CHINESE FOOD FOR THOUGHT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (12-07-23)

 

     The holidays are inching ever closer, and I've been toning up, hitting the gym pretty hard, working on my stamina and sharpening my elbows. Because soon I'm going to be in that store with YOU, and you and I will be racing for position when a new register aisle opens up, trying outsmart each other in the parking lot and competing for the last widget on the shelf. And I'm going to win, even if I have to break some of the Ten Commandments. I was chatting with my dentist recently, although he did most of the talking. I said things like "arrorragh," and "urrowowawa," but he seemed to agree with it. The dentist's office is just one more place where I can't keep my mouth shut.

     Anyway, my dentist mentioned that he tries to avoid buying anything from China. I'm not sure whether it's a political statement or that he just thinks that their products are inferior. I know that when Chinese President Xi visited the U.S. last month, probably much of the stuff that came out of his mouth President Biden wasn't buying either. It illustrates a mutual mistrust between the two super-powers that has only gotten worse over time. I only hope that countries that export chocolate will not mistreat their workers, because I would not survive a boycott.

     Distrust usually comes from misunderstanding, which often stems from lack of trying. But when President Xi had his recent summit with President Biden, they did manage to iron out a few things, such as cracking down on fentanyl labs, opening a dialogue about artificial intelligence and that the Golden Bachelor has made some weird choices. It's important to walk away from a summit with an agreement of some kind, because a summit seems like something you have to climb a lot of stairs to get to, and nobody wants to go through that more than once.

     A promise to engage in high-level discussions concerning military operations and artificial intelligence might not ever come to anything, but it represents a chance to at least try to understand what the other is up to, as long as nothing gets lost in the translation. I'm sure they were hoping for a bilateral agreement, but at least they ended up with two unilateral agreements. And they did agree to disagree.

     Even in the internet age of information, there are so many things that remain inscrutable about Chinese culture. The Taoist discipline, put forth over 2,500 years ago by Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, means as many different things as there are people to interpret it. Nature is complete, the doctrine tells us, and any attempt to master it must result in failure. One look at my lawn proves this to be true. 

     There are so many people in China, you'd think more illumination would leak out just by osmosis. But it remains a carefully monitored microcosm. I picture the country like a giant #6 train during rush hour: it's almost impossible to get in unless you were born there. I picture China so crowded that if even you were appointed a seat on the State Council, you would have to scramble to sit in it when the music stops, and whomever is still standing is eliminated.

     The issue of "human rights" comes up a lot when discussing China. But is America blameless? In certain parts of the country it is still illegal to alter a claw machine game so that it doesn't pick up any toys. In some places you can't honk your horn outside a sandwich shop after 9:00PM. And don't try to eat any frog that died in California after participating in a frog-jumping contest, or you could end up in jail AND suffer mild indigestion. So America, get off your high horse, and remember, you could be arrested for riding a horse drunk in Colorado, although it's perfectly legal for the horse to be drunk.

     Even the Chinese calendar is a mystery to me. The phases of the moon are divided into 12 parts, each represented by an animal that possesses certain attributes. We are currently in the year of the rabbit, which is associated with the element of water. Those born in the year of the rabbit are said to be affectionate, kind, gentle, compassionate, and merciful. Those sure don't sound like the qualities of the rabbit that attacked my vegetable garden.

     I don't know if you can or should avoid Chinese goods when you do your Christmas shopping, but that doesn't mean we accomplished nothing today. Lest you think that this column is somehow not worthy of your time, Kong Qiu, better known to the world as Confucius, possibly said it best when he said, "Fine words are seldom associated with true virtue."

UNFORGIVING NATURE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-23-23)

 

    Nature is revolting. For example, I was walking along my street with my dog, and this enormous pine cone dropped right in front of me, missing me by inches. Of all the enormous pine cones in the world, this particular one came down right when I was almost underneath it? I'm telling you right now, this was no accident. It reminded me of when I was in a Hollywood cliché where I'm standing on a stage, and a sandbag held aloft by a fraying rope is about to drop onto my head, and the hero, at the last second, sees it and rushes in to push a really hot girl out of the way who is nowhere near it, and the sandbag drops onto my head, knocking me conscious. And he says, "Are you all right?" And I say I think so, and he says, "I was talking to the hot girl." And he grabs her in his arms and I ask, "Where are you going?" And he shouts, "There's no time to explain!" And he whisks her out the door and into a restaurant across the street that's really hard to get reservations for.

     Anyway, I think it's a sign. I think Mother Nature is talking to us, saying, "Clean up your room! NOW!" Okay, your Mom might ground you for a couple weeks or take away your phone if you do something bad. But when you get Mother Nature angry, it's a different level of punishment. Feast, famine, plague, that sort of thing. And we're seeing more and more of it.

     What about the otters? Otters are about the most playful creatures on the Earth. And yet, a man training for a triathlon a couple months ago sustained a prolonged attack by two otters as he was swimming in a lake in the Sierra Nevadas. He tried to swim away, at a rate of speed that probably would have won him the triathlon, but the otters kept cutting him off and biting him. He was terrified, and his wife finally came out on a paddle board and rowed him to safety. I don't know about this guy but my wife would have made me promise to get rid of all that crap in the garage, change the light bulbs in front of the house that have been out for weeks, and a dozen other things before she rescued me from an otter attack. She would have brought a pen so she could get it in writing. Anyway, otters are normally peaceful, have a great sense of humor and excel at board games, but they will attack if threatened, so saying things like, "Why don't you come at me, bro?" should be avoided. But this was an unprovoked aggression.

     Another example is the case of orcas attacking boats in Europe and Australia. While there have been no reported deaths as yet, the sudden downturn in behavior exhibited in animals thought to be benign to humans is somewhat disquieting. If I would have been present during the attack, once I dried off I would have asked the orca, "Why are you doing this to us?" His probably would be, "We're not happy with your stewardship of the Earth. And by the way, we are 'killer' whales, not 'second-degree attempted manslaughter' whales, so consider yourself lucky." "Lucky is that guy on that boat over there, who is bone-dry and nursing a frozen mango margarita, laughing at us." "He's next."

     Humans have been running this planet for a long time, and it's not going that great. We have always assumed that we are the smartest animals on the planet, even though my cat sits around 23 hours a day, gets all his meals for free, never tips, never fills out any paperwork of any kind, free medical (no dental though), no jury duty, short commute and can lick his own tail.

     Maybe we're not that smart after all. We've dumped a lot of carbon dioxide into the air. And every time one of those genius politicians opens his mouth about how scientists are wrong about climate change, guess what comes out? More carbon dioxide. Those who think, well, there are plenty of natural resources out there, let's just use them up and then we'll figure something else out should consider one thing: That oil we pump out of the ground comes from the bones of an extinct species. Hmmmm.

      You can hardly blame Mother Nature for being angry. I don't remember my own Mom being too tough on me, but when she was really mad I used get a whacking on the behind with the hairbrush. It was corporal punishment, and I was a major pain in the neck, so I actually outranked my punishment. But would resort to hiding the hairbrush from her. This explains a little about my lack of discipline, and a lot about my hair.

BURNING QUESTIONS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-16-23)

 

     We had a scheduled fire alarm at work last week, and we were all required to assemble in the hallway and review the emergency procedures. It was an extremely small hallway, and my guess is that if the Fire Marshall knew that there were 30 of us packed in there, he would have shut the place down. What we learned is that if anyone should smell smoke, they are to break the safety glass and pull the fire alarm. A call to 911 should be next, especially if they lacerated the radial artery in their wrist with the broken glass from the fire alarm. If there are flames, we need to proceed to stairwell "C," unless it's cut off by smoke in Hallway "D." Should that be the case, we are to attempt entry into the "E" wing, where multi-denominational praying is to take place, along with a review of the alphabet to figure out our next move. When the talk was over I let everyone know that an odor of smoke around lunchtime may be attributed to the toaster in my office. And based on the abstruse nature of the fire safety procedures, if a fire starts in my office we're ALL toast.

     The Fire Warden passed out flyers telling us what to do to escape a smoke-filled room. You're supposed to place a wet cloth over your nose and mouth to filter the smoke, take short breaths, stay low on your hands and knees and do NOT break windows. Which is the same procedure we used when riding in the bar car of the old Conrail commuter train. That car was like a moving den of iniquity, and you could commit at least four of the seven deadly sins by the time you reached 125th Street without even trying.

     For five years my office was located in the building across the street, and they sounded a fire alarm literally every month. Which seemed almost irresponsible, because eventually you became inured to that beeping noise and just ignored it. It was like the boy who cried wolf, if he had made a beeping noise. My office was on the 13th floor, where an actual fire every month would have seemed perfectly appropriate. 

     Fire is no laughing matter, as are many of the matters in my columns. I almost burned down my parents' house once when I was cooking French fries back in the 1980s. As much as I'd like to blame France for this, I can't, so I'll blame the 1980s. I had left the pan unattended and it eventually burst into flames, overcooking both the French fries and the kitchen cabinets. Once I realized what had happened I sprung into action by trying to remember what you're supposed to use to extinguish a grease fire. Is it ONLY water or NEVER water (NEVER water)? A grease fire is a class B fire, which should be put out by an appropriate fire extinguisher, which luckily we had several of distributed throughout the house. 

