THE WUSSIFICATION OF THE LOCKER ROOM

 SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (8/13/15)

     I belong to a very well-regarded racquet club in Mount Kisco, and I consider myself something of an athlete, more "something" than "athlete." My game is tennis, which I favor because it is a non-contact sport, meaning that my racquet only rarely makes contact with the ball, and even then only by phone. After the game I hit the showers, where I can say anything I want about anything and anybody with total impunity. I can curse the inability of my body parts to work at the same time, and swear at all the infirmities that occur during a so-called non-contact sport. I can engage in that scourge of parents and teachers, "locker room talk."

     But alas, when I turn on the hot water and step into the stall and pump the soap dispenser, it isn't soap at all, but "body wash." I never heard such hogwash. Where is the bar of Lava soap with a hair in it? Then I look closely at the dispenser and it says, "green tea and lemongrass." Am I supposed to scrub my armpits with this stuff or season a pasta dish? The shampoo container had the same label on it, thank god, or I would come out of the shower smelling like a 5-course meal. Are these scents or are they active ingredients, because if you've actually seen lemongrass you don't want your hair trying to emulate it. I went over to the sink with my razor to foam up my face, and this time the canister was labelled "shaving balm," as if to soothe the violent act of chopping down hair with a sharp instrument.

     And the talk in the locker room? Where is the vitriol? Where is the foul language? Some chatter about foul balls, for you baseball types I mean? All I hear about is real estate or your kid's piano lessons. I caught myself whistling "Moves like Jagger" the other day, and that is something that should NEVER HAPPEN in a sports-related environment.

     All of a sudden my locker room is a day spa. Are men's manis and pedis next? No pedicure for me, thank you, I have athlete's foot. My wife says I should see a doctor, but I am loathe to get rid of it, because it's the only part of my body that has the word "athlete" attached to it. As far as manicures go, I cut my own nails with a clipper that is closer on the evolutionary scale to a pair of hedge trimmers.

     Men shaving their backs in the locker room? I hope I never see it. My cat has hair all over its back and no one ever complains. Except ME when he gets up and leaves every single follicle on my lap, and then I have to shave my pants. Should I shave my legs too? I even went to a restaurant and they had a dessert with shaved ice in it. It's gone TOO FAR.

     I think the problem started when women were allowed into men's locker rooms so they could cover sports teams and conduct interviews with football players and such. And gradually, over time, instead of Bill Belichick grunting a few expletives, and various players expelling air from various parts of their bodies, you now have sports stars wearing an unfortunate suit and glasses with no prescription. Their 4-year old and 2-year old sit in front of them banging on the mike and shouting random exclamations they heard on a video game. In between that the players praise the opposition and say politically correct phrases that are designed not to hurt anyone's feelings. This continues until they run out of questions, or until somebody needs a diaper change.

     My wife has a picture of Joe DiMaggio in the locker room after a game, with a beer and a cigarette. Now no one ever even gets a drink from the water fountain anymore. Instead they "hydrate," using pink-colored water with vitamins and flavorings in it, designed not to hurt anyone's feelings.

     So if you see me on the street go ahead and hurt my feelings- I WANT you to. Say something about my toenails, or the fact that I've never actually thrown out a tee shirt, or the fact that my hair looks like a nationally-protected nesting habitat. Actually, please don't say anything about my hair. Oh, and feel free to tell me to get out of the street- there's a car coming.

HOT IN SOMERS

 SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (8/6/15)

    It was hot last week in the suburbs, and absolutely scorching in the City. It was close to 100 degrees Fahrenheit, even hotter in Celsius, and don't get me started on Kelvin. To find out how hot it was in Kelvin, I added 459.67, as one should, then multiplied by a factor of 5/9. It was 311 degrees last week. The "real feel" temperature in Kelvin was 572 degrees.

     Weathermen love things like "real feel" temperature, which takes into account not only the temperature, but the humidity, the wind chill and other factors, such as weathermen constantly telling you how hot it is. To me the "real feel" temperature was that it felt really hot. The "heat index," which is located next to the "heat table of contents," also concurred that it was hot. A heat wave is considered to be three consecutive days of at least 90 degree temperatures. If it's two days, it's only LIKE a heat wave, burning in my heart.

