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.