FRIDAY NIGHT SIGHTS

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (10-20-16)

     I met my friends Tina, Judy, Margaret and Gene at the Somers High School to watch the Tuskers battle the Pearl River Pirates last Friday, and it was a beautiful night for a ballgame. As a writer, I don't get the chance to use the words "trounce" or "drub" too often, and I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so suffice it to say that Somers kicked some Pirate booty that night.

     It was breast cancer awareness day, but I did not wear any pink, I'm ashamed to say. Pink is not really my color, although I'm not sure what my color is. Maybe camouflage? That way I can fly under the radar. This has nothing to do with football but I always see armed forces members patrolling Grand Central Station wearing camouflage. I don't have the heart to tell them that there are NO jungle plants in Grand Central that they can blend into, so it seems like kind of a silly idea as a uniform choice. If they really want to fade into the woodwork, they should just dress as other commuters and carry a New York Times that has coffee spilled on it.

     I guess I could have worn my salmon-colored shirt that I wear to work sometimes. That's what men call pink when they don't want to sound too girly. Salmon are very manly, let me assure you, and I picture me and the salmon in the gym lifting weights. Sure, the salmon bench presses more than I do, but he has a dorsal muscle and I don't.

     But I did support the cause by buying several chocolate-related goodies at the bake sale booth. I am quite a humanitarian, and if I was an even better humanitarian, I could take in about 20,000 calories a day.

     I was chatting with Missy for a little while, she is a football-mom. A football-mom is similar to a soccer-mom, only with a much higher insurance deductible. She has two boys in the program, at least for now. That number could change- football is a rough sport. She was giving me the lowdown on the program, and which kids might have a chance to play in college. I certainly played in college myself, although I wasn't involved in any sports program.

     She was telling me that the coach is quite popular, and the kids trust him and buy into his philosophy. His philosophy obviously involves students running into other students as hard as they can, so he must have a way with words.

     At halftime they held a little spectacle whereby all the other members of the Somers school football programs charged the field in succession, from youngest to oldest. Afterwards, it was a touching opportunity for some of the kids to climb up into the stands and shake their parents down for money. For that reason Margaret says she only carries a dollar around with her, but the kids seemed willing to take a personal check as long as she could show two forms of ID.

     I reminded them that when I was a kid, we had to do chores for every dollar we got, and that they should be out there cutting the grass on the field. I understand that it's artificial turf, but they could use an artificial lawnmower. I used to get twenty bucks for mowing people yards. They said that the football field is a hundred yards, so they should get two thousand dollars. Actually, I haven't heard from Margaret and Gene since the game.

TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (10-13-16)

     It's almost impossible to score tickets to the most storied rivalry in sports, Yankees versus Red Sox. That is, unless the Yankees have been mathematically eliminated from post-season play. "Mathematically eliminated" is exactly how I felt during every math class I ever took, so I know what it's like.

     We arrived at Yankee Stadium in time for a retirement presentation for David Ortiz, who is a very popular Red Sock. Is that the singular for Red Sox? It may sound  intimidating to boast that you are a Pirate or a Giant or a Diamondback, but less so to snarl that you are a sock. And with a 25-man roster, there is always an odd sock out there somewhere, probably behind the team clothes dryer.

     Anyway, they awarded him a couple nice gifts and said some disingenuous words about how much we'll miss him hitting all those home runs against us, and I felt like I was watching a co-worker preparing to leave the company, and I was going to get his corner office with the great view. I was already redecorating David Ortiz' locker in my head.

     Then they played the National Anthem, and everyone stood except for those who were protesting things they don't like about America. Now, there are plenty of things I don't like about America, like the fact that there's never anything good on television on Sunday night, but I still love other things about America, like the fact that it's very easy to find a good candy bar. So as a protest to those people protesting, I stood during the anthem facing the flag and sang the whole thing, with the rarely-used correct lyrics. I don't begrudge anyone their right to free speech, even if they don't say anything. Also exercising their first amendment rights were many Red Sox fans who seemingly knew many unseemly expletives, which they expleted frequently.