     All of this prompted Mayor de Blasio to call a press conference to let everyone know that it was hot. He outlined some common sense guidelines to help us all deal with the situation. First, he said not to go outdoors if you didn't have to. If it's hotter indoors, you probably shouldn't go there either. I just stood in my doorway for a while until it was time for Judge Judy. He also said to cut down on using appliances during the day, and if possible wash your clothes and dishes at night. Makes sense, that way they have the whole day to get dirty. He suggested that you set your air conditioning at 78 degrees. My house was only 76 degrees, so I turned on the heat to get it up to snuff. He asked that you check on your neighbors, so I took the opportunity to do a little snooping. I waited until they were out, and made a little investigation to see what was in the fridge: Cookies! I wrote de Blasio personally to thank him for that suggestion.

     As he was yakking away, I noticed that his interpreter for the deaf was working up quite a sweat translating everything the mayor said using a wide array of hand and mouth movements. It looked like she was coaching somebody who was trying to parallel park into a really small space.
     Then de Blasio repeated the whole thing in Spanish, but I thought I heard the words "Nicky Minaj" and "loco glùteos." I could be wrong. Also, there was no Spanish interpreter for the deaf, so that was an oversight.

     Yes, it was helpful for the Mayor to point out that it was hot out, but since I had to use an oven mitt to get into my car, I was already aware of it. And when I tried to hop on my motorcycle, I heard a hissing noise like a hamburger searing itself to the grill, and I had the toasted buns to go with it. Was it hot enough to fry an egg? Yes it was! After I ate I was informed that I was supposed to fry it not on my stove but on the sidewalk, which seemed unsanitary. I then tried to make bacon out on the sidewalk, and I learned that breakfast foods are poor indicators of weather conditions. I also found out that dogs do not mind lukewarm bacon at all.

     As a public service, I would also add the following tips to help keep Somers residents cool:

1. Do not should not stand next to places where hot air could blow out, such as diesel buses, subway grates and Republican fundraisers.
2. Don't do anything that will make you sweat unnecessarily, like lying to the police about how fast you were going, even though did you ever actually TRY to go only 30 miles per hour?
3. Don't do anything that will make your "blood boil," like sit next to a guy on the subway perched in the "crotch ready" position, legs spread wide, taking up three seats as he waits for a free gynecological checkup.
4. Do not stand next to anything hot, such as Heidi Klum. Instead, try to stand next to something cool, like Johnny Depp or Dave Grohl.
5. Do not try to toast anything in my toaster oven, which could result in fire, but rarely results in toast.
6. As a favor to those around you, do not greet people warmly.
7. It is EXTREMELY DANGEROUS to hang out in the fridge, no matter how many of your neighbor's cookies are in there.

 

WHERE THERE'S SMOKE THERE'S IRE

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (7/30/15)



     So I went across the river to a place at the marina in Haverstraw- there was a good Springsteen tribute band playing, and it was a beautiful night. They launched into a faithful version of Rosalita, which, if you know the song, doesn't seem like a song at all but a bunch of parts from other songs tossed into a hat and picked out at random. But the end result is good. The band was smoking, and people were dancing up a storm in a magical fog. That's when I realized that it wasn't a magical fog at all but the combined output of everyone's cigarettes. They allow smoking outside, and since the bar and the band were outdoors, the smokers were everywhere. Word must have gotten around, because literally everyone had a cigarette.

     There was a staggering amount of second-hand smoke, but cigarettes cost so much these days I was at least gratified that getting the smoke on a pre-owned basis was saving me a bundle.

     I'm not one to preach, unless I have something to say to the choir, and I generally believe that you can go ahead and do unto others whatever you can get away with, unless it affects ME. But It did not seem like a very healthy environment- how is puffing on a cigarette any different than smoke inhalation?

     The only way I could escape was to stand upwind, so I licked my finger and held it in the air. I couldn't remember how that was supposed to tell me which way the wind was blowing, so I eventually segued into a disco pose and sashayed towards the bathroom. That held the only smoke-free air in the place, a shocking change from my high-school years.

     On the way back the visibility was so bad I narrowly avoided an eight-person pileup near the waitress station. I ordered a cocktail and asked a her if it was always like this and she said no, but she may have been just blowing smoke up my glass.

     I haven't seen that much smoke since the last time I tried to make toast. Scientists can send a probe to Uranus, no offense, but they can't develop a toaster oven that actually results in a viable sandwich. It sits in there for 10 minutes disguised as bread, and 20 seconds later I am sticking ham and cheese between two slabs of bituminous coal, too proud to admit that my toast is, well, toast. One guy exhaled this gigantic plume of blue gas that looked like he had blown a piston ring, and I realized that he was puffing on one of those vaporizers. My mother had one 40 years ago that created this stinky fog that was supposed to cure your cold if you stayed home from school. My Mom was decades ahead of her time.

