IT'S A SMALL WORLD

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (09-14-17)

     We recently took a little tourist trip to Gulliver's Gate, an exhibit near Times Square that depicts world cities in small scale. We began our tour right in New York, since we were already on 44th street. We had a much better view of the Manhattan skyline than from our hotel room. Little Italy is even littler than we thought, the High Line not as high, and traffic whizzed by beneath us in amazing detail, right down to a tiny traffic jam caused by an accident. Even in a scaled down car you're always running into someone you haven't seen.

     As I stand in front of the miniature Manhattan with my hands on the railings, I fantasize that I am Ernst Stavro Blofeld in a James Bond movie, and I hold in my hand the fate of the entire free world. I can scan the cable TV channels at any time of the day or night and find a 007 flick. "Look, Honey, it's 'Gold is Not Forever Again, Twice!' I don't think we've ever seen this one!" I gush to my wife (we've seen every James Bond movie approximately 87,000 times). She rolls both eyes for the 87,001 and 87,002 times.

     "Sooo, Meesteer Bond, I see you have joined us just in time to witness the TOTAL DESTRUCTION of NEW YORK CEETY! If you look closely at these leetle people, you can almost see the terror on their leetle faces!" Then I laugh nefariously, which is something that I do practice on my dog. I'm just about to press a button on the bottom of the railing that will drop Bond into a vat of deadly piranha fish. First, I ask the commander how much he weighs, because if you know anything about keeping a fish tank you know NOT to overfeed the fish.

     Well, Bond escapes again, using a watch with a tiny Milwaukee Sawzall inside of it, so we continue around the room, touring the world without having to worry about our flight connections. We visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa (complete with tourists trying to right it with ropes), the Kremlin, the Great Pyramids and the Taj Mahal. There were even miniature renderings of the major monuments in Washington, DC, although Trump's hands and political accomplishments were shown in actual size.

     A member of the staff was demonstrating how they make the various parts of the exhibit using a 3-D printer. I don't know about you, but I have enough trouble getting a 2-D printer to work, and I can picture me trying to print out New York, and I end up with two Empire State Buildings stuck together, hoping nobody will notice. "Does anybody know how to change a 3-D toner cartridge??"

     Each country was assembled in its own location, where it was decided that the native model makers knew best how to represent their own part of the world. The cars and other vehicles that move throughout the display are driven by computer using sensors. The more than 100,000 tiny humans (they like to be referred to as "little people") are shown in all walks of life, including the Beatles walking on Abbey Road.

     The attraction is very kid-friendly and photos and social media sharing are encouraged. The name, of course, comes from Jonathan Swift's 18th century satire. I ran into Gulliver recently, who is now retired, and I asked him for any advice he might have on the subject. "Whatever you do, DON'T travel. What a disaster that was, but that's another story...."
 

AN IN-TENTS EXPERIENCE

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (09-07-17)

      I don't really consider myself a "sportsman," even though I love sports and watch the Yankees and Giants religiously. By that I mean that I pray quite a bit, and sometimes I might even use the Lord's name in vain, because it never does any good.

      I'm not a fisherman because I don't eat fish, and I remain dedicated to making sure that the opposite is not true either. I know how to scale a fish, but only in Photoshop. As a hobby, fishing doesn't seem that much safer for the fisherman than it does for the fish. I was just reading the other day that a man was killed by a swordfish. I can't remember where this happened, but if it was at a restaurant it's even worse, especially when it came time to figure out who should pay the check.
      I don't hunt because I don't particularly like killing things. Yes, I may have to swat a mosquito, but at least I offered it a last meal: my arm. As a precaution, my thoughts and prayers go out to the mosquito's family during this difficult time.

      So, I'm quite the indoorsman, but I do think it's fun to go camping every once in a while. I'm not talking about hiking deep into the Adirondacks with a backpack and a two-man pup tent, or even a two-pup man tent. The only thing I can rouse any support for is a family-friendly resort campground two miles from the Jersey shore, with a pool, electricity, wi-fi and tiled bathrooms. We bring a queen-sized air mattress, two fans and an electric cooler. Since we don't bring a blender for margaritas, we are technically "roughing it."

      At the tent clearing, it's time to set everything up. I was never in the Boy Scouts, so I'm pretty much self-taught. I rig up some tarps in case it rains, using ropes and some knots I kind of made up myself. I make a loop, then another loop, add some of my hair and two fingers and BINGO! I have a hairy knot with two fingers in it, and that tarp is not going ANYWHERE, and neither am I.

