LOVE IN THE LIMELIGHT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-26-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     They say that celebrities are just like you and me. Assuming that you and me are attention-craving narcissistic millionaires, of course. And I don't mean that in a bad way like I would if I was talking about politicians. Celebrities are entertainers; they're contractually obligated to entertain us. And the weirder and more dysfunctional their lives are, the more entertaining it is. Just imagine what would happen if you got two of these eccentric egomaniacs, stuck them in a romantically-charged relationship, added a dash of Tabasco sauce and set the household to "puree?" Well, we don't have to imagine anymore, now that we have the trial of Johnny Depp vs. Amber Heard. 

     It's a rare glimpse into the private lives of people who have more fame, more money and more free time than they know what to do with. If they knew what to do with it, they surely wouldn't do THIS. In a nutshell, Amber accused Johnny of domestic violence in a magazine article, and now Johnny is suing Amber for $50 million due to lost acting jobs, and Amber is counter-suing Johnny for another $100 million. Movie directors who didn't hire him will probably sue both of them for the money they wouldn't have saved had the article never been published. By the way, if you'd like to see that and raise another $50 million, I call. Just picturing Amber in that nutshell is bad enough, but there are so many other weird things that came out during the proceedings that it makes me wonder if we need to bother with putting them in movies, and just air their dirty laundry. 

     The trial is a perfect chance to study courtroom tactics. One such maneuver is known as "DARVO," whereby the one being accused first Denies the behavior, and if that doesn't work, Attacks the victim, sometimes accusing them of something even worse, and as a last resort, Reverses the roles of Victim and Offender, so that juries might be more sympathetic. To whom I'm not sure because I lost track. In this case the details are so sordid and lurid that the real victims seem to be the jurors. Celebrities can turn a motive of self-defense into self-offense before anyone can even evaluate if that was good or bad for the case. 

     Each party has their own psychological expert of course, to make up and then identify an appropriate label for each others' goofy behavior. Each of them used the term "borderline personality disorder" to describe the behavior of the other, so there's no telling where the actual borders are. If I were living with either of them I'd want a little dotted line like on a map, showing where my personality begins, and your personality should just stay on its own side.

     This is hardly the first pair of poisonous paramours. Remember Elizabeth Taylor? She was married 8 times, twice to Richard Burton. Did she not even remember how lousy it went the first time? I tried pineapple pizza a year after my first one to find out if I still hated it. I did, but I didn't have to pay it alimony. Remember when Angelina Jolie was married to Billy Bob Thornton, and they were rumored to have worn vials of each others' blood around their necks? What about Megan Fox and Machine Gun Kelly drinking each other's blood to commemorate their engagement? If they invite you to a party and somebody comes over to fill your champagne glass, just say you topped off already at the Red Cross tent.

     Pete Davidson has a tattoo of every woman he ever dated, which leaves little room for other important works of art. If I was Kate Beckinsale and I really liked Pete Davidson, why would I break up with him other than because he put my tattoo in a place that's prone to acne and unwanted hair? By the way, I hear that the tattoo of Ariana and the tattoo of Kim are NOT getting along and may need to be separated by a tattoo of a mediator.

     I know some couples who seem to thrive on constant bickering, so maybe celebrities are a lot more like us than I thought. Breaking up should be much easier to do if you really truly hate each other, but I guess most men are afraid to break up, and think that their ex might be rebounding with the "My Pillow" guy. I admit I don't like a whole lot of drama, and I can't even think of our last fight. Here was a "debate" we had: My wife said I'm THROWING OUT that turntable that's been sitting in the garage, and I said You're NOT throwing that out, how am I going to play all those records that are sitting in the garage? She didn't even say anything because she knew I was right, so I won that one, although I haven't seen the turntable in about a year. The records either, come to think of it.

COMMUTER PROGRAMMING

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-19-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     I remember back in the olden days when I was a commuter. I left a perfectly good house each morning to get on the train with hundreds of thousands of other people who were already in a bad mood because they had to do the same thing. We were all in it together, competing for a better seat at every turn. Then that little pathogen came along and clipped our wings, and there we were, blissfully at home with our lonesome selves, every day, every hour, every minute, every second.

     Two years later almost to the day I was back on the train, and for one fleeting moment, it felt good. The shoe was now on the other foot, partly because, with "The Great Resignation" employees were feeling their power, and partly because I haven't worn shoes for so long that I'm out of practice. Working sometimes from home and also in the office a couple days a week, pretty much when I feel like it, wearing whatever I like, not doing anything that might break a nail, I'm part of the hybrid workforce, much like a cockapoo or a schnoodle, only taller and less well-trained. And so many people are leaving the labor pool that companies are happy with whatever they get.

