owes me one, and I don't have to give back as much next time, but then the community gives me a little extra and I have to give back to the community again. It's a merry-go-round I can't get off.

     The weather was perfect for the Festival, a little hot but not humid, plenty of water around if you needed it, but none falling from the sky. My friends Matt and Anne were there as usual, volunteering on the hospitality crew, and I thank them for their hospitality. Parking is the most strenuous part of the day if you're not on the crew. It's easier if you just sell your house and move to Marble Avenue so that you can walk. Once you get there though, you have all the comforts of home, especially if you bring a comfortable chair from home.

     The headliner this year was X Ambassadors, and I was assisting with their gear so that they could get in an early sound check. Some have even called me the "5th Ambassador." Also in attendance were Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze fame, Paula Cole and many others. Crash Test Dummies filled in for 10,000 Maniacs, who were a last-minute scratch. I heard that 7,000 of the maniacs fell ill, but roadies are notorious gossips. 

     One thing I love is that the folks who assemble the day put the music first, and the lineup is well-curated, with a song for everyone, something old, something new, something borrowed and something blues. Aspiring hopefuls get a voice along with seasoned veterans, and local talent is featured as well. My job is called Stage Crew, but I'm basically a roadie. And I'll tell you, life on the road can get pretty lonely. I was on the Parkway for 20 minutes, and soon I started to get lost in my thoughts. I was lost before I knew it, and for quite some time after. This is my 4th year with the crew, and I'm hoping that soon I'll be entrusted with a flashlight, or someday even a walkie-talkie. I'm not getting my hopes up, because I tend to be too much talkie and not enough walkie.

     I was chatting with the cops on one of those rare occasions when they didn't ask to chat with me first. They said that the Festival usually goes pretty smoothly, with the possible exception of one or two guys that become a little potted in the Beer Garden. The police ran a bomb-sniffing dog through the Main Stage and the backstage area, and I was afraid the dog would stop right in front of me, having detected one of my jokes, two at the most. Okay three, but that's my final offer.

     I was in the shade keeping an eye on things at the the equipment tent next to the Main Stage. Things were going pretty smoothly but a small bird walked in, brown with a gray-speckled breast. I didn't recognize it, didn't identify itself, and I was already susipicious because it walked in instead of flew in. I gently but firmly escorted it back out. It's the first time I've ever had to explain to a bird that NOBODY is allowed in the equipment tent without a blue wristband. 

     I was done with my lunch so I wandered over to the zer waste bins, and the volunteers there can tell you exactly what is garbage and what is recyclable. I had a paper plate, a piece of aluminum foil and a plastic knife and fork. They told me all that stuff should go in the recycling bin, and that my sneakers should go in the garbage bin.

     Next year I'll have a retractable key chain and about 30 keys that I have no idea what they open, and I'll be in a big hurry to open them, and I won't have a lot of time for chit-chat. So if you see me at the Festival and you come up to say hello but I'm on the walkie-talkie with one finger in my ear and the other fingers giving you the "hold on I'll be with you in a minute" sign, it means that there is no one on the other end.

AFRO-CUBAN FUSION CONCLUSIONS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-14-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Even living right around the corner, we had not yet paid a visit to Caramoor Center for the Arts in Katonah until last Friday. Much like a good cup of coffee, the experience starts with the lovely grounds. There is an event space here for every type of show, from a covered outdoor 1500-seat theater to a small, indoor concert room almost like watching a performance inside a museum. The room is one of many filled with precious artifacts and works of art from the Caramoor founders' lifetimes of collecting.

     We joined our friends Margaret and Gene for a concert on Friends Field, outdoors on a gorgeous evening, in front of a spacious wooden stage, well lit and well mixed. Picnics were welcome, and although ours was a modest couple of sandwiches, this was Katonah, after all. There were elaborate spreads, fancy seating and wines of fine vintage. I think I saw some Louis XV furniture and a chandelier. By the way, I've never met anyone more bitter than Louis XV, because everyone else had his furniture and he remained standing most of his life.

     Providing the music was an Afro-Cuban quintet, lively and rhythmic. Afro-Cuban would have been great as a restaurant choice, but as a musical genus it was even tastier. I'm a drummer by nature and soon I was tapping both feet, both hands and consider yourself lucky if I left it at that.

     It was the type of performance that you could dial fully into if you wanted, or just sit back, relax, have a conversation and come back to the music when you wanted. I just let the sultry night absorb the music so I could bask in it. All the lyrics were in Spanish, and I only speak just enough to get me around at a Mexican restaurant as long as I don't mind ordering the wrong thing. I took Latin for two years in middle school, so I can easily break down the entomology of a word and figure out its basic meaning. Okay, it turns out that "entomology" is the study of bugs, but you get the idea. You simply find the root of the word, figure out its prefix and its suffix, and bingo, you're speaking Spanish. For instance, the phrase "La casa de los famosos" translated, means "The casa de los famosos."