      That evening we relaxed around the campfire, drinking fresh coffee from the Avalon Dunkin' Donuts. What fun it is to tell tall tales over the crackling flames. I couldn't remember any tall tales, so I just used some "alternative facts" I got off Trump's website. Communing with nature is a restorative experience. There was a Yorkie two campsites over that communed all day and all night, and I wish I could have zipped it up inside a sleeping bag.

      We didn't see any exotic wildlife but there was a guy with a really hairy back at the pool. I didn't shave either; that's one of the great things about living in the wilderness. At the end of the four days I looked like a mountain man with the full beard of an 8th-grader. I let my grammar go to hell, the way nature intended it, and didn't even bring one apostrophe on the trip.

      I'll be honest here, women sometimes aren't as into the great outdoors as men are. Women tend to overlook some of the conveniences of camping. Not shaving, for instance, holds less allure for them. Also, the fact that cooking breakfast on an open flame is a time-saver when it comes to burning the toast, which usually takes five minutes or more using a toaster.

      Before the trip I asked my wife if she would be able to blow up the air mattress, and she said yes, if she could find some dynamite. I asked if she remembered how to pitch the tent. She said she was pretty sure she could pitch it into the neighbor's yard while I was asleep, but if she does at least my neighbor Paul could figure out how to put it up. I figured I may have to bivouac there for a few days if the camping trip went haywire.

WHERE THE SUN DON’T SHINE

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (08-31-17)

     Where were you when the lights went out? For two minutes and thirty-eight seconds last week, the Earth was plunged into blackness. It was thrilling, it was awesome and it was slightly darker than usual. I was in my office during the Great Eclipse of 2017, looking out my window across the Hudson River, waiting for the big show. The light dimmed a little, but it just seemed like a cloudy day with an eclipse in the middle of it. I was somewhat whelmed, but I wouldn't say that I was overwhelmed.

     If you did get a good look at this eclipse you may not be able to see the next one, since it's unhealthy to look directly at it. It could cause severe eye damage, like looking directly at a Trump press conference. You can't just throw on a pair of sunglasses and view it, because it won't be sunny out. You must purchase special glasses, certified ISO 12312-2. 

     This was bad news for me, because I have a hundred different pairs of glasses for everything. Sometimes I'm nearsighted so I have glasses for driving. I have a different pair of readers in every room of the house for looking at the paper. I have sunglasses, regular and prescription, and also reader sunglasses. I even have 3-D bifocals in case I go to a movie. So I needed prescription ISO 12312-2's, and then readers to look at the directions. Once I finally figured everything out I couldn't even see the sun because the damn moon was in the way.

     Of course, if you didn't have special glasses you could look at the eclipse with a "pinhole camera," and all you need is a small prick. Just poke a hole in a cereal box lined with white paper, and view a rendering of the sun from an opening in the other side. Another website said you could view the event through holes in a Ritz cracker, but did not mention that you might feel stupid doing so.

     According to Neil Degrasse Tyson you could look through an ordinary colander to see the eclipse. By this time I figured the scientists were just goofing on everybody- hey, I saw "Revenge of the Nerds." But it turns out that you can look directly at the sun  through a colander, as long as you don't first remove all the wet spaghetti. If you do, you have to hold it above a piece of paper, and you'll see a bunch of little eclipses projected onto it through the holes.

     Animal behavior supposedly goes haywire during an eclipse. Judging by our animals' behavior there has been an eclipse going on for the last eight years at the very least. My cat is 8 years old and still chases its tail. If I was still chasing my tail at age 58 people would think I'm an idiot, or at least idioter than I already am.

     People were bragging about their location. "Do you have totality?" They asked. "Yes, of course I have totality. I have total partiality. Anything less would be-" "You're not in the swath, are you? I can tell you don't have totality just by looking at you. You're pathetic, although for other reasons. You wish you were in Carbondale, Illinois, like me," they sneered. I never pictured myself wishing I was in Carbondale, Illinois until that moment. I was stuck here with only partial totality and not even any carbon.

     I felt a little guilty that I had not been left in the dark, and vowed to not see the light next time. The next total eclipse is coming up in 2024, which is when I will be subsisting on a diet of wet spaghetti and Ritz crackers with a hole in them. It's only seven years away, so mark it on your colander.