     My friend Jenn has a vaporizer that looks like a pen- I thought she kept it around to do the crossword or something. But then I saw smoke coming out of it, and I couldn't believe how fast the must have completed that puzzle. I always keep a pen around to "jot down my thoughts," but so far I've never had occasion to use it.

     No one seems to know what's in this vapor. E-cigarettes are not are regulated by the government, so maybe they're good for you. I have no idea if they can e-harm you or even e-kill you. I would guess that if you analyzed the vapor, and compared it to whatever comes out of Donald Trump, the ingredients would be similar: vaguely toxic, but the effects of which may not be known until it's too late. Maybe they could put in some of whatever they used to have in my Mom's vaporizer, and then even if you are sucking in a lethal dose of arsenic, asbestos and lead, at least your cold will be cured.

ECOLOGY IS NO WALK IN THE PARK

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (7/23/15)



     Last Sunday I participated with my wife in a nature walk at the Angle Fly Preserve. I wanted to find out why Angle Flies needed to be preserved, and thought it would be a good opportunity to interact with the community while learning about our surroundings. I didn't have any delusions that I would be at one with nature; I just didn't want to be at none with it. Maybe I would see a great blue heron, or even one that wasn't that great.

     Angle Fly is a huge 654-acre park presided over by the Somers Land Trust. The park is named after the Angle Fly Stream, which flows to the Muscoot Reservoir. Our guide Michael, Lori,
Brendan, and Jan and some of the other directors from the Land Trust  took us on one of the many trails on the way to the brook to learn about the different components that make up the water table.

     As we walked along, I recognized that pesky plant that keeps making a mess of our garden, and I was about to rip it out when Michael said, "That is a milkweed plant there, very beneficial to the butterfly population. You certainly don't want to remove those from your property." "Of course not," I said, "how are the baby butterflies going to get their milk?"

     We made it down to the stream, and I learned a lot about how the stream and all the plants and animals that live there actually support it and help it to remain healthy. I couldn't see into the stream because of all these bugs running around on top, and I was about to whack four or five of them on the head with my shoe when Michael said, "Does anyone know why these water-striders are so important to the stream?" "Because the water needs to be strode?" I offered, helpfully. "Actually, it's because they are a plentiful food source for the water life indigenous to the habitat," he said. "That's what I meant," I salvaged.

     Ann from Teatown, another environmental organization, reached into the stream and picked up a crayfish, which looks like a teensy lobster. Soon she had it eating out of her hand. Actually it might have been eating her hand. I thought you could make a nice crayfish bisque out of that thing, and it would only be about 5 calories since it only makes about two tablespoons.

     I was just thinking that you sure could see a lot better if they chopped down some of the trees and let some sun in, when Michael said, "The most unique thing about this stream is that this great canopy of trees keeps the water cool, and allows one of the few migrations of brook trout in this area."

     As we were all standing around in a semicircle I fantasized about tossing my empty lemonade cup over my shoulder into the woods, just to see what would happen. But I realized that the intense, wordless stare of their piercing eyes would cause me to disintegrate into a cloud of smoke. And instead of missing me after I was gone, one of them would say, "Smoke isn't really even good for the environment."

     Brendan is a forester, the only one I ever met that wasn't a Subaru, and he was pointing out some of the local tree varieties on our way back to the car. There was a large beech, thank god, because it was a hot day. "That tree over there is poplar," he said. "I can certainly see why, it's very nice," I replied.

     We didn't see much local fauna. It reminded me of the time we went to the Bronx Zoo, and we decided to take the monorail that circles the big park so that you can observe animals in their natural habitat. I don't know how many wild animals have a monorail in their natural habitat, but I do know that we didn't observe any living thing for about 20 minutes, until a rabbit darted across an access road and received a lengthy ovation.

     Back on the trail we heard a loud chirping noise. A red-eyed vireo? Nope, it was somebody's cell phone. I was thinking it would be great to see a bald eagle or something. Even a bird with a combover would be nice. Then I noticed some movement around me. I looked closer: it was humans! They were friendly, dedicated and knowledgeable people who cared enough to procure and improve this fantastic natural space for all of us to enjoy. Even my wife was impressed; she judges everything, animal, vegetable or mineral, on how it would do in a salad.