     Then it was time for the game to begin, and the minute you sit down in a stadium seat, you automatically get hungry for overpriced, under-cooked food. I'm used to making a lot of concessions at the concession stand, but I'm not used to seeing things like "gourmet aged white cheddar kettle corn" and sushi at a sports venue. hat hasn't changed is that food tastes better if the Yankees are winning, and worse when they're not.

     I settled on a cup of coffee. At the stadium you can get a latte, an espresso or a cappuccino. Back in the old days, when I was your age, you used to get a styrofoam cup with no top, filled with used motor oil from a 1967 Volkswagen Microbus. And by the time you got back to your seat you would be wearing most of it, and I must say it looked great on you.

     Before the seventh inning stretch the grounds crew came out to spruce up the field and dance to the tune of "YMCA" by the Village People. I'm not sure what the YMCA has to do with dragging the infield, but people seem to enjoy it, and the crowd tries to spell "YMCA" using their bodies to make the letters. This is a good time not to sit next to somebody who is dyslexic, or you're going to get smacked in the face with a "C" while you're trying to make an "A."

     But the Yankees won the game, the Red Sox won the division, and everyone lost their troubles in a few hours of the great American pastime. I even got through my cup of coffee, which was terrible, but on the bright side, it reminded me to take my car in for an oil change.

BROWSING THE BOOTHS AT COMMUNITY DAY

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (10-06-16)

     Last Saturday I stopped by the Somers Community Day, which was put together by the Chamber of Commerce. To me, "Chamber of Commerce" sounds like a cold, dark place where businessmen might be being held against their will, with nothing to eat but some brochures. It reminds me of when I was a kid vacationing with my parents in Atlantic City, and we went to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. I had to tolerate a bunch of boring wax figures of presidents and actors and entertainers until I got to the best part, the "Chamber of Horrors." Here was depicted all kinds of medieval torture, the hook, the rack, the wheel and all kinds of other nasty affairs, demonstrated in gruesome detail for people who just finished a corn dog and a funnel cake at the Steel Pier. It was a great place to take the little ones to show them how important it is to clean your room.Now, I'm not suggesting that the Chamber of Commerce is involved in any kind of torture, but it couldn't hurt to keep an eye on them. Anyway, it was a gorgeous, sunny day, and all the vendors were lined up in their booths, hanging out and talking to people. Some food vendors were set up selling pizza and other noshables.

     A local real estate company had a booth going. I have a lot of friends who sell real estate as a second job. People could be working as a rocket scientist, and it's surprising how many of them sell real estate on the side. "Which side?" I always ask, just to weed out the people who are just pretending to be rocket scientists.

     An octagonal play area was pretty popular with youngsters. I'm pretty sure it wasn't meant to look like an Ultimate Fighting arena, but I didn't notice any wagering or anything.

     There was an adorable demonstration of Irish dancing performed by some of the students from a local dance program. They clogged for a while, and at the end, everything was unclogged and there were no residual effects.

     There was a bouncy house going for kids to jump around in. It look like it was tied down pretty well- sometimes you see these videos of a bouncy house that gets blown into the air by a huge gust of wind, and it looks like a scene from "The Wizard of Oz." If I was a parent that would certainly scare me, but not as much as those flying monkeys.

     The Somers Democrats had a stall operating. The Somers Republicans presumably were at home quietly weeping.

     They had some carnival contests, like that basketball game where it seems as if the rim is only a quarter inch wider than the ball. I accused my eighth grade gym teacher of running the same type of scam, and I ended up in the principal's office. I almost convinced Mr. Allard that there is no way one kid could miss that many shots unless something was going on.