ADVENTURE ON THE HIGH SEAS

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (08-24-17)

     Last week my friend Dave took me and a couple other friends out for a very pleasant tour of the Long Island Sound on his boat. He has a peppy little bowrider that he tows over to the Norwalk boat launch at Veteran's Park. The term "boat launch" brought back some vivid memories of when Dave and I owned a boat together. Dave taught me everything I know about how to pilot a boat. However, no one who's boat has been hit by mine should hold that against him, since he taught me a lot more than I learned. One thing that did sink in is that a boat is not something to sink in. When properly launched, it should not go straight into the air like a rocket ship.

     Do you know why it's called the Long Island Sound? Neither do I, because whatever the Sound sounds like, I couldn't hear it over the roar of the engine once we got out of the channel. We aired that baby out to the tune of about 40 miles per hour after we cleared the no-wake zone. Do you know why they call it a "wake?" Well, we flew over a big one and went airborne for what seemed like a few minutes, and when we landed it woke me right up from a nap I was planning two days in the future. We were out of the no-wake zone, but there should be a no-fly zone posted there instead.

     We cruised around for a while and took in the sights. There are extensive oyster beds in the area, but I doubt they got a whole lot of sleep. You can tell where they are by flags that stick up above the water, which makes the place look like a golf course made up entirely of water hazards. We motored by Westport, Sherwood Island and turned around near Fairfield.

     By this time everyone was getting hungry so we taxied into shallow water near what looked like a deserted island so we could eat our lunch. "Get ready to drop the anchor," Dave called, "and try not to scratch the paint with the anchor chain." Tony grabbed the anchor while I held the chain, and through a carefully-coordinated effort we were able to scratch most of the paint off the bow, but to our credit we didn't scratch any off the anchor chain. It was a beautiful day, and we had a bite to eat, drinking in the natural beauty of the area since no one remembered to bring beer. Here the quiet was interrupted only by the chatter of the herring gull and the call of the double-crested cormorant, which I took on my cellphone. Life on the deserted island didn't look like it included dessert, which was disappointing.

     But soon the cove started filling up fast with other boaters. People jumped in the water and began floating around on inner tubes, outer tubes, inflatable floaties and paddle boards, which are the new craze. Every time I see somebody on a paddle board they look as if they mistakenly thought that they would be having way more fun than they presently are, standing around on a surfboard. One guy looked at my sandwich forlornly, and then started paddling away in the general direction of Domenick's Deli.

     If I've learned anything at all from Gilligan's Island, it's to prepare for every eventuality before you board the boat. Sure, everyone made fun of the Howells for bringing a trunkful of cash with them on an island tour, but there are no ATMs at the sand bar, and I doubt they will take a personal check. Also, that transistor radio is going to be invaluable if we get shipwrecked and the Yankees play a day game. I'm guarding that radio with my life, because if somebody busts a transistor in it I have no idea where get another one.

     As the afternoon wore on and the shadows started getting longer it was time to weigh anchor and get back to the boat launch. Dave hopped onto the bow to retrieve the anchor before Tony and I could volunteer, and we powered up and headed towards shore. It was a short ride at top speed until we got to the channel, where you can only go five miles per hour, and I was expecting the guy on the paddle board to pass us.

     I have a friend who has a giant sailboat, and I can't imagine what happens if you get all the way out past the bay and the wind dies down. Well actually, I can imagine it, that happens to be my strong suit. I picture me and two other couples, drifting out from Long Island for a few days, and now we're somewhere near the Galapagos Islands. "I'm pretty sure I can get us back home, if you'll just let me generate some wind by telling a few stories about how I got kicked out of my high school math class for not baking cookies." "That's okay, I think the wind is about to pick up," they all reply, almost in unison, though weak from lack of food and water.... 

DECONSTRUCTING A DECONSTRUCTION

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (08-17-17)

     My sister Kathy got tickets at Jacob Burns Film Center for a filmed performance of Scott Freiman's "Deconstructing the Beatles." There are only two Beatles left, so he may be ahead of schedule. Mr. Freiman is a composer, musician and producer, and he's carved out quite a little side career for himself by giving lectures about the group, and how their most famous songs made the journey from inspiration to vinyl. 

     I have never been to a deconstruction before, so I wasn't sure what to expect. I dissected a butterfly once in science class, but when I put it back together there were still some parts leftover, a thorax, a leg and and an antenna, although the antenna turned out to be from somebody's car.

     This presentation covered "The Beatles," more commonly known to fans as "The White Album," in some ways their most complex, in some ways their most simplistic, and in most ways their hardest to keep clean. The Beatles wanted to return from the psychedelic trip they went on with "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," where they took production and cover art to extremes they had not explored before.