MAKING THE LONG WEEKEND LONGER

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (7/16/15)


     We just got back today - there's nothing better than getting in the car and hitting the road for a fun-filled Fourth of July weekend! The thrills! The action! The excitement! And that's just trying to get to the freeway. On our way to the Poconos this year we encountered just about every dangerous and time-consuming misfortune that it's possible to endure in a motorized vehicle. The only thing worse would have been to drift onto a street where they were having the running of the bulls.

     We weathered an attack from girl in a Subaru who decided to change lanes into the lane where our car was, and thought better of it just in a nick of time before she nicked our car. Then there was the guy who decided to jam on the brakes and pull a Steve McQueen U-turn onto the divider and over into the eastbound lane, forcing four of us behind him into an array of evasive maneuvers performed on the shoulder of the highway. The final perilous oddity was an entire WHEEL sitting in the middle of the exit ramp. Some guy probably bragging that his car has front-wheel drive has no idea where it drove to.

     When we were kids we used to kill car-time by counting the license plates from different states. There's one from Colorado! Look at all the smoke coming out of that car - looks like he blew a piston ring. But why is it coming from the passenger's side? Here's a car from Hawaii! How did it get here? We went to Hawaii two years ago, and all the plane transfers took so long we probably could have driven there faster.

     All we saw this time were license plates from the tri-state area, and we had finished the Times crossword puzzles for Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. So there was nothing left to do but argue about what route we should have chosen that would have been better than this one. "We should have taken the Tappan Zee," my wife offers. "Sure, we would have gotten slammed, but it's better than THIS." "No - the Newburgh Bridge would have been the right choice. NOBODY goes on that piece of crap," I counter. "Yes, but there was construction last time." "Yeah, but it was in the other direction." "The Rip Van Winkle Bridge would have done the trick - we could have gone two hours north, hit the Winkle, then BOOM we're right back on 22 in no time flat."

     In the future I can picture my self-driving car in hours of traffic, arguing with the GPS lady, while I sleep comfortably. Self-driving car: "I told you the Bear Mountain would be a disaster - everyone left early because of the rainy forecast!" GPS lady: "I factored that in with an algorithm! All this traffic is from people trying to leave early to beat the traffic!"

     I heard the situation was even worse in other states. The roads were filled with people trying to get away from Iowa and New Hampshire, where all the presidential candidates had massed, forcing people to take "selfies" with them. Even in Pennsylvania, before every photo I took of us with the beautiful Pocono Mountains in the background, I had to make sure Ted Cruz wasn't in the frame, making that face where he looks like he's about to cry.

     Then miraculously the traffic cleared, and I started driving at 90 mph to make up for lost time. I threw our SUV into four-wheel drive, because I figured we would go faster if all four of them were on the case. By the time we made it to the rotary near Bear Mountain we were going so fast that centrifugal force almost threw us off at the wrong exit.

     But I've learned my lesson, and from now on, on the Third of July,  I'm setting the alarm to get up an hour before we go to bed. Then we travel at four AM and get there in jig time. We hit the beach at 10 PM to avoid the crowds. After a quick nap, we get up in time for dinner at 3 in the afternoon, get the best table in the place. Afterwards, we arrive at the fireworks five hours early and get a great spot. We leave just before the fireworks start to beat the rush, and then it's off to the concert in the park. We find a great seat for that and use the time to catch up on our sleep, and PRESTO! We're back in the car at two in the morning! We may not even need to unpack.

DON'T JUST SIT THERE LIKE A VEGETABLE

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (7/2/15)

I can't believe I almost let the week pass without acknowledging the observance of National Eat Your Vegetables Day, which is celebrated on June 17th. As holidays go, it ranks just below Athlete's Foot Awareness Day but above Politician Appreciation Day. Somers has the perfect weather for growing a little "victory garden" with lettuce, beans and spinach. After a siege by bugs, birds and bunnies, ours went down in a resounding defeat.

I think that if people knew what was actually in vegetables they would think twice about extolling their virtues for an entire day. For instance, Did you know that Broccoli contains folic acid? Picture that stuff eating away at your insides. Carrots contain something called zeaxanthin. Look it up on Wikipedia- it looks exactly like that caterpillar that ate all my rhododendrons.

What do you think the first Belgian who noticed something sprouting out of the ground in Brussels did? He stuck it right in his mouth, although it tasted awful. He probably didn't even know that it contained sulforaphane, which sounds like one of those drugs that they sell you to cure pimples, but in a low voice at the end of the commercial tell you will probably kill you. "Do not take sulforphane if you are pregnant, know someone who is pregnant or just look pregnant." (By the way, there is a drug for people who are always pregnant, but don't take it if you have pimples.)