     A guy making balloon animals was a popular stop for kids. You could choose which animal you wanted, like a Chinese food menu. Thank god I don't have to make a living assembling balloon animals: "Would you like a snake or a worm?" That's pretty much my whole repertoire, then I keel over from hyperventilating after blowing up all the balloons. I guess I could always sell real estate on the side.

MINI-SKIRTS AND RICKENBACKERS

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (09-29-16)

     We went to see the Bangles recently at the Ridgefield Playhouse, and it was quite a blast from the past. I'm willing to settle for that since I rarely get a blast from the future, and a blast from the present usually means I have to call the guy to fix the boiler.

     There was an opening act that seemed pretty good. They had a guitarist, a drummer and a singer. You could also hear bass and keyboards, even though there was nobody else on stage. Where were they that was so important? They had literally mailed it in. It was like Karaoke, only without having to hear "Summer Nights" sung off key.

     The singer was apparently going through some issues, and he brought out his Mom and Dad, who stood there for a song or two, beaming with pride. At the end  she gave him a hug and some words of encouragement. Do you want to know what MY Mom would have said? She would have said, "Honey, does it have to be so LOUD? Also, you make a funny face when you play the drums."

     Then the Bangles came out. They are an all-girl band that was super-popular in the '80s and '90s. One of their big hits, "Walk Like an Egyptian," wasn't their own song, and they didn't want to do it, but it turned out pretty well for them. I can't imagine that Egyptians thought it was too amusing, since it caused people to wander around with their opposite palms facing up and down for no good reason. Thank goodness people didn't try to drive like an Egyptian or worse, swim like one, since they could have drowned like an Egyptian.

     The band's name was originally The Bangs, but the record company made them change it. It turns out that record companies do not have a progressive attitude about women's hairstyles. Back in the '80s hair was so big and stiff because of the hairspray, and if you weren't careful, you could be pricked by somebody's curlicue.

     No one likes to see photos of themselves from the '80s- every Bangles video featured clothes with HUGE shoulder pads. You can laugh about it now, but if somebody pops into your backfield on a weak-side safety blitz, you're going to wish you were back in the '80s with those big shoulder pads. A set of thigh pads and a flak jacket wouldn't hurt, either. That way, when your career is over, and people are saying, "Well, look how far the mighty have fallen!" you will not sustain any serious injuries from the fall, thanks to your shoulder pads.

     I admit that I was checking out the girls to see how well they've held up through the years (pretty well), which seems like a sexist thing to do. I know I should be concentrating on the music, but it wasn't me who told them to come out wearing mini-skirts, although if they had asked me I would have told them to. And in fairness, if Kieth Richards walked out in a mini-skirt, I would check out his legs, and it would probably take my mind off the fact that his face vaguely resembles Ty Cobb's fielder's mitt. And I certainly do not mean that as an insult to Ty Cobb's fielder's mitt.

A USER’S GUIDE TO MARITAL HARMONY

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE SOMERS RECORD (09-22-16)

      As I write this today I am celebrating my 30th wedding anniversary. My wife coincidentally shares an anniversary this same day, and I don't know if she would use the word "celebrating" as much as say, "abiding." 30 years is a long time to spend with someone who doesn't eat bananas, coconuts, seafood, cucumbers, mushrooms or anything purple. Did I mention bananas? This disgusting little beast turns black if you leave it on your desk for 20 minutes. If you are foolish enough to unpeel it, you are left with this mealy fruit that has the consistency of an arm injury. BUT, banana lovers always brag, it is full of plutonium or some other useless item in the Periodic Table of the Elements that should only be eaten periodically.

      Anyway, 30 years is a long time- if you do the math, it's over 29 and a half years. It caused me to reflect on what makes a great relationship, and what it means to have longevity. They say that opposites attract, which is true. For instance, most women want a guy with a great sense of humor. Mine is just the opposite. Women are attracted to men with ambition. I'm just the opposite- I've been working at the same place for 36 years. Women want a guy who tries new things. I am just the opposite; at the mention of the words "new things" I start to sneeze. So if opposites really do attract, I am as close to a "dream man" as you could possibly get.