     My own department has seen two people leave for other positions that don't require them to come into the office at all. Technically, they don't have to even exist. They can fabricate a fake identity and a computer-generated past as long as they do their job. Companies themselves aren't even sure they want us back full-time either. All that corporate real estate, the heating bills and maintenance staff savings are probably staggering. Maybe all this is at the expense of collaboration, but trust me, I collaborate much better when I'm left alone.

     The company sponsored a survey to find out the level of employee satisfaction. Were our needs being met? Agree, Strongly Agree, Occasionally Strongly Not Disagree or Agree to Disagree. No, as a matter of fact some of my needs are not being met, and if you'd like to meet them, I'd be happy to introduce you. Do we feel like our managers are listening? No, but the last thing I need is a bunch of people listening to what I have to say, because then I feel pressured to say things that make sense. Do we feel as though we have a voice? Do we feel like the company is helping us achieve our goals? No, no, no, NO! I'm used to my old relationship with my company, where I have goals of doing as little as possible and getting paid as much as I can for it, and the company plays the part of the goalie. And these days I feel like my company and I have been through therapy together, and all of a sudden I am its significant other.

     I can't be bothered with a tie anymore, dress shoes are yesterday's news, and so is any shirt that has more than two buttons. If I hadn't spent all those years making fun of dudes who wear shorts and sandals to work, I'd be doing the same thing myself. And now my company says, "OOOH, snazzy!" Instead of, "Why don't you go right back home and change, and I'm not even talking about your clothes." Now my company wants everyone to be included, wants everyone to feel comfortable and engaged. I think if I were living my journey, living my truth, it would love me even more but I'm always lying to myself about what my truth is. If I was racially-ambiguous, gender-confused and religion-fluid I could make myself an HR darling and get myself a fat raise, only I wouldn't use the word "fat."

     I was just glad to be out among real people again, until I remembered that real people can really drive you crazy. There's no quiet car on the train anymore, and there was a guy going over all the future minutes of his 11 o'clock meeting in such loud detail that I felt I was totally up to speed on the presentation by North White Plains. I wondered if his firm could use a stay-at-home employee with a fake identity. Then when I went to unlock my bicycle outside of Grand Central, someone had stolen my mirror. Perhaps it was someone who wanted to see where their journey had taken them. And along the way some guy in a really ugly car had his stereo cranked up so loud that all you could hear was indiscriminate bass notes that had probably jarred loose all his dental work. I pictured him in an intimate moment at the age of 50 with a much younger woman (48), who was whispering something in his ear. And he gives her his devilish grin and says, "What?"

     And then a UPS guy pushing a huge cart full of packages lost control of it and dropped them all over the sidewalk. People stopped to help him pick them up up, and I thought maybe there's hope for us after all. My advice is, don't live life looking in the rear-view mirror, and that goes double for the guy that stole mine.

PAROLE MODELS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-12-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     It's been over two years since we've been to a live social engagement, so I was ready to get back into the general population when one came along. I've been cooped up in my house looking at four walls all that time, with nothing to do but work, exercise and watch TV. Enduring a pandemic is like being in prison. But when we arrived at the gala celebrating the 25th anniversary for Rehabilitation Through the Arts, I realized that nothing is like being in prison, except for being in prison. 

     RTA is an organization that confronts an uncomfortable truth about a forgotten population, and the truth is that at least 86 percent of people in prison will be getting back out. Some made a mistake, but others are nurturing a career that engenders a life of violence and social mayhem in a cycle that will not be broken until something in that life becomes transformed. Rehabilitation Through the Arts is a program that creates that event, in the form of dramatic productions, dance and visual art that redirect an inmate's focus and purpose towards a positive outcome.

     If you've never seen a hard-core, maximum security "cellie" sing and dance as if no one was watching, you've never seen the real power of art. I've attended productions at Sing-Sing, and I've seen a whole lot of television from the 1970s in the past two years and trust me, the acting is a whole lot better Up the River. But the real reward is seeing a person that knew only one way of life discover confidence, self-expression and collaboration. Creativity can create an entirely different person.

     What to wear to the affair? The invitation said "cocktail attire" was welcome, which to me means anything that, after you've had a few cocktails, I look GREAT in. I have a couple suits that I haven't worn since the Reagan administration, and on one pair of pants the two sides of the zipper were so far apart that negotiations had broken down. Basically I haven't been in much more than a bathrobe and slippers for the past two years, and I had forgotten some of the basics.

     I had to remember how to tie my tie for instance. It's hard to justify a tie without actually tying the damn thing. My first three attempts looked haphazard, like trying to tie someone elses shoe. Other knots from my boat-owning years were unsatisfactory; a cleat hitch didn't look very good but would at least prevent me from drifting out to sea. I know how to tie a hangman's noose, which I considered only because it's used to being in that general area, but that seemed inappropriate. I remembered that the knot I was looking for is the Windsor knot, but I could only remember half of it. Luckily there is such a thing as a half-Windsor knot.