Americans love to overdo something, and recently it's kale. Every party we go to I have to set ten minutes aside so my wife's friends can fawn over their kale salads and how much they love kale. A year ago no one ever heard of kale, and this year it can just about cure cancer. I don't want to upset the kale community- everything has its own community these days, and if you say something disparaging they rise up in a twitter rant as if they were Charlie Sheen. But the bottom line is that for all the fuss, kale looks like something that you should pull out of your lawn before it takes over the place.

I don't think a banana is a vegetable but I feel it is my public duty to warn you away from this offensive little item. I read somewhere that the banana has a high concentration of plutonium. Or was it potassium? What's the difference- whatever it is is the same junk that turns the smelly thing pitch-black after it sits on your desk for fifteen minutes. I actually slipped on a banana peel once and it wasn't as funny as I thought it would be.

Even the most popular vegetable in America is not immune to the perils of dangerous additives. I tried to buy a bag of potato chips recently at the supermarket, and all they had was sour cream and onion mesquite barbecued kettle-fried sea-salt jalapeno cheddar-flavored extra-vinegar with recycled carburetor parts potato chips. But they were gluten-free I must admit.

All this is more than enough evidence that vegetables should be removed from the bottom of the food pyramid and replaced with beer. If I went to Egypt to see the pyramids, and saw that they were constructed using vegetables, I would be sorely disappointed. However, if I found out that they built using beer, I would hardly be surprised.

EVERY DAD HAS HIS DAY

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (6/26/15)

I can't think of anyone who enjoys Father's Day more than good ol' Dad. Wait- yes I can: the kids. The third Sunday in June was the one day I could be sure that Dad would be otherwise occupied, and too busy to focus on whatever it was I screwed up that day. Dad was something of a disciplinarian, and the something that he used to discipline most was ME. His child-rearing mostly revolved around my rear end.

Corporal punishment was in fashion back then, especially if your kid was a Major disappointment or a General pain in the derriere, pardon my French. Sometimes we were put on the rack or drawn and quartered, at least that's the way I remember it. Dads aren't around as much as Moms are, so it seems like their punishments are administered in concentrated form.

There were no "time outs' back then, which is too bad. It's the perfect opportunity to take a breather and discuss strategy. Then when the fight resumes, you're energized and clear on the game plan. If I played things correctly I would hear the magic words, "GO TO YOUR ROOM!" You mean that place where all my toys are? Okay, but it's not necessary to raise your voice.

There were other methods of torture, such as sensory deprivation. I distinctly remember being sent to bed with no ice cream for instance. There was water torture, where I was compelled to take a bath even though I could see no evidence of dirt on my body. There was The Chair- I distinctly remember being told to sit in it and keep my mouth shut. I was able to defeat the punishment by coaxing a variety of sounds from other parts of my body, sometimes in Morse code.

My dad was particularly obsessed with me learning how to ride a bicycle. Perhaps he figured that with this skill I could get farther away from him in much less time. His style of instruction was to find a place with a hill and no witnesses, and push me down it atop the bicycle until I reached the bottom either on two wheels or a stretcher. Another not so fond memory was him teaching me how to take a pill- why that was so important to him I have no idea, but I must say that aspirin did come in handy, especially after the bicycle incident.

I was coerced into indentured servitude at an early age, pushing a lawn mower in defiance of child labor laws. I was made to take out the garbage and perform other tasks of drudgery. Later on he forced me to attend an expensive university and left me there unsupervised until I emerged with a college degree. In his insidious way, using advanced mind control techniques, he filled my unsophisticated head with ideas like "work ethic" and "values." Concepts that I still have not been able to shake off.

I don't have any kids so I take great pride in disciplining my dog. He only sits or stays when there is nothing good to steal from the laundry hamper. I assume he sell these things on Ebay because we never see them again. I can't even get him to mow the lawn; he eats a fair quantity of grass, but it never has a happy ending, trust me. I have no way to pass along what I got from my father, and I'm including asthma in that.

So all you Dads of Somers: don't make the same mistakes your fathers did. Think up brand new ways to make your kids think you are making their lives miserable. And the day they realize that they are perfectly capable of making their own lives miserable without you helping is the day you will know that they have finally grown up. In the meantime, my lawn still needs mowing.