     My friend Gene is a musician too, and as we listened we got into a conversation about how we started in music. He was well familiar with the sounds of salsa from working at his Dad's sign shop in the Bronx during summers out of school. His co-workers blasted Latin music out of their boom-box, and he became well acquainted with the busy rhythms and full horn sections. I went to high school in Chappaqua at a time when there was only one black kid in our class, and luckily he was a good guitarist. We recruited him for our band, and he showed us some blues, some soul and some color. I would have been happy to be somebody's influence if I could find anyone who thought a musician from the bewitching land of Westchester, white, upper middle-class and Protestant was exotic.

     Of course, even though I came out of the womb fully understanding the rattle as a percussion element, when it came time to choose an instrument in middle school my Dad chose for me, and he did not choose the drums. He chose the trombone, which although I appreciate now, back then I considered more of a comedy prop, useful for snatching peoples' toupees. There was a talented trombone player in last Friday's band, and I noticed two bald players with no toupee, just saying.

     Music can remind you of a time many summers ago, cruising in your car with your friends, or it can be the company that misery loves, or it can set the mood for something you'll remember every time you hear it. But I couldn't imagine me doing any of those things with a  trombone. And when the band teacher insisted I play the tuba, I knew my days in the brass section where numbered.

     When I think of all the time I spent not practicing the trombone, I realize that I could have used those valuable hours not studying to become the scholar that I never was. It fills me with regret every time I don't think about it. I suppose that when my parents heard me practicing the drums they just heard a lot of banging, but to me I was at the pulse of the music, the heartbeat. All you Moms and Dads out there, consider that even though you may be old enough to know better, you'll never be old enough to know your kid better than your kid.

 

PICK YOUR POISON

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

 
     As the population of the world expands and humans encroach upon the natural habitats of all kinds of animals and insects, we take on certain inherent risks. On the football field the penalty for encroachment is five yards, but in real life, it could be death. Just imagine that you are a family of alligators, living in the swamp for years and years, and a young human couple builds a house right next door. They are constantly showing off, walking around on two legs and smiling with their itty-bitty pathetic teeth. Finally the wife alligator says, "You know, they've been here a week- maybe we should have them for dinner." This is how misunderstandings start in the neighborhood.

     Just this last week a man was killed in South Carolina when an alligator dragged him into a retention pond. Part of my job is a journalist is to try and make the world a safer place. And before you go looking up the definition of the word "journalist," I'm going to share some tips with you that may save your life, if your retention is better than that of the average pond. One thing that you may not know is that alligator mating season runs from April through June, and that's a good time not to be a third wheel. Unprovoked attacks are very rare, say authorities, but an alligator's criteria for provocation may be different from yours. To be on the safe side, avoid insensitive comments about the length of their noses.

     Here in the Northeast it's no less dangerous. We were bicycling on a trail in New Jersey, and somebody said that they saw a rattlesnake. If you are bitten by one, try to position yourself so that your heart is above the wound, and wash it with soap and water. Do not apply a tourniquet, ice or drink alcohol. Remain calm and still so as not to spread the venom, and call 911. You should try to remember what the snake looked like, even if it was disguised with a fake moustache and glasses.

     Do not try to suck the poison out of the snakebite, and I've been telling most people that (I told Trump that I didn't share the information with him on purpose, but I heard it from an unimpeachable source, ha ha, and he said very funny, and I said, don't get your hackles up, if you even have hackles, it wasn't a real snake anyway, and he said yeah, but what about the poison, and I said I'll let you know in about an hour, ha ha, and he said very funny again- Trump and I have that kind of relationship).

     One relatively recent factor that has driven up the rate of dangerous encounters is the advent of social media. Everyone wants that signature Facebook photo that no one else has. "Look how close I got to this lion on safari! You can't hide your lion eyes! And here is one of me on life support at Nairobi Hospital!" Don't be surprised if the lion has his own account. You know how Facebook users are always taking pictures of their food? You should slowly back away from the lion while maintaining eye contact.

     During a bear encounter, you're not supposed to play dead. You should make as much movement as you can, while backing away. I would suggest that you do whatever you normally do in front of one of those motion-activated paper towel dispensers that never works in a public restroom. I usually perform the "warehouse scene" from "Footloose," and after I've finished drying my hands on my pants two paper towels come out along with a noise that sounds like a laugh. If there is anyone in the restroom while I'm doing that they are usually playing dead or backing away slowly.

     The brown recluse spider is poisonous, and if you are bitten by one you should seek immediate medical treatment, such as anti-venom. If the spider is armed it could be much worse, since spiders have eight arms. If I'm bitten I ask the spider if he wouldn't mind sucking the poison out of the bite before he leaves- we have that kind of relationship.

     My wife said that she has seen a different bug in her bathroom each day for the last week, which is not surprising because I enrolled her in the "Bug of the Month Club." She said she saw a centipede, then a millipede, and I said, "Hold it right there, you counted?" Naturally we haven't seen one carpenter ant, they won't even return my calls. Today it was a silverfish in the shower. Because I'm the man of the house I'm expected to dispose of it, no matter how much of a champion I am for women's equality. The last time I saw that bug it was looking a little flushed....