      Sure, women want a great-looking guy with a great physique and a great personality. But what I'm saying is that there are other traits that, in time, you might grow to see as much more important than those ethereal qualities mentioned above that will only be ravaged by time. Personality disorders that separate men like me from the rest of the pack. I meant to say personality attributes.

      When you are looking for a mate, consider how useful it would be to find someone who knows the words and melody to every single television show or commercial jingle of the '60s and '70s. What if you are being tortured, and your captives will only release you if you know the words to the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme from the FIRST season (hint: she does not turn the world on with her smile until the second season)? What if the person who knows every commercial from the '60s and '70s is the one torturing you?

      It's important that you and your mate agree on important decisions early in the relationship. We we first started dating, my future wife, who did not want to start a family, asked me if I wanted children. I said maybe one day, but not now. She thought it might be an immediate deal-breaker, until she realized that I meant that I wanted children just for that one day, and then they should go home. I have an aversion to screeching, and I don't like brightly colored objects, unless I can eat them. Plus, my wife would have to child-proof the home, and then I wouldn't be able to get into any of the cabinets.

      Over the years, you and your spouse should mold each other into ideal mates. My wife has fostered in me a love for "The First 48," a television show about murderers, and I have instilled in her a deep affection for "Forensic Files," a program that investigates homicides. We have truly kept our love alive through dead people.

      You should know how to compliment a woman. If she gets her hair cut, don't just say "WHOA! What did you do??" Turn it into a positive, like this: "Honey, you have such GREAT hair- it's a shame you left it on the hairstylist's floor." Or if she drags you out shopping for a new dress, and wants your opinion (she doesn't really), and says it's the latest fashion, don't say, "well, it's kind of ugly," just say, "Honey, let's wait around for 20 minutes, maybe a later fashion will come out."

      People say that familiarity breeds contempt, but I disagree. I believe that disharmony is caused when expectation is out of line with reality, and when you stay with someone who does the same annoying things for 30 years, you will never be surprised by that person doing something out of the blue that is not annoying. Because of that, I always strive to make the other person happy, even if she remains totally unaware that she is being made happy.

 

A BEACON, A CROWN AND A LADY IN A GOWN

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE SOMERS RECORD (09-15-16)

     Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to whack me over the head with a selfie stick. That is a poem I wrote when I went to visit the Statue of Liberty on Labor Day weekend. A lifelong New Yorker who has never been to the Statue of Liberty is kind of a loser, and I didn't want that hanging over my head. The ticket to the statue is free, and the ferry ride isn't much. Security is tight, so everything has to go through an X-ray, just like at the airport. I tweaked my wrist playing tennis, so I stuck my hand under the machine and asked the guy if he could see a hairline fracture or anything, but he gave me a look that indicated that he might hairline fracture my face.

     After you've been herded onto the ferry by a trooper with a cattle prod (it might have been a pen, but I am easily menaced), the ride to Bedloe's Island is only about seven minutes, during which you are treated to beautiful views of the downtown skyline.

     Approaching the statue, her pose looks like someone leading a tour group, an observation confirmed by looking around at all the people leading tour groups. But when you draw nearer her beauty is ethereal and hard to define. It's easy to see why people put her on a pedestal. She looks different from every angle. When you finally get around to her front, her expression has a far-away look, like she's still carrying a torch for somebody. A woman like that is hard to get close to, especially since that crown would poke your eye out if you asked her to dance.

     You could mistake the construction for a solid casting, but in reality, the colossus is an array of copper plates bolted to a steel infrastructure designed to exacting specifications by Gustave Eiffel, a guy who knows about towers. The plates are only 3/32nds of an inch thick, the width of two pennies. So if the Statue of Liberty ever comes up, you can throw your two cents into the conversation with that little factoid. Her toga-style garment cleverly avoids any possibility of body-shaming. "Does it seem to you like the Statue of Liberty has packed on a few pounds over Thanksgiving weekend?" Her figure will forever be statuesque.