     Scott Freiman explained that the Beatles longed to get back to a simpler form of songwriting, so in some ways they deconstructed themselves. They packed up and left for an ashram in India to learn how to meditate, and by the time they finally got back to recording, their manager Brian Epstein had died, George Martin briefly left, Ringo walked out, their engineer flew the coop, Yoko infiltrated the studio and basically all hell broke loose.

     But from those sessions came some of the group's most enduring music, and Freiman told the stories behind them. For instance, "Dear Prudence" was written about Mia Farrow's sister, who was also at the ashram, and meditated so assiduously that she wouldn't come out of her room. There is probably a fine line between assiduous meditation and agoraphobia, but I'm just thankful that Mia Farrow's sister wasn't named Debbie or Lulu.

     The real revelation is that as original as the Beatles were, creativity doesn't happen in a vacuum. The Beatles' influences came out on the White Album maybe more so than any other, since much of the material was written individually. Chuck Berry and the Beach Boys inspired "Back in the USSR," Donovan taught John Lennon the picking style used in "Dear Prudence," Eric Clapton provided the guitar lead for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," a Nigerian musician lent Paul McCartney the phrase, "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" and none other than Bach donated the form Paul used in "Blackbird."

     Freiman didn't get into that whole conversation about whether Paul is dead or not, so I thought I'd pick up the ball here. Back in the '70s every Beatles album supposedly had a boatload of clues supporting the theory that McCartney had died in a car crash and was replaced in the band by a look-alike. At the time you could hear all sorts of references to his untimely demise if you listened closely. John says, "I buried Paul" at the end of "Strawberry Fields," but it's kind of hard to hear and sounds more like "I married Paul." My friends told me to play the record backwards but I couldn't reach the tonearm when I stood that way.

     There are other clues, too. On the cover of "Abbey Road," Paul walks barefoot in a funeral-like procession. It is well known that people who are dead walk barefoot. Also, on "Magical Mystery Tour" Paul is dressed as a walrus, which is a sign of death, although if you ask any walrus about it they'll say it's news to them. I've seen McCartney in an interview recently and he looks fine to me but I am no expert. Abe Vigoda was rumored to be dead many years before and after his death, and even during his death, so it's nothing new.

     Still, there are many other mysteries about the Beatles that are still unsolved, like who really was the fifth Beatle? Was it Pete Best? Was it Stu Sutcliffe? Billy Preston? George Martin? Mia Farrow's sister? That's already nine Beatles, and I can sense some controversy coming about who was the tenth Beatle. Also, 20 years ago today, when Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play, why didn't he just hire people who already knew how to play? So, Mr. Freiman, if you're so smart, let's hear some answers, and while you're at it you can tell me what "Love Me Do" means.

A SHORE THING

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (08-10-17)

     Every year at around this time I head south and spend a weekend at the Jersey shore all by myself, to unwind and recharge my batteries. And when I say "by myself," I mean myself and the zillion or so other people vacationing between exits 98 and 117 on the Garden State Parkway. I like to spend a little time at the beach, check out some bands at the bars and ride my bike around.

     I hit 10th Avenue Beach on Friday when I got to Belmar. I've been to the black beaches of Santorini, the lush blue waters of Negril, Waikiki in Hawaii, and I can't think of any place I'd rather soak up some sun than the Jersey shore. I remember someone was once telling me about their dream vacation in Bora Bora: "There was not ONE SOUL on the beach!" They bragged. Is there anything more Boring Boring than that? Without big hair, small bikinis, bad tattoos and people yelling at their kids, I would be reduced to actually reading that book I brought. Later my wife asked me if I remembered to put on suntan lotion, and I said OF COURSE I remembered that I should have put on suntan lotion.

     In between waves several planes flew over the ocean towing banners with ads on them. Some were useful in reminding me what time happy hour was at the beach bar, and who was the DJ, in case we weren't already on a first name basis. Other planes flew by with some odd advertising choices, such as health insurance and radiology services. I'm at the beach and I ALMOST remembered to put on suntan lotion- I'm clearly not here for my health. One banner was advertising outlet stores at exit 100. If your house didn't come with outlets already in it, you got fleeced.

     At night I hit my favorite imbibery to see who was playing, as if I didn't know. I only come here once a year, but whenever that is, the Bruce Springsteen tribute band is always here too. I consider myself Springsteen-neutral, but I forget how many great songs he actually has, like "Growin' Up" and "I'm On Fire." But you need a singer who sounds like Bruce, and Bruce sings like he's passing a stone. It's hard to sing like that for two and-a-half hours- eventually that frog in your throat is going to croak. It might just be easier to pass a stone. You also need a glockenspiel player- a lot of Springsteen tunes have a glockenspiel in them. He was going to hire a lyre instead, but did not, due to the pants-on-fire situation.