     Firemen quickly came to finish putting out the blaze, although now, of course, we call them fire-fighters. Fire-fightresses if they are women. I'm not sure why we choose to call some professions by a gender-specific names and not others. Does it seem important that a man be known as a waiter and a woman a waitress? Now that they're called servers, they are never even the ones who actually serve the meal when it arrives. By contrast a woman, for instance, might not want a doctor who does not possess all the same standard equipment as she does. She may be more comfortable with a doctorette. 

     As much as I think that vaping is a poor alternative to smoking, at least it seems less likely to cause a fire. And that's better than nothing, unless we're on a desert island and we need to signal planes flying overhead. "Does anyone have a match?" I ask, "one that does not involve my face and some other object? Let me see a show of hands." The show closes quickly. "Everyone here quit smoking? Not even second hand? And how healthy did that decision turn out now?" Someone offers, "I have an e-cigarette, and we can use it to start an e-fire." "All right, any other suggestions?" "Yes! Remember that Facebook post that asked what three CDs you'd want with you if you were stranded on a desert island? Well, I BROUGHT them with me! Does anyone have a CD player?"

     Any fire professional will tell you that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and a smoke alarm weighs about seven ounces. This is also a good time to thank those men and women who have risked their lives in this dangerous and unpredictable profession. Those who run toward the fire as the rest of us are running away from it. And if I am ever running toward a fire it's only because I wrongly assumed that  stairwell "D" came after stairwell "C."

RE-INVENTING HALLOWEEN

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-09-23)

 

     Since my column is published after the fact, I get a chance to reflect on events well after everyone else is totally sick of them. If for some reason you're not sick of them, I can cure you of that. I read a description of Halloween that said that the day is "believed to be when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is the thinnest." I wonder who was the first person who actually realized it? I guess someone woke up one day and said, "Wow, have you noticed how thin the veil is between the living and dead? You can see their underwear."

     The pseudo-holiday has its origins in spiritual and religious ritual, but somehow, like most celebrations that spend any time in America, it has devolved into simply an excuse to throw your diet out the window. I would describe Halloween as the day when the veil between having candy and not having candy is the thinnest, and the week after Halloween as when many Americans are their fattest.

     Consumers are estimated to be spending $3.6 billion on candy this year, which means inflation will be hitting not only wallets but waistlines, so extra belt-tightening will be nearly impossible, especially if those consumers consume everything they consumed. Luckily, now there's Ozempic to the rescue. By the way, you may have noticed all the previously portly celebrities that are lining up to describe their "weight loss journey," cutting out all those carbs and sugars and embracing Pilates to lose 80 pounds in three months. Not one of them happens to mention that the pharmacist was a convenient stop along the journey....

     No one really knows how we got from pagan ceremonies to candy and pumpkins. In Christian lore, November first is known as All Hallows' Day, a time to celebrate saints and martyrs. The night before became known as Hallows' Eve (or evening, as in "e'en"). Martyrs are most effective when dead, so that might account for the macabre element that came to be associated with the day. It was just a matter of time before witches and monsters lined up for a piece of the action. Goblins were not far behind, but they do have shorter legs. 

     Other customs probably had perfectly understandable beginnings. For instance, we have an all-black cat, which may not necessarily bring bad luck if it crosses your path, but it does tend to throw up a lot, and that's one of its more polite habits, so I wouldn't exactly call it a good luck charm. As far as people carving up pumpkins? If I had to guess, it probably started after harvest time, with a relative that threatened to make pumpkin beer or pumpkin spice muffins one too many times. If you have an annoying relative, a pumpkin and a knife, discretion is the better part of valor. There used to be a party game called "bobbing for apples," which was probably another harvest-related tradition. I doubt there has been an instance of it since the 1970s or so, when it became popular in mob movies to depict an interrogation by holding somebody's head under water until they talked, although it was hard to hear what they said under there. 

     Halloween forces you to define the meaning or "scary." Witches and monsters don't seem particularly scary to me. My sister Kath receives 300 trick-or-treaters on a given Halloween, and THAT seems scary to me. If I really wanted a scary costume I would have go out dressed as Trump's foreign policy.

     I celebrated Halloween by playing a costume party with my band last Saturday, and I was dressed as a "porch pirate," complete with Amazon packages hanging from my fearnaught. Turns out I hadn't even noticed that one of the packages was not actually addressed to me, so once again art imitates life. There was a contest for best outfit, which was won by an ogre. There was also a prize for runner-up which was won by a Taylor Swift, so if for any reason the ogre was unable to fulfill his duties of, say, eating babies, Taylor Swift would then have to take his place, and I suppose, eat a few babies.

     A holiday that embraces cobwebs as a form of decoration does have its advantages, however. My wife was cleaning out the area behind our hot tub and she said there were a ton of cobwebs back there, but she left them alone since Halloween was coming up, and it was easier than putting up fake ones. I'm sure the fact that there were authentic-looking spiders in them also factored into her decision. She told me that if I used this little story that I should call her by an assumed name. So Halloween is over now and there are still cobwebs by the hot tub AND she doesn't answer the assumed name.

THINGS I HATE ABOUT FOOTBALL

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-02-23)

 

     Actually, I love football. It's like a good R-rated movie; it has a story line, a hero, a villain, plot twists, conflict, resolution, sometimes good acting, a lot of gratuitous violence and not enough nudity. However, there are some issues I would address if I were the commissioner, and I'll fix them so fast that the rest of the commission won't even notice.

     I hate that every time a winning field goal is about to be kicked and someone has an extra time-out lying around, they feel they must use it to "ice the kicker." The assumption is that if the referee blows the whistle just as the kicker is about to boot the ball through the uprights, he will be jinxed, and cross, and thinking about what might have been, and how he should have sold his Amazon stock when it was at $148.00, and how he said something really dumb on an interview before the game and thought of something so clever a minute after it was over, and that his Dad always seemed to like his younger brother better, and come to think of it so does his girlfriend, and he'll miss it. But when play resumes, he usually kicks the field goal anyway, and we've just wasted a lot of time that would have been better spent in therapy. And if he DOES miss it, the coach fancies himself a "football genius," which if you really were a football genius, would realize is an oxymoron.

     I hate when a backup quarterback comes into the game because of an injury, and he has a wristband with all the plays on it, and he throws five interceptions, and yet after the game he refuses to admit that he had the wristband on upside-down.

     I hate that the kickoff has become the most abject waste of time in the history of sports. In order to cut down on injuries, the ball is now kicked from the 35-yard line, and the kickoff team goes running down the field as fast as they can, and they surround the guy who would have caught the ball but did not since it sailed over his head into the stands, and they assault him verbally with things I wouldn't want my teenage children to hear, but ironically only teenage children know what they mean and won't tell us. I don't have children, fortunately for my children.

     I hate that men are so shallow that we will only respond to a sideline reporter who happens to be a good-looking woman. If she happens to be a short woman who doesn't fit in the same shot as a 6-foot five quarterback, at least there's an element of comedy. 

     I hate garish end-zone celebrations. On Monday Night Football last week after scoring a touchdown a player did the "worm," which was a dance that was popular, well, never, and then, in case you missed it, he did it again later. When an actual worm looks better than you do doing the "worm," it's time to retire that one. Hopefully he'll grow out of it once he reaches the pupa stage. 

     Then the rest of the team flooded the end zone for a wonderful one-act play. I was able to sit in at the dress rehearsal and watch as the choreographer put it all together: "Okay, remember, the football is supposed to be the baby, and the rest of you are supporting and nurturing it during the routine. Pianist: pick it up at the bridge, and I want to see some high steps and big leg kicks. Here we go: And, 5, 6. 7, 8..."

     I hate all the inconsistencies in the rules. For instance, you're allowed to tackle a guy by pulling his hair to the ground and seeing if the rest of him follows, but if you grab a guy's shirt for one second you're flagged for holding. There used to be a player on the Giants that was so afraid of somebody grabbing his jersey that he wore one so tight that it cut off the circulation to his arms.

     I hate the phrase, "offsetting penalties." Every time two football players get into a minor fracas which becomes a skirmish then blossoms into open hostilities before devolving into a donnybrook, the referees identify the two combatants and flag them both. But one player usually throws the first punch, and now that you can review the action using replays, that should be the guy who earns the penalty, and he should be forced to apologize and write an essay about why he should respect peoples' feelings.

     Well, it's almost time for Thursday Night Football, and since I missed Sunday afternoon, Sunday late afternoon, Sunday Night and Monday Night Football, I'm going to watch and see if they perform the "Electric Slide" during the touchdown celebration.

SUMMER SWAN SONG

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-26-23)

 

     I love the summer, but now it's fall and my friends who detest the hot weather and can't wait for the fever to break are basking in my misery. A chill starts to inhabit the evening air and I start to panic because school is starting. Even though I haven't been to school in decades it still induces a visceral dread. I tried to put autumn off by traveling south to Ocean City, Maryland a few weeks ago. 

     On the way down the Jersey Turnpike we were terrorized by a motorcycle gang. By terrorized, I mean that I couldn't hear the radio over that cacophony. I'm an avid motorcycle rider myself, when I can locate it in my garage, which is like a Superfund site these days. In New York, the noise level for a motorcycle is supposed to be below 82 decibels, measured at a distance of 50 feet. For the sake of comparison, a Harrier jet taking off is about 125dB; the average kiddie pool in August is about 129dB; and "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC clocks in at an average of 140 decibels, if your Mom's not home. The reason I mention this is because I myself recently was the envy of the outlaw clubs when my bike's noise output hit about a million decibels on Route 35 on the way back from the gym, because my muffler fell off and landed on the side of the road. The rest of the ride home it was so ear-splitting that I couldn't hear myself think, which I don't do very loudly to begin with. 