     She was erected in a direction that was designed to face Europe, as an acknowledgement of France's generous gift, and as a subtle protest to the country's mistreatment of its own people, as perceived by the sculptor, Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi. In geographic reality, the statue pretty much faces Bensonhurst, but I think the symbolism still works.

     The The pedestal was designed and paid for by the U.S. and sits on the remains of Fort Wood, which was built in the shape of an eleven-point star. The surrounding area was beautified by Frederick Law Olmsted, father of the Olmsted Brothers who landscaped Katonah after it was moved to its current location.

     Once I had stopped gazing up at the statue, I started looking around at the other people who were there. It was nothing like the somber reverence you see at museums, but more like a playground. People were there with their grandparents, children running around, lovers barely noticed that there was a big green statue there. There were people there from countries I couldn't spell, wearing clothes that looked really uncomfortable, people of every color in the human spectrum. It was truly a melting pot, and since it was about 89 degrees, some of them had already melted.

     This is maybe the one place they all felt welcome at the same time, and there wasn't one thing anybody was going to say about it. Anyone with the urge to comment had only to look up at that ten-foot scowl to think better of it. After all, she is an immigrant, too.

AN ESCAPE TO THE CAPE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE SOMERS RECORD (09-08-16)

     Last week we went on a mid-week vacation to Cape Cod, which we have been to a zillion times. One of the things we love about it is that it will never grow into the kind of annoying place where every restaurant is bragging about their "price points" and their "brand." Cape Cod will only swell to the exact size that people are willing to put up with the traffic on Route 6. The people whose head explode if they wait in traffic for twenty minutes will find someplace else to go on vacation.

     We always end up in Provincetown, at the tip of the Cape. Most of the year the place is 99.9% gay. But for three months in the summer, tourists descend upon the place, and everybody gets a chance to see what the other half is up to. There is no need for a "don't ask, don't tell" policy here. You don't even have to ask- nobody is shy about telling. Provincetown is surrounded by water and show tunes, so it pays to be both buoyant and flamboyant at the same time.

     Leave the car at the hotel, and ride your bike into town, because there are signs posted all over the place that your car will be towed at the owner's expense, even if you're driving it at the time. If you must take a car, take somebody else's, so if the inevitable happens they will have to pay for the towing, it's right there on the sign.

     We stopped in at Governor Bradford's tavern for some "queeraoke." The place is a mecca for people of dubious sexual orientation whose enthusiasm for music far exceeds their singing talent. The head transvestite who was running the show introduced Eric, who sang a version of Shania Twain's "I Feel Like a Woman." This was hardly big news- so did just about everyone else there, except for the women.

     For such a theatrical bunch you would hope that the singing would be better than usual, but instead it's only louder than usual. At the end of the performance the emcee said, "That was Eric- let's all give it up for him!" Even though it should be quite the opposite.

     Somebody else sang, "Killing Me Softly," only they sang it really loud, I guess they were thinking that if they killed me louder with the song it would be faster and more humane. You might as well strum my face with your fingers too, as long as you're at it.

     While we were sipping cocktails we played a game of chess- you can also play backgammon at the Governor's, there are boards at some of the tables. It wasn't my fault that my queen was a replacement from a smaller chess set and looked more like the bishop, but when I wasn't paying attention my wife swooped in and captured my queen. It dawned on me that somebody capturing somebody else's queen must happen fairly often here.

     The next morning when we were eating breakfast at an outdoor cafe, the Provincetown Town Crier came over, dressed in a Pilgrim outfit, ringing his bell and working the crowd. I was thinking what a great job that would be for when I retire, being a Pilgrim somewhere and Town Crying. Somewhere where it's hot, but low humidity, and the taxes are low and they tolerate Pilgrims pretty well. What qualifications would I need to Town Cry? Maybe I should just start out as a Town Whiner and work my way up.