     On Saturday I rode my bike up Ocean Avenue, and into the stiff wind my top speed was only about 5 mph. I figured at least on the way back, I wouldn't need to pedal, and may not even need the bike at all it was so breezy. I rode north about seven miles and I noticed a police car that said, "Deal Police," and I thought, wow, that is so considerate of the cops to let drug dealers know in advance what they were up to, but it turns out that Deal is the name of the town.

     On Saturday night The Nerds were playing. Those guys have been around forever it seems. They didn't over-geek their act, they were just a good solid band. The meek may yet inherit the Earth. The keyboard player seemed extra nerdy, and I tried to shout out a question about how to get my printer driver working, but he didn't hear me. They performed some crowd favorites, like "Shout!" Which has a part where everyone crouches down, while the band plays quietly. Then the chorus comes and everyone pops back up except for me, who did not have a round-trip ticket. They played that song, "I Like Big Butts!" A lot of women were pretty enthusiastic about that one, for obvious reasons.

     By the time Sunday rolled around, I hurt all over from that long bicycle ride, I was sunburned, hungover and I had a headache. I needed the kind of prolonged rest that only three hours on the Garden State Parkway can provide.

SEEING THE SEAPORT

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (08-03-17)

     We spent a couple days at Mystic Seaport last week, had a great time and learned a lot about the shipbuilding, fishing and whaling industries that kept New England afloat for a few  centuries or so. The little village is a working museum consisting of many period buildings from the heyday of maritime dominance, some in their original locations, many moved from other towns.

     The whaling industry is on full display here, especially with the restoration of the Charles W. Morgan, the second oldest commercial ship still in the water. I was able to break a long-standing record by hitting my head on every single surface of the vessel. Tall ships aren't necessarily for tall people. On board the ship was evidence of all the other industry that went on in the town.

     You don't hear much about wooden barrels anymore, at least since the invention of Tupperware, but back in the 1800s the cooper who made the barrels was one of the most important people in the village. If you were going on a sea voyage you needed enough provisions to last the trip. It's not like you could pull into a rest stop, gas up,

     hit the loo and get a cup of coffee. Everything had to be taken on board. When it came to making these vessels to take on your vessel, the cooper really had you over a barrel. The one at Mystic was working on so many projects, he should have a plaque at Cooperstown. He cooped 'til he was pooped. He told us how the staves of the barrel were fitted together using whale oil, which made the seal tight. I didn't even know seals drank.

     The whaling industry was dangerous, hard work and not for the squeamish. That's why so few whales wanted to get into it. We learned about the small whaleboats the crew used to harpoon the giant mammal and deliver it back to the ship. Until now most of my contact with whales was centered around the "Fudgy the Whale" cake from Carvel.

     Whale oil itself was like a miracle product back then. I assumed they used whale oil to keep the whales from making those screechy sounds that they make underwater, like the saying, "the squeaky whale gets the grease." But in fact it was used for soap, lubrication, textile processing, and mostly, to burn in lamps. It's surprising that the whales didn't think of using it for all that themselves. I began to wonder where baby oil comes from, proving that you can think about things too long.

     At the Thompson Exhibition Building the tales of some adventurous seafarers are on display along with artifacts from their journeys, such as scrimshaw, which are meticulously etched pieces of whale teeth. The detail in this art is impressive, and even more so if they forgot to take the teeth out of the whale beforehand. You can see the tusk of a narwhal here, a whale with a bony protrusion coming out of its head, like a "unicorn of the sea." Why they call it a unicorn I don't know, it's not like it has an ear of corn coming out of its head.

     The nautical instruments shop sold navigational tools, compasses and other items for fixing your position at sea. I say if your position ain't broke, don't fix it. They had sextants, which I'm too much of a lady to go into here. I'm not sure exactly what a sextant does, but suffice it to say that everything had to be done manually back then. They also had many antique clocks, and we had to get out of there before 12 o'clock noon hit and all the chimes went off.

     The chandler sold items and provisions for the trip, and the blacksmith forged a personal relationship with the ship's captains by making all kinds of ironwork, from gaffs to anchors. The ropehouse is by far the longest building there, because a ropemaker would actually have to walk a straight line carrying the entire length of the rope