     Anyway, the trip south takes about five hours, and sometimes the GPS will offer an alternative route that takes less time but costs more in tolls. I look over at my wife, who is smirking because she can tell that I'm trying to divide the number of minutes saved by the amount of money in tolls. "No," I volunteer, "we're not going that way, it's like three bucks a minute. That's more than a 900 phone chat line, only without the friendship. So I've heard, at least." 

     When we got there the weather was not great for the beach but good for strolling the boardwalk. We passed a kid of about 11 or so who was strumming a guitar with the case open, busking for tips. I assumed he was putting himself through elementary school until his voice changes and he has to update his entire repertoire. It was tough to find a table for lunch. There was a huge music festival going on at the end of the boardwalk, and it was a seller's market for food. We ended up at a Hooters, and the waitresses there still have to wear hot pants even when it's cold. Being a Hooters waitress is more of a concept than an actual job. Ours spent quite a bit of time taking selfies and generally hooting, and we did most of the waiting. When the chicken tenders arrived, they hardly seemed to have been tended at all.

     There were a lot of great acts appearing at the music festival, which was held right on the beach. Access to the boardwalk and the amusement park next door were a unique touch for an event that size. I guess it was a good thing that it wasn't 90 degrees and sunny, because at a beach, alcohol, candied apples, the Tidal Wave roller coaster, riptides and an Alanis Morissette-fueled rage is a compromising health combination that no amount of lifeguard training can prepare you for.

     We didn't have tickets to the concert, but live music is plentiful on the island, and we checked out a selection of bands over the long weekend. On the way into the bar they checked my ID, which was at once flattering and disturbing. Was I not young enough to get in? I guess they run your license to see if you have any felony warrants against you or anything. I'm guessing they'd find a few more if they checked on the way out. 

     The band was good, but sometimes a bad band is an even better conversation piece. This one had a female lead singer with a very good voice and a tambourine. Oddly enough, she did not play the instrument, which makes noise when you shake it a couple times then bang it against your thigh. Maybe she never watched "The Partridge Family," or maybe someone in the band threatened her never to make any more noise with it, but she simply brandished it in the general direction of the bass player.

     On the way home, the weight of reality set in, and so too the demands of football season on my job, the impending holidays, the raking of leaves.... But if a 90-degree day should break out in the middle of December, I'm available for a beach day.

CLOSING ARGUMENTS

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-19-23)

 

     I just celebrated our 37th wedding anniversary, and I say "I" because I'm not actually sure my wife celebrates that. A lot of festivities and holidays have been cancelled over the years because it came out that the people we were celebrating did things that were not particularly festive, but I assure you that it will never come out that I ever did anything that was less than wholesome, unless anyone checks my web browser history. And may I be the first to say that those who fail to learn from browser history are destined to repeat it.

     Anyway, I truly believe that one of the things that makes a successful marriage is being able to have an argument that either ends in a resolution or an understanding, and not personal injury or dismemberment. The other thing is to laugh at my jokes regardless of whether you think they are funny. An argument can stem from a disagreement, a misunderstanding, a clash of values or failure to laugh at my jokes. Communication is a very important part of mutual harmony, to say the least. Saying the least is another. And yet I've known couples that are constantly at each others' throats, and you think they're gonna kill each other, and the insults are flying, and the next time you look they're in a passionate embrace. 

     Knowing how to argue with purpose and empathy is important in any relationship, and especially in marriage. I have some tips about arguing that will help you have a long and successful one:
1. Never go to bed angry, because in the morning you'll forget what you were fighting about, and you'll end up losing by default.
2. If you have a beef and you don't want to be the goat, yet you don't want to look like you're chicken, let it simmer and stew for a little while, and just before you come to a boil you can eat the entire argument.
3. If your wife is mad at you because you were taking a little too long checking out with the checkout girl, it's probably a Miss understanding. My apologies for that one.
4. Ironically, if you grab the remote control because you like comedy and she likes family drama, use it to tune to the channel with the family drama, if you don't want family drama.
5. If you don't want to ever fight about the upbringing of children, then don't bring them up in the first place.

     Many couples fight over money, which is something my wife and I have never fought over. That's because we had a clear understanding that we would never live above our means, and that we would not purchase things frivolously or after drinking. And since we don't have that much money, it wouldn't have been much of a fight.

     As a public service, I will provide a fictional example of a dysfunctional conversation that resolves peacefully, and you can use it to identify any triggers that you might find familiar in your own interactions with your loved ones.

     She says, "You always have to one-up me at everything. Remember when I told you my company put me up at the Four Seasons for the convention? And you said well, yours put you up at the Five Seasons? With you it's always tit for tat, and I guess you'd better get used to tat." And he says, "You never give me enough credit for all the good things I do." "I'm just going by the example your credit card company set. And you're always trying to pick a petty argument with me, like the one we had yesterday." "That argument was literally about Tom Petty." She says, "You complain about the dumbest things, like when you say I load the dishwasher wrong." "You DO load the dishwasher wrong. What if it was an anti-aircraft gun and you loaded it wrong?" "I bet the ammunition would still come out clean. What about you? You always put the toilet paper roll in upside-down." "If the toilet was upside-down I'd do it your way." "Well," she says, "then let's just agree to disagree." "NO! I disagree to disagree!" "Don't look now, but I think that means we agree." 

     I'll just say in closing to be careful with your words. You can't un-say something you've said, and you can't un-hear something your partner said to you. That's why my wife talks so softly. And when I say, "What?" She has time to edit whatever she said for a PG rating. It's much easier to not say something stupid than to have to apologize for it later. It's just not easy for ME not to say something stupid.

TAYLOR + TRAVIS 4-EVER

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-12-23)

 

     Taylor Swift is dating Travis Kelce! Best. Relationship. Ever. OMG it's a LTR with tons of PDA! I had to look up what PDA means because last time I checked it meant "personal digital assistant." And LTR? I know it's only been two weeks. But if you type "Taylor Swift and..." into your web browser, the following names come up, plus Travis Kelce's: Joe Alwyn, Harry Styles, Jake Gyllenhaal, Joe Jonas, Taylor Lautner, Tom Hiddleston, Lucas Till, John Mayer, Calvin Harris, Matty Healy and Rick Melén. I had to type in Rick Melén myself- we aren't technically seeing each other because I don't have my glasses on. So if you want to date Taylor Swift you only have so much time with her, and you had better make the most of it.

     She doesn't wait long enough for familiarity to breed contempt before she breaks up with you. Familiarity isn't even pregnant yet and you're out the door. How's the weather, have you read any good books lately, where do you want to go for dinner? We'll need to skip all of that. Arguments over that aren't going to break up a relationship, and that's where we need to get to faster. Not on the first date, maybe the second, let's discuss having children, getting a house together, who won the battle round on "The Voice."

     These two are still getting past the small talk. "Travis, what's the craziest thing you've ever done?" "Well, once I refused to autograph a baby." "Travis! How could you turn down a little baby? Where did they want you to autograph it?" "Right in the parking lot. What about you?" "Well, once I tried to walk onto the red carpet unnoticed, but I wasn't wearing concealer. Travis, may I call you Kelce? This is such a beautiful moment. Let's take a picture together to capture it." "Hold on, Taylor, are you going to let all those girls that are with you into our special picture?" "Travis, don't be so selfish- after all this is a SELFIE we're talking about here. Now what's your best side?" "Definitely potato skins with bacon in them."

     Kelce probably knows that if history repeats itself, there will eventually be irreconcilable differences, possibly ones that rhyme. And when that day comes, there will be a song written about you, and millions of teenage girls will be singing all your bad qualities for years to come. If I were him I'd change my name to "Orange," since there's hardly anything that rhymes with it. He's a receiver, and a lot of things rhyme with "pass." Some of them are not good news, but I won't go into any more detail here.

     My skeptical side can't help thinking that this relationship is simply a cross-branding coup for the pop culture-spewing icon machine that is Taylor Swift. Taylor was seen up in a skybox watching the Chiefs game, with all of her "Swiftie" friends and Kelce's Mom. There could soon be NFL tie-in merch, or maybe even a sit-com. It also means Travis will have to go to one of her concerts with his football buddies and Taylor's Dad. The whole thing just seems strangely unnatural to me. If they ever tie the knot it will be more like a corporate merger than a wedding.

     The same thing happened to Pete Davidson when he got engaged to Ariana Grande- his bankability quotient quadrupled, and all of a sudden the most beautiful and eligible bachelorettes in the land started looking at him thinking, "Really? Well, I guess so." They'll need a hybrid name. There was Brangelina, there was Bennifer, there was J-rod, there was Kimye. Will this new super-couple be called Travlor? Tayvis? Taylce?  By the way, if Stefani Germanotta married John Rzeznik, she'd be Lady Gaga Goo Goo.

     But that's what a relationship is all about. You absorb from each other. Taylor is going to learn things she never knew she needed to know, like how to achieve success in a triangle formation offense, with an inside slot receiver and a running back released to the weak side. And Travis is going to find out how to stand so that your legs look longer. And don't make a half-hearted effort or only one of your legs is going to look longer. 