     The evening was a warm reminder that redemption is a real thing. Some people think it's better to just lock offenders up, throw away the key and forget about them. It's an easy line of thought, popular with the sort of people who do their thinking in small doses. But it's a flawed position, and in the end not at all self-serving. Consider this: What if hitting a weak tennis backhand slice was illegal? It isn't but it should be, and I should know. What if I'm caught hitting so many in one game that I go to prison for it, and there I meet a bunch of other guys with terrible fundamentals, and yet we have so much free time that all we do is discuss our backhands (which we think are pretty damned good, it's society that's out of step). I've learned SO much from the guys that when I get out, my backhand is 75 percent weaker. And after the first set of my first match out my partner wants to kill me, which is murder-one by the way. I think you get my drift, and my name has been changed in case my slice really does capture the attention of the authorities.

     RTA is proof that thinking outside the box not only helps those inside it. The recidivism rate for the program's alumni is 5 percent, against the broader figure of 60 percent. It takes people of vision to effect this change. If color can blossom in a place of drab despair, it makes your own life seem a place where everything is possible. Where there's a wall there's a way.
 

PEACE IN THE VALLEY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-05-22)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

 

    If you're tired of taking the train to a boring job every day, instead try a train that drops you off 25 miles from where you started, and leaves you to try to find your way back. It sounds diabolical, but actually makes for an invigorating and scenic bicycle ride through Pennsylvania's lovely Lehigh River valley. The staff of the Pocono Bike Train loads you and your bicycle (or you can rent one of theirs) onto a circa 1917 train at the charming town of Jim Thorpe, and takes you 25 miles north to access the beautiful D & L bike path at the White Haven trailhead. 

     I asked the same thing you're probably asking: "Are there many hills?" They said, "It's a steady, low downward grade." Which I was used to from high school, so no problem. I also asked if I could do the ride in kilometers, which makes me sound foreign, mysterious and even more heroic since there are forty of them on this excursion.

     The weather was absolutely perfect for our ride; a little cool is fine, but you don't want it to be too hot, and you don't want to be too cold. You don't want it to be too lukewarm. Somewhere between 55 degrees Farenheit and 12.7 Celsius is optimal. You don't want to leave too late because it might take you four hours depending on how many times you stop. You don't want to leave too early before you've fueled up with a good breakfast. You want to leave before lunch. Just after you've had two sips of coffee but before the third one is optimal.

     Check your equipment before you start your ride. I said to my wife, "Let's do a quick check of all the safety equipment on our bicycles." She said, "We don't have any safety equipment, we barely have the bicycles." I said, "I'm just telling you what the brochure said. For instance, is your chain properly lubricated?" She said no. "Do your brakes work effectively?" Not very well. "Is your seat set to the correct height?" No. "Okay, I feel better now that we've checked everything. It's a long way back to civilization. One more thing: do you think I have enough air?" She did not dignify that with a reply.

     After a couple miles we passed by Glen Onoko Falls, which you can hike on a separate (but demanding I hear) trip. Legend has it that the beautiful Native American maiden Onoko fell in love with a white settler, and upon hearing of it, her irate chieftain father threw him over the falls to his death. Crestfallen, she then jumped from the cliff herself. If the legend teaches us anything, it's that your parents don't need to know everything.

     Down on the river were a group of kayakers who had apparently never seen the movie, "Deliverance." One was facing the wrong way, paddling furiously, trying either to free himself from a rock, or to spawn. I was tired from biking, but I'd rather be up the creek without a pedal than a paddle. There were also some guys fly fishing on the riverbank, and from the looks of things they had caught quite a few flies.

     People often walk the trail to check out the wildlife in its natural habitat. Grouse, pheasants, quail and turkey can be hunted and are considered game birds, although I bet if you asked them they might settle for some Chinese checkers, or some other game where the stakes aren't quite so high. 

     There was a sign that said "Do not feed bears." I'm guessing that whoever put up that sign was not a bear, because bears have a much different opinion as to whether they should be fed or not. If you see one, and it wants your food, you can explain politely, but firmly, that as much as you'd like to feed it if it were up to you, there is a sign a few miles back that explicitly says you are NOT allowed to. You can email me from the hospital to let me know how that went. 

     We didn't see any life that was much wilder than a typical Saturday afternoon at the Walmart check-out line, but we did see plenty of beautiful waterfalls and vistas. Opportunities for selfies were many, and sometimes the selfie was so lovely that I didn't have the heart to spoil it by putting myself in it. The backdrop of the Lehigh River valley, sometimes mountains, sometimes rocks, sometimes forest, is mostly absolutely gorges.