     I could be wrong, maybe this is the real deal, but I felt I had better get these things off my chest within a week to be on the safe side. Maybe Kelce will announce his wishes to her Dad at the big concert. "Mr. Swift, I'm going to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage," Travis says. "WHAT? I can't hear a damn thing with 18,000 teenagers yelling in my ear." "I'm asking you for your daughter's hand in marriage, sir." "Fine, just leave the rest of her out of it."

TRANSCUTANEOUSLY YOURS

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-05-23)

 

     I bet if you asked any of my doctors what my real problem is, they would say that as a patient I don't have any patience. To illustrate, I might be watching the news magazine "Sunday Morning," where in order to create a relaxing experience for the viewer, they might air a shot of an icicle slowly melting, dripping away for about five minutes. Because I'm so impatient I would try to reach through the screen with a blow dryer and speed things up. Or, if I won tickets to a Bruce Springsteen concert and I am SO EXCITED throughout the first four hours of the show, the next two hours I start to get restless as darkness on the edge of town starts to turn to light.

     Anyway, I just want my doctors to cure me faster. I want a doctor whose motto is, "If I can't deliver your baby in 30 minutes it's FREE!" I would take a magic elixir to restore my health, as long as it doesn't contain gluten or lactose. But it's time that heals all wounds, and who has time for that? The doctors aren't in any hurry to find a substitute for time; as my health insurance continues to put their children through college, they continue to tell what to do to cure my latest afflictions, which is: nothing.

     Right now I'm in physical therapy for a broken 5th metatarsal bone in my foot, and I could just kick myself for breaking it in the first place, but I'll need to do it with one of my other 4 metatarsals. The therapist has me lie down on the table and assumme a position with one of my feet under me, raising my body with the other foot outstretched. The sort of position you should make no assumptions about if you find somebody in.

     Then he spreads out a bunch of marbles on the floor and directs me to pick them up one at a time with my toes and place them in a teacup. I'm distracted by the idea that this is going to result in a weird cup of tea, and the marbles go skittering across the floor. In an ironic twist, I've lost somebody else's marbles.

     The physical therapy office is a good example of a place where I can injure a different part of my body while treating the part I'm trying to cure. I'm told to stand balanced on my bad foot for 30 seconds. The waving of my arms and leg like a drunken semaphore operator trying to land a plane was something I added myself, and I still almost fell into a mirror that they have perfectly positioned so that you can see the face you make when you're about to crash into a mirror. It feels like a DWI field test, and I may be spending the evening in jail.

     The guy next to me is groaning, but that could be from my jokes. The therapist disappears into the back and I whisper to the guy, "PSST!" He looks alarmed that I might have sprung an air leak. "We've got to get the hell out of here- I think we're about to get water-boarded." The physical therapist returns and starts massaging my foot in the exact area where an orthopedic surgeon has inserted a large screw. In between my screams he glibly says, "No pain, no gain" "That explains my weight," I say. He keeps working on my foot, unfazed. I yell, "ALL RIGHT, I'LL TALK!" But he says, "Talk? We were hoping you'd zip it for a few precious moments. Are you experiencing any pain right now? On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is it?" He's trying for a perfect 10 score like in the Olympics.

     "Be right back," he says, and I turn to the guy with the bad shoulder. I say, "This is how it's gonna go down: you create a diversion, and I'll make a run for it." "What about me?" "You're right. We'll need two diverse diversions, and the therapist can make a run for it." The guy says, "Listen, I saw an episode of MacGyver where he escapes on a cart he makes out of a battery, rubber bands, a blender, and half of a suit of armor." "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Do you have a battery?" "No." Rubber bands?" "No." "A blender?" "No." "What about the suit of armor?" "I have that."

     The therapist comes back and says, "Time for a little transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation." And before I have a chance to look up "transcutaneous" he has me hooked up to something that looks like an EKG, only it's pulsing electrical charges into my body. I say, "Are you going to charge me extra for charging me extra?" He turns it up to "tase," and after a 15 minutes says, "Okay, you're done." I would have settled for medium rare 10 minutes ago.

DONOR-OPERATED

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-28-23)

 

     There are wealthy people, and then there are people that are in a different stratosphere of rich. They've already set aside money for their grandkids (in a trust fund, so named because they don't trust their kids). They have a secondary residence where they do their wintering in the summer and their summering in the fall. They also bought a fourth home because they don't remember where the third one is and are too embarrassed to ask. They've spent a substantial amount on plastic surgery, and an additional sum to make it look like they haven't had any plastic surgery, and now they look similar to how they did before the plastic surgery. 

     But then there are others who recognize a wider responsibility to society. Somebody once asked pitcher Tug McGraw what he intended to do with his World Series winnings, and he famously replied, "Ninety percent I'll spend on good times, women and Irish Whiskey. The other ten percent I'll probably waste." While returning most of that money back into the economy is a noble gesture, many people here in Westchester have benefitted from the fruits of hard work or circumstance and are eager for a way to pass that good fortune on.

     Looking through the spam folder of my email account I discovered that I myself am the recipient of such charity. A certain "Lerynne West from an unassuming community of Redfield Iowa" was apparently the "victor of six hundred and eighty seven Million Powerball bonanza Lottery" dollars, and my email address was "haphazardly drawn from the email global lottery framework." Now, I know I'm not rich, since my name is Rick and I missed it by one letter. But I'm still trying to figure out how to spend the $8.3 million I was told that I won by a certain Mrs. Nicole Marois of Burkina Faso. 

     While we're waiting, there are others better suited to bring donors together with organizations who are doing work at a grassroots level, engaging the young, the less  fortunate and other deserving folks with programs designed to engage, enrich and further their development in all sorts of ways. My wife is a program officer for the Westchester Community Foundation, and one of her most rewarding duties is to visit these groups and find out in person what they are up to.

     One such partnership seeks to support women service veterans with PTSD by helping them forge a therapeutic, on-ground bond with horses in a private space as they learn about the animals, their care, handling and grooming.

     I've never been great with horses, but I can see where a day of grooming might help our relationship. "Whoa," I say, "what's with the long face? I'm going to fix you up real nice, all the studs'll be hot-to-trot. Listen, that hairstyle is basically a mullet- business in the front and party in the back. You already have a tail if you need a party further back. Now, let's talk about your hair color. Have you always been a natural roan? I recommend a few palomino highlights. "Piebald by choice?" Another option. Also, let's talk about your shoes: seven pairs of flats is a nightmare, pardon the expression."

     Last Saturday I was lucky enough to tag along to Mount Vernon for a rehearsal of a community drum line, featuring coed performers of all ages. They learn confidence, discipline, showmanship and how to relate to others out of their peer and age group, not to mention the music and choreography itself. When I was a kid I used to practice the drums down in our basement, and when my Mom needed to get my attention she used to flick the lights on and off from the upstairs switch. I just thought it was part of the light show. Exasperated, she said, "It's like you're blind, deaf and dumb down there." I said, "Well, I can speak, so I'm not dumb," and she gave me that look she gives me when something I say instantly proves her correct.

     You're probably thinking, Rick, how is it possible for you to make everything all about YOU? And I say, well, when you get your own newspaper column, then YOU can make it all about me. But this truly isn't about me, it's about the people who find the resources to give, those who direct the money where it can do the most good, those who work and volunteer at organizations built to uplift and those who eagerly accept the opportunity to grow from these programs. And on behalf of all of them, I say thank you.

A THOUGHT FOR SORE MINDS

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-21-23)

 

     We're all getting older, even babies who were just born. But while they're getting smarter as they get older, I'm getting dumber. Maybe not dumber, because there is knowledge in my brain that is untapped, it's just getting harder and harder to get any of it out. My thoughts are not analogous to, say, untapped beer, which will benefit society once it starts to flow. Sometimes I will surprise people with the things that I know, because they can't believe anyone could remember that many lines from "F Troop," or advertising jingles from the 1970s. 

     My mother once lamented that she was losing her.... And the word that she couldn't remember, of course was "memory." She didn't suffer from dementia, or Alzheimer's or any brain deficiency, that's just the way she was. She was bright and clever, but sometimes couldn't make synapses perform the way she wanted to when she needed them. And that gene was passed down to me.

     I might be at a social function, and coming towards us is so-and-so, whose name we should remember but you only see them once a year, and I think it begins with a "D," but is it Deborah or Dominique? Or Deboranique? My wife and I have a system, where I preemptively strike and say with a laugh, "HEY, I know YOU! Ha, ha!" And before I have to prove it, my wife swoops in and says, "Hi," and sticks out her hand to shake so she can find out the name when the introductions are made. I'm dreading the day when Darlene (or whatever the hell her name is) turns to my wife and says, "AND, I know YOU!" Which means she doesn't remember our names either, possibly even her own.

     "What the hell is her name?" I'm struggling. "Go through the alphabet," my wife suggests. "Okay, I think it's a state, like Dakota, or Denver, or Dallas, or something." "None of those are states," she points out, but I'm still singing the alphabet and now I have to start over. "I know it's not Rhode Island. Wait, I think it's a flower, like Dahlia, or Daisy, or Delphinium." "She does grow on you," my wife offers. "Hold on, I think it's a feeling, like Desiree or Destiny or Divinity. Wait- I think it's a crustacean, like Daphnia." Once the woman finally tells me her name I say, "No, that's not it."

     So I signed up on a web site that sends a daily program of brain games, to tighten up my mental acuity and memorization skills. I couldn't remember my password, so it wasn't off to a flying start. In one of the games you pretend you're a waiter, and different people walk into the restaurant and you have to remember their names. Strangely enough, I rose to the top level of competition, and remembered everyone's name, but I found that it only worked with drawings of people, and not real people. It seems that I'm good at things that make you appear smart if you don't look too closely. I display a certain amount of perspicacity in knowing words like "perspicacity," but when I go to use them, people just assume I made them up and I look dumber than usual.

     I guess there's a lot we don't know about the brain. Years ago I signed up for the organ registry, which I'm glad I didn't have to do in person. "I'd like to donate my brain to Science." And the clerk would say, "WHICH science would that be, geology?" and I'd say, "Let's make it Popular Science?" "Okay, just have a seat and I'll send somebody over for it." "Well, I meant AFTER I'm dead." She says, "Don't worry, that's an electric chair. Just kidding." By the way, what happens if I donate a kidney, and then MY remaining kidney fails? Do I need to knock on somebody's door and try to get my old one back? I don't want a stranger's kidney because what if my body rejects it? I don't take rejection well.

     Thoughts are in there, I just know they are. Sometimes I can't get to sleep at night because my mind is racing. When I finally wake up it's clear that it has lost. I'm not a morning person, so I have to wait until at least 10:00 before making any decisions. Breakfast is at 10:01. At work I avoid clichés when I'm running a meeting. If I say, "And that's it in a nutshell," I run the risk of people thinking to themselves that it should have stayed in the nutshell.

CELESTIAL TEASE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-14-23)

 

     I certainly hope you didn't miss last week's "blue supermoon," since the next one won't be seen until 2037. I didn't happen to notice the moon last week, but strangely enough I didn't miss it. I also didn't hear anything about my cat running a triathlon, or no traffic on the Hutchinson River Parkway, or a year of reasonable taxes, things you'd expect to happen once in a blue moon. According to scientists last week's moon, its closest point to the Earth, appeared to be eight percent bigger and fifteen percent brighter than normal, the same things my parents wished they could say about me when I was in the 4th grade.

     I hear about these celestial events, and I stare up in the sky, expecting the same excitement as when the crowd first spots what they think might be Superman: "Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane!" And it turns out to be a bird and a plane. Remember the "cold moon" last December? Neither do I. That's where the moon temporarily eclipses Mars so that you can't see it. If I was actually living on Mars I'm not sure I would be able to find it, so the fact that the moon jumps right in front of my field of vision only saves me the trouble of not seeing it in the first place. Supposedly you could see all this with the naked eye, and I took a look outside, but I couldn't remember if only your eye was supposed to be naked, so I apologize to my neighbors for that misunderstanding. If you saw a super moon that night and you thought it was impressive, I'll take most of the credit.

     Several months ago the stargazing community apprised us of the fact that "C/2022 E3 (ZTF)" would be approaching Earth, and that you SHOULD NOT MISS IT because it won't be passing this way again for 50,000 years! C/2022 E3 (ZTF) is a comet, and by "approaching," they mean 28 million miles away, give or take a few million miles. But they really piqued my interest when they further described that this was a rare GREEN comet. Why I would waste my time on a green, unripe comet? But I stayed up until one in the morning, and I saw what I always see during a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event: cloudy skies. 

     Maybe you know someone who saw the infamous Hale-Bopp comet of 1997. And by the way, if you have a goofy last name, don't be looking up in the sky discovering stuff. Hale and Bopp actually discovered the comet in separate states on the same day and reported it to the Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams, which was angry they hadn't discovered it first, and also that they were still relying on people sending telegrams. I'm pretty sure that if Hale and Bopp were together at the time, there would have been a hell of an argument as to who saw it first. "I saw it first," Hale says. "You saw NOTHING," Bopp says. "You couldn't even see Uranus if it came up behind you and bit you on your elbow, which you wouldn't know from it." Hale says, "Why don't you and the boys from Hanson get together and discover the MMMBop comet?" And so forth until Hale bops Bopp upside the head.

     It's entirely possible that whatever's out there in space is not going to help us one bit. Quite the contrary. Scientists say that "2022 AP7" is lurking somewhere out there. It's a giant one-mile-long asteroid which, if its orbit eventually coincides with that of the Earth, could slam into our planet and cause the extinction of the human species. If it slams into downtown L.A., it's possible that no one would notice, but the amount of dust it kicks up could possibly leach into the atmosphere and blot out the light of the sun, or so they say.

     NASA is also tracking an 11-mile-wide comet called "C/2017 K2," with a tail so large that if it belonged to a cat, could knock all the pens off of every kitchen table in the entire country. Should this body impact the Earth, to paraphrase a lot of scientific lingo: we're screwed.

     It seems like the more we befoul our own planet and the more we continue to elect politicians who have no understanding of science, the more we turn our attentions to the stars in the hopes that there is something up there that will somehow help us down here. Astronomers are always freaking out that there might be water on Mars, for instance. I will temper my enthusiasm until it finds its way to my lawn. Is there intelligent life somewhere out there? Judging by the intelligence level here, we'll never know. In the meantime I'm keeping my eyes peeled for a super-DUPER moon.

HALF-BAKED ALASKA, PART II

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-07-23)

     Our first five days in Alaska were filled with awe-inspiring views of America at its best (in other words with no humans in it). "Oh wow," people said to me before our trip, "you're going to see so much wildlife! Maybe a whale, a moose and a grizzly bear on a good day!" Whether it's a good day for me or them I guess depends on how fast I can run. But by the end of five days as our train pulled into Anchorage, the largest beast I had seen was a squirrel attacking a bird feeder, and I was in awe of this illustration of the brutality of nature.

     I was animal-starved, and even a chocolate mousse on a menu would have seemed exotic. I pictured myself following a big game hunter in order to see some wildlife. "What are we tracking?" I ask him as I tag along. "Keep your voice down," he says. "We're looking for moose droppings." "Wow," It was hard to conceal my disappointment. "I figured we'd go after something larger, like maybe the moose." Perhaps these animals are nocturnal, and since there's 21 hours of daylight, they're over-rested and ready to expend some energy on the first idiot who happens to blunder along.

     But all that would change as we boarded the Discovery, a 65-foot, six-cabin vessel fitted with kayaks and a motor skiff, designed to visit the natural splendors of the Prince William Sound, just south of the city. From our water-borne vantage point we immediately snapped an iconic photo of a black bear capturing a fish in its mouth. It's less iconic for the fish, but that's the nature of nature. We saw a tribe of mountain goats, the largest mammals to exist at those altitudes. They were on the move, as where they already were looked to be extremely boring.

     We pulled up to a haulout of sea lions, noisy and social, and passed a raft of otters floating on their backs. On our hike we met up with an injured bald eagle that our skipper had been keeping track of. We saw crested puffins, harbor seals and of course, the black-legged kittiwake. 

     We boarded our small craft and positioned ourselves fairly close to Surprise Glacier, and while it would be impressive to see calving activity, an entire cow would likely send our kayak out of the Sound at the speed of sound. We floated around in our kayak for the better part of an afternoon. The worse part of the afternoon was spent rowing it. There was a lot of ice in the vicinity so I was careful not to have a "Titanic moment." As the de facto captain I did not want to have to go down with the ship, when it was much easier to wait until I was back on land and figure out a way to go down without it.

     We returned to town after our wonderful cruise to relax for a couple days before our return flight. Anchorage is home to half the people of the state, which is two-and-a-half times the size of Texas but with a population roughly the size of Seattle. The city is home to several eateries and drinkeries, such as the Bear Tooth Inn, the Bear Paw and the Moose Tooth Tavern. If you assembled every bar in town you'd have one complete animal that could at any time get you drunk and then eat you.

     Our last day we we boarded a bus tour to the Wildlife Conservation Center about 45 minutes south of the city. As we neared the preserve I had to hold onto my kidneys as I realized that the rutting season is the same for roads as it is for elk. But they were all there: the brown bear, of which the grizzly is a smaller subspecies; the moose, which often feeds in the ocean and finds the orca one of its primary predators; the arctic fox, bred for its soft fur. They seemed glad to finally see me. The only animal in the park that did not show itself was the lynx. I bet if I spread out a newspaper and sat down with my coffee he'd come right out and sit on it, and I would have found the missing lynx.

     Finally our beautiful glimpse into the wild corners of America was over, and we boarded the plane back to New York. I wave at the stewardess and say "Huh-hi," since they always say "Buh-bye" on your way out. We make it back to New York in record time, and I say on the way out, "Thank you for flying Delta," which temporarily throws her off her game. It's good to be back in my natural habitat: captivity. But the animals in Alaska are gloriously free, at least until my credit card bill comes.

HALF-BAKED ALASKA, PART I

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-31-23)

     We're back from a wonderful trip to Alaska, and whether you like it or not, I'm going to tell you all about it. People have asked, "How long was your trip?" Well, it was a total of nine days and one night. That's because during the summer, Alaska is the "Land of the Midnight Sun." And you can see a beautiful sunset if you stay up past your bedtime until 11:30 or so. But don't forget, in the winter Alaska is also the land of the noonday moon, with only a couple hours of sunlight a day.

     I thought I could pack casual to save suitcase room, but then I thought, what if I get caught in a long line at the Anchorage airport and get swallowed up by a glacier? And 30,000 years from now experts will dig me up and evaluate my clothing from an archaeological standpoint. Why was he wearing that ugly shirt? Was it to ward off predators? We began our trip outside of Fairbanks at the Chena Hot Springs Resort, an unassuming conglomeration of buildings that belies the innovations of its forward-thinking owner. The place is run by its own on-site geothermal-powered turbine. When I asked if they were "off-the-grid," the answer was, "What grid?" We did eventually see evidence that Alaska would soon be getting the telegraph. The plant also makes plants, in a hydroponic vegetable-growing facility that produces all the produce for its restaurants.

     Great weather always follows us on vacation, but we were not expecting 85-degree sunshine in the Last Frontier, and our tour of the Aurora Ice Museum was postponed until the next day. When we got there the 1,000 tons of frozen water kept at 25 degrees contained intricate pieces by renowned ice sculptor Steve Brice, and an ice bar serving cocktails. If you ask for a margarita you need not specify that it be frozen, and I would be suspicious of any wine served at room temperature.

     We also toured their kennel facility, where dogs can train for the Iditarod, an annual re-enactment of a 1925 life-saving run of diphtheria serum by dogsled from Anchorage to Nome. A statue of Balto, the lead dog who became a national hero, was erected in Central Park that year. The lead dog runs the show, but the swing dog is the second-in-command, and must take the lead should the number one dog fail to fulfil its duties. The wheel dog is in the rear, keeps an eye on the other dogs and initiates turns.

     My own dog Gidget is Canadian, and she was bred to be a sled dog. I can easily picture her traveling the almost 1,000-mile route, as long as there is a comfortable place for her to sit on the sled. She's not going to pull anything. She is very easily distracted, and spends much of her time trying to lick things. I sometimes ask her, you're licking random objects all the time and you never once had a bad experience with that? I guess if you can't lick 'em, don't join 'em.

     The resort boasts a very refreshing man-made wading pool, which cools the incoming 165-degree underground spring water to a more humane temperature. I could not confirm the legendary healing powers of the mineral-laden waters, but a breakdown of the chemical content showed a lithium value of 250 PPM, so I guess it's a great place to go to recharge your batteries. I'm thinking of turning my own swimming pool into a resort for people trying to escape global warming, since it seems to sustain a constant temperature of about 33 degrees.

     Back in Fairbanks the next morning, we took the historic Alaska Railroad south on a breathtaking tour of the vistas that are just a normal occurrence here. Gold Star service means fine dining as well as a seat in the upper domed sight-seeing car. You can gorge on great food as well as gorgeous gorges in between the stunning Alaska Mountain range. The railroad, begun in 1903 by a private company, was finished by the federal government in 1923, at a cost of about five times what the U.S. paid for entire state 56 years prior.

     We de-trained in the kitschy town of Talkeetna, native for "Three Rivers." The unofficial but popular mayor of the place is a cat named Aurora who lives at the general store. We met her, and while I wouldn't ask her to outline this year's budget, I would trust her with decisions regarding fair mousing, and duties related to the purr-formance of the Town Pouncil. In the center of town is a grass airstrip, common in the state, used in bygone days for supplies and now mostly for tourism.

     The next day we took an ATV tour of the local trails. We made a few stops to admire the scenery, one of which held a dramatic sighting of Mt. Denali. The 20,000-foot behemoth, as big as it is, is only fully visible 30 percent of the time, so we were lucky to have a full view of it just before it hopped in the shower. Denali means "The Great One" in native Koyukon, and was restored as the official name from Mt. McKinley in 2015, since William McKinley, not a horrible president, was certainly not The Great One. I'll see you in Anchorage next week for Part II. Wear something comfortable.

MISSING THE BOAT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-17-23)

 

     Every summer we eventually find ourselves aboard a boat, and it reminds me of when I myself was the skipper of my own cabin cruiser, which I co-owned with my very patient and understanding friend Dave. I've heard it said a million times that the two best days a boat owner ever has are the day he buys the boat and the day he sells it. And to that I say, well if you buy and sell a boat annually you'll have two great days a year, which is not a bad average.

     Ours was mid-size power cruiser, and sometimes my wife and I would head up the Hudson and put in at our sister marina in Newburgh. Eventually, in between dry-dock repairs, we would bring our dog and our bicycles, and have a nice weekend. But the learning curve for a novice skipper is arduous and nerve-wracking, and I bent so many fenders that I came to be known as "Captain Crunch." 

     In my own defense, things that didn't make much sense on land make even less sense at sea, and then you're too far from shore to tell anyone how stupid it is and that they should change it. For instance "starboard" and "port" mean "right" and "left," so if you were to say, "my phone is probably right where I left it," on a boat you might say, "my phone is probably starboard where I port it." I guess portholes all are on the left, too (don't worry, I'm almost done). Nothing is the same on a boat. The kitchen is the galley, the bathroom is the head, the bedroom is the cabin and the steering wheel is the helm. There's a sign as you motor out of the marina channel that says "NO WAKE ZONE" which I never saw because I was asleep, thinking I was obeying it.

     One beautiful summer day three weeks after 9/11, we were stopped by a Coast Guard patrol boat for wandering into the Indian Point "no-fly" zone. He called out on a megaphone, "Do you have a radio and know how to use it?" I answered, "Of course I do, it's down below." "What band is it on?" I said "I believe that is Metallica right now." "Did you know you are currently in a restricted area?" He asked. "I'm aware of that, and as you can see I haven't let anyone else in." He looked at the front of my boat and said, "I'd like to see your bow," and I gave such an elaborate example of one that I thought he would leave right away, but instead he came aboard. He gave me a stern warning: get my stern out of there or face federal charges.

     I could only get one engine started because I must have flooded the carbureter on the other one. On a boat there is no end to the amount of things you could flood if you put your mind to it.

     I said to my wife, "Come up here to the bridge, take the wheel and hold position while I weigh the anchor. Then I'm going to the galley to make a hot mess." She said, "First of all, there's no bridge on this thing. And second of all, No." "WHAT? What do you mean 'NO?'" I was flabbergasted, which resulted in a noise that I had to deny came from me. I ranted, "There's no 'No' onboard when the ship is underway! The Captain has absolute authority, and hands down the orders and the crew obeys the orders. That's the Way of the Sea." She said, "Well, it's the same No that I use on land." "I'm going to have to place you on report, and write the incident up. See this thing here? This is the Captain's Log." She said something about how small my Captain's Log was, but still would not hold position. I realized that she wasn't crazy about our position in the first place, which put me in an awkward positon. I didn't want to threaten to keel haul her and risk her pointing out that I didn't know where the keel was. So I had to weigh anchor, which seemed like it might have put on a little weight, plus hold down a mutiny the same time.

     I realized I better take care of business or I might end up like Henry Hudson, the explorer that discovered the Henry Hudson Parkway. He perished at sea during the year 1611 in Canada after his crew turned on him and set him adrift. If I was to be set adrift of a boat that was not holding position it might not be all that dangerous, as long as we both drifted in the same general direction. 

     The boat finally sustained an injury to its engine that would have cost more to fix than the vessel was worth, which was not a very high bar to pass. We ended up donating it to "Boats 4 Kids," which furthers youth and educational programs. So if you see an underprivileged kid piloting a 32-foot yacht around the Hudson River, he's probably doing better than I did.

AUTO DETAILING

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-10-23)

 

     These days you can read user reviews on just about anything before you it, and see what normal people think. When I say normal, I mean people like you and me. Okay, maybe just people like you. It's been six months since I bought my new car, and I discovered that there's a learning curve with finally getting a new car after 10 years.

     One drawback of owning a performance car is that speed limits seem much more archaic than they used to. When I get behind someone going 30 miles an hour I feel like a garden slug on union golden time.
     My turn signal doesn't turn itself off unless I make a 90-degree turn, so I either have to veer into the other lane to tighten up the angle, or turn it off manually and end up signaling in the other direction by mistake. So if you're behind me I apologize for my lack of direction. I blame my parents.

     Luckily there are many more safety features than there used to be. At first this was comforting. An alarm sounds when you're too close to something, and it sounds when you're too far away from something. If I'm equidistant from everything, it's pretty quiet, but that doesn't happen very often. An alarm such as that would come in handy when you're dating so that you know where you stand, and specifically, where TO stand. But when I hear a beep as I'm driving and I don't know what it's for, I'll need to consult the instruction manual while I'm either too close or too far away from something to figure out what it's for. 

     I was overjoyed to find that there WAS an instruction manual, and it was only in English. Just about every instruction book I've ever seen has four or five different languages in the back, and if you turn to the wrong one, you can learn less about your car than before you started. I could turn the car upside down trying to find the écran du tableau de bord, only to realize that I was in the wrong language section. I learned some French curse words and it did make me feel better.

     The most interesting alarm goes off if you don't put on your seatbelt right away. It sounds exactly like the first 8 chords of a Guess Who song, in the correct key. And it's pushy, as if I should have fastened my seatbelt while I was still in the shower. If you don't act IMMEDIATELY it gets louder and louder, and I wish they'd get on with the rest of the Guess Who song. 

     I suppose most people love scrolling around all touch screens on a dashboard to find the right station on the sound system, or adjust the perfect temperature for the cockpit. I'm not sure when car companies started calling the inside of the car the "cockpit," but if my car does suddenly start to take flight I'll have to figure out which menu has the altimeter. Anyway, I scroll through the different screens to find the "air recirculate" button, because somebody ran over a skunk. Once I finally find it, dead-skunk-air has already finished filling my cockpit and I recirculate it for the next five miles. If I go through that many menus there had better be dessert at the end and not a dead skunk.

     I had to wait two years during the pandemic for computer chips to start turning up again for this scrolling opportunity. My last car was 10 years old and just had a bunch of knobs and dials. If you turned the dial towards red, it got warmer, blue it got colder. The system was a relic of its time and not very high-tech, but I could adjust the temperature perfectly without having to look at it.

     All this assumes that there is nothing particularly interesting going on in the road that I should be paying attention to. If I have my phone assistance app on, I can ask it questions about navigation, song playlists and the weather. And now that there is AI involved, having a normal conversation with your car is something that will be happening very soon. "Hey," I ask my car, "these are all-season radials you got under you, correct?" My car says, "Yes, it's baseball season right now, and I  think they'll do better in football season than the Giants will." "I don't want to sound insulting," I continue, "but white was not my first choice for a car color." "Well," my car replies, "the first time it snows no one will notice that you have a white car." "Hey- how fast are we going? I've had three speeding tickets." "Well at least you have the courage of your convictions." By the time there is enough artificial intelligence for my car to have a normal conversation with me, it will be smart enough to know that there is no such thing.

DOG DAY AFTERNOON

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-03-23)

 

     Every home Sunday during the summer, the Hudson Valley High-A professional baseball team hosts a game that dogs are allowed to attend. We took Gidget, the cutest dog in the world, to her first nine innings, and I must admit, she seemed pretty underwhelmed by the experience. Believe me, if they tried this trick at the U.S. Open all hell would break loose with that many tennis balls flying around. Have you ever tried to hit a tennis ball that a Labrador just retrieved? "You said you were going to serve them and I was able to fit three servings in my mouth."

     The day was a little hot for dogs and after a few innings she wanted to go home. I told her in order to do that she'll have to get on base, steal second, wait for a wild pitch and go home on an error. Besides, what older tradition is there than a hot dog at a ball game? By late afternoon it cooled off, and she started to enjoy the attention. Gidget is tolerant of preschoolers, impartial to other dogs and attractive to cats. What she really wanted to do was make friends with whatever was living near the dumpsters behind the stands. I said, Gidget, what kind of friendship would that be? First of all you're going to have to jump all the way up into that garbage bin, and when you get there I know you and you won't like the food. How is it going to feel to be dumped by a someone who lives in a dumpster?

     The players on the field are two rungs of the ladder away from playing in the big leagues. And even though the game is played exactly the same way, there are some innovations that could smooth the transition to the majors. For instance, whenever there's a two strike count, a train whistle sounds and everyone stomps their feet on the metal bleachers, and it sounds exactly like the number 4 subway that goes by Yankee Stadium, only it stops on schedule. There isn't very much offensive language directed at the players, so they'll need to practice their defensive language on their own time. There was some barking at the umpire, but that was mostly by the dogs. But if you pay attention you may see some players on the way up. You may see them on the way back down. If there were any scouts in attendance, surely they would have offered Gidget a modelling contract by now. 

     There's a lot going on in-between innings. There are all sorts of games of skill and chance, designed to let the announcer make fun of you. If you've ever had a sadistic camp counselor, you'll know what I'm talking about. There were hula hoops, frisbees, pool floats, traffic cones, but no matter if you won or lost, you were somehow going to get soaked with water. 

     I used the time to bond with Gidget, and we chatted about some of the paradoxes of the game, like why do they call them "stands" when you sit in them, and why do they call them "innings" when they contain outs, and why do you sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" when you're already there, and does foul territory smell any worse? I had some more things to discuss but I couldn't hear myself over her snoring.

     The theme of the day was "Christmas in July," so we were awash with caroling, Santa beards, candy canes and reindeer antlers. It seems to me that if Christmas in December isn't sufficient to get the job done, we're not doing it correctly. My birthday is on Christmas Day, and still, I'm over it by Halloween. By the way, I didn't hear any talk of "Birthday Presents in July." I'm starting a movement right now called, "4th of July in December," and we can have fireworks, barbecues and 78-degree weather.

     In-between innings were more contests and exhibitions. A gal stood on top of the dugout and was lip-syncing a Taylor Swift song at a stadium, just like Taylor Swift does. There were mascots dressed up as raccoons, skunks and mosquitos, I'm not entirely sure why. It is a farm team after all, so I guess it shouldn't be that surprising. The atmosphere was like Times Square, a street fair, a circus and a birthday party all rolled into one. Gidget slept through most of it. 

     Eventually I remembered that there was a game going on- the home team didn't win due to an implosion of the bullpen. It certainly wouldn't have happened if Gidget were pitching. She is a southpaw, northpaw, eastpaw and westpaw, depending on which direction the mound faces. But no matter the score, with dogs, sunshine and baseball, how can you lose?

CRAZY TALK

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-27-23)

 

     I often read The New York Times, because I like the pictures, and because I love the fact that they can make a graph for just about anything. But I find I need more in-depth information, and figuring out how to read the graph is, to use graphic language, a pain in the axis. So I was scrolling through the news feed on my web browser to get the latest breaking bulletins. I found out, for instance, that Twitter users are throwing fire emojis at Elizabeth Hurley's bikini photos. If this ends up causing a Canadian wildfire I will know about it before anyone else.

     The news of the day turned up an article titled, "How To Spot A Psychopath Through 5 Telltale Traits." Which, when you work in the media is a useful thing to know. A team of researchers at Cornell University studying inmates convicted of murder found that a common theme among them was their patterns and topics of speech. It didn't seem like a lot of new ground being broken, but I'll paraphrase the results for you anyway. One of their habits is to frequently punctuate their speech using "um" and "uh," I guess to consider if what they're about to say sounds nuts. (I'm talking  about  the convicted murderers, not the researchers  from  Cornell.)  So, if you  happen  to be chatting  with  someone  who  says something like, "Uh, it's, um, so time-consuming being uh, a psychopath," that could be a dead giveaway. Hopefully not in that order.

     They also use subordinating conjunctions such as "because" or "so that," maybe to effect a logical premise for why they did what they did. Not only does it make sense that convicted murderers often believe that they killed for a good reason, but it also confirms my suspicion that my 10th grade logics class teacher was probably a psychopath.

     The study found that conversations with the inmates often included details about food, specifically, what they ate on the day of their crimes. I would be curious to know if there were any patterns regarding WHAT they ate, because I think you'd have to be a lunatic to eat Brussels sprouts. If you are what you eat, there are some people I know who probably ate a lot of bananas.

     Crazy is a word that's bandied about way too loosely in my opinion. My Mom used to say I drove her crazy. I said, "Mom, I understand that I drive you crazy, but once I drive you there you'll be crazy about me! Hop in!" Much of what is labelled as "crazy" just turns out to be "stupid." Some members of Congress seem to relish being called "unhinged," possibly to illustrate that they are willing to go to great lengths in their beliefs and beef up fund-raising. They seem secretly hoping to be called "crazy like a fox," but being crazy like a stupid fox isn't flattering either to the congresswoman or the fox.

     Another psychopathic tendency is that they tend to shy away from discussing religion or family life. I'm not a great believer in organized religion, maybe because I'm afraid no organized religion would let me in if they see my office. And any talk involving my family is a discussion of wackos even before you get around to me. I guess most of us are a little bit crazy.

     According to my own research, a sociopath is anti-social and flouts the rules, impulsive and is quick to be angry and defensive. A psychopath tends to take pleasure in harming others, often internalizes his or her feelings and lies pathologically. As an illustration, a sociopath is like my cat, whereas a psychopath is like my other cat.

     I know the article was just trying to be helpful, but I need more definitive evidence that whomever I'm speaking to is a person that might kill me. For that reason, I take a quick DNA swab whenever I'm talking to someone who seems dicey. I also ask to see their web browser. I get a full set of fingerprints as well if there is a search for "places to hide a body where no one will find it." I was surprised that the number one answer was my garage, by the way.

     To me, a psychopath is someone who is dangerously crazy, and I'm just slightly annoyingly quirky. But it was alarming how many tell-tale psychopath traits I have according to the article. I ask my wife, am I crazy or is this a dumb article? She says, why does it have to be one or the other?

YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-20-23)

 

     If you want to know how short our attention spans have become, just turn on the game. Short of actually begging us individually to keep watching and not turn our eyes away for ANY reason, the producers of live sporting events are trying everything in the book. No one has the attention span to actually read a book, so they're trying stuff that they think might be in a book.

     I was watching the baseball all-star game last week, and it used to be enough just to watch the best players in the game play the game. Not anymore. We need to listen to them play the game also, and so they are "mic'd up." The broadcast booth was carrying on a running conversation with the pitcher in between pitches, which was constantly interrupted by a rude batter swinging and missing THREE TIMES while he was trying to talk. The most interesting player on the field this year is Japanese, and I was dying to see if they would let his interpreter "mic up" next to him on the pitching mound. "Shohei Ohtani wishes to thank Baseball for this opportunity, and I think I heard him mention how underpaid interpreters are."

     The producers kept passing the microphone along, trying to find someone on the field who might have the personality to take our minds off this boring game. Someone who's been practicing his stand-up while sitting on the bench. "I tell you, Jim, I just love playing here in Seattle- playing anywhere else is like a day with sunshine, ha ha ha." "Ha ha. Speaking of light, it's time for a word from our sponsor, the light beer company."

     You need to get your product to appeal to EVERYBODY. But in trying to include one group, you'll undoubtedly offend another. You'll have to handicap which minority is the one unlikely to notice that you threw them under the bus, but what if that was precisely the corner of the market that you are trying to capture? Once you have everyone under the bus, maybe you can run an ad under there that appeals to them while your core fans aren't paying attention. That's what we've been reduced to: pandering to the least tolerant. 

     In case you were thinking of running to the bathroom during the commercial, or getting something to eat, the ad now runs simultaneously to the side of the action on the field in the dreaded "2-box." Now not only is our attention span short, but divided with one eye trained on the commercial and the other on the field. It's just a matter of time before they start running two commercials at the same time with the game in the background. It also explains why I'm so hungry at the end of the game and my bladder is not in a forgiving mood.

     When they do cut away for commercial, it's for a movie about a superhero who is an insect, and there is a lot of stuff blowing up and a parallel universe and defending civilization, and in the midst of all the explosions nobody thinks to whack him with a newspaper. Luckily there is no shortage of bugs to make superhero movies about, and if you come to my patio you can take some with you to your parallel universe, or even your perpendicular universe on the off-chance that one of them may be a superhero. When we come back to the game, who is sitting in the first row box but the superhero bug-guy, eating something- whatever it is it's attracting bugs.

     It's now more important than ever to build personalities that transcend the game because their stories are so uplifting. If you were born without the use of your eyebrows, and you came from a broken family and were adopted by a different broken family who beat you every day at Scrabble and then had a troubled marriage during which you transitioned into a woman but didn't like it so you transitioned back again, THAT'S what we're looking for. If you overcame all that to hit .188, it's the feel-good story of the year.

     When did we as a society become this vapid? Can you imagine what it took to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel without posting updates on how it was coming along or crowd-sourcing suggestions? "OMG Mr. Angelo, that is a GR8 picture. IMHO you could include IDK maybe a devil emoji in that garden, FWIW? If not NBD. LMK." What was the invention that started us off on an inexorable journey that drove us to where we are now, where there is always something better than what we are currently doing? Was it the telephone? Was it the automobile? Was it the remote control? I'll delve into this subject in depth when I have a few seconds. Maybe we could spend a little more time spending time instead of wasting it. NGL but TBH YOLO. TTYL.

THINKING OUTSIDE THE BIG BOX

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-13-23)

 

     Like some folks, I spent July 4th celebrating my independence from some of the junk that's in our garage, and endeavoring to replace it with more stuff that will one day itself be junk. I needed some big boxes to throw the stuff out, and where better to get them than a big box store? The Home Improvement Store (not its real name) is the biggest big box store I can think of, and when I got there I was surprised to find that the plum parking spaces were reserved for "Pro Shoppers." I researched this further and apparently it's a rewards program for frequent customers, and as they buy more home improvement stuff they get a free drink or snack credited to their account. The more they spend, the more free snacks they get, and they start to drool like Pavlov's dog as they loiter around the gardening section.

     I found a guy wearing an orange apron and I asked, "Hi- I recently received an SOS message from something stranded on my kitchen island. Where would I find materials to rescue it?" "You might try the Isle Aisle, Number 122." "Oh, OK, Aisle do that. I mean I'LL do that." I found a huge dolly the size of a cabin cruiser, big enough to hold all my purchases until my credit card company calls to have an intervention. They're the only people who ever say that I don't give myself enough credit. Once I got to Aisle Number 122, they had everything there but the kitchen sink, which was unfortunate, since I needed a new kitchen sink.

     "Oh- Kitchen sinks are in Aisle number 3. It's about half a mile west of here, then you turn right at this thing that looks like a roll of insulation. That's actually my manager." No sooner did I manage to get my cart moving again when a guy coming out of Aisle 121 with an even bigger cart almost hit me. "Dude I have the right of way, since I'm going straight and you're making a turn. Plus once I get going I can't stop this thing without casting anchor." He said, "My apologies, I didn't realize you were going straight since two of your three wheels are going in opposite directions." He was a little drooly and had a glazed-over look, I pegged him as a "Pro Shopper."

     As I walked through the walls of hardware I couldn't help feeling sorry for Henry F. Phillips. Imagine going through life with a head so oddly shaped that they named the Phillips-head screwdriver after you? I asked a sales representative, "Do you have any spot remover?" "Hmmm.... It used to be in that spot right over there." We need new trash cans, but I have no idea how to throw out the old ones. If I put the old bin inside the new bin, will the trash collector know that the old bin is a has-been?

     I stalked the power tool section, because not needing something is a poor excuse not to buy it. If you were fighting a war, I bet you could defend your territory one Home Improvement Store (not its real name) at a time. Just in this aisle alone, with pneumatic nail guns, impact wrenches and a Milwaukee Sawzall, I like your chances. You'd have to lure the enemy to the store using, say, the promise of an air conditioner sale.

     In the lawn section there was a 23-horsepower fabricated-deck V-twin engine with a hydro-static transmission gang mower that I had my eye on. Loaded up with a sunroof and custom wheel covers I bet it would be a pretty sweet ride. I imagined people racing these things at Watkins Glen, and meanwhile they get their grass cut for free. But I'm saving my money for a grain harvester.

     I strike up a little small talk on the checkout line with a guy sporting quite a few prison tattoos. "Wow that's an interesting array you've got there, duct tape, zip ties, rubber gloves, bleach and a shovel! You must have quite a problem with rats! HA HA HA HA!" I got the hell out of there. I ended up behind a guy with a 30-foot beam in his cart, and I could barely make out the cashier in the distance. A new checkout line opened and when he turned his cart around to make a scramble for it about 15 of us had to double-Dutch over his beam. In the parking lot I couldn't fit some of my purchases in the car, and I thought about buying the lawn mower just to get the stuff home. In the end I was able to get home with everything except for quite a bit of my money.

 

 

A NOVEL EXPERIENCE

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-06-23)

 

     The summer is a great time to crack open a book and lose yourself in world of someone else's making, a place so magical that you never want to come back. That is, until a lifeguard blows a screeching whistle right in your ear at somebody in the pool. DON'T SIT ON THE ROPES! By the way, a pool is the ONLY place where it's not dangerous to sit on a rope. I have my favorite types of music, I'm very picky about films and I only seem to watch television from the '60s, '70s and '80s. But fiction is my chance to get a glimpse of any other culture, gender or social class, at any period of history, and I take full advantage of it every day. My awe of the talent of the novelist is boundless. 

     I'm an avid reader, you might say a voracious reader, because it would be faster for me to actually eat the book than to read it. I'm a slow reader. If I started "War and Peace" in high school I would still be on the first part of the book, and I'd be thinking to myself, WOW, when is there going to be peace around here?

     I have my favorites of course. John Steinbeck can bring you to the depths of despair, and what seems hopeless often represents a choice, a set of possibilities that people navigate either well or poorly. After reading a chapter, doing the dishes doesn't seem quite so bad. If you come over and I have exceptionally clean flatware, you can thank John Steinbeck. Anne Tyler is another one of my favorites. Her protagonists, which she insists are not her, sometimes undergo weighty struggles in ordinary situations that are revealed in anecdotal details and amusing dialogue. She makes adversity fun, as it certainly should be.

     Larry McMurtry has a vast range that not many other writers can boast. He can take you from Texas to Montana on a cattle drive, or maybe you'll be stuck your whole life in Anarene, but by the end of the book you'll have traveled just as far. Toni Morrison will give you some perspective and empathy. Herman Wouk, Gore Vidal and James A. Michener will drop you off in a foreign location or period of history, and pick you up later when you're a little smarter. History is much easier to grasp when there's not a test at the end.

     Maybe you want a fun summer escape. Ellmore Leonard is your guy. He's written so many great crime stories that if you read a few, you'll start thinking like a criminal, perhaps leading to a life in politics. John Irving will make you consider the virtues of wrestling, bears and paranoia more often than is medically necessary.

     Teachers and parents always tell you when you're growing up that you can be anything you want to be, but that's not true, is it? I can't be a Black slave or a teen-aged girl or a Russian spy (If I was a Russian spy I certainly wouldn't tell YOU about it, nor if I was a teen-aged girl for that matter). But within the pages of a book, if you can dream it you can live it, if only for a moment. Maybe you're tired of being an astronaut and you always wanted to be a minimum-wage food service worker. You can read "The Jungle" by Upton Sinclair and toil in the unsanitary conditions you've longed for.  

     Here are a few books that I loved, and if you're not familiar with them you can thank me later (and don't listen to an audio book and think you've read them): "The Shipping News;" "Cold Sassy Tree;" "Empire Falls;" "Lincoln;" "Billy Bathgate;" "King Rat;" "Brazil;" "An American Tragedy;" "Rules of Civility;" "Prep;" "Less;" "Jazz:" "Don't Stop the Carnival;" there are so many more I could write a book just of titles. You can let me know your list.

     A good novel requires a certain commitment of time, longer than just, say, skimming through some classified documents to see if there's any juicy secrets you can share with your friends. But for that time you will be amply rewarded. You'll find out about things you never realized you didn't know existed. You'll learn them not by somebody telling them to you, but absorbing them by accident through the eyes of characters lovingly and painstakingly created. I like to think that writing would be similar to what I do, if my words had meaning and made sense. I curled up with a good book last night, maybe for too long, because this morning my hair looks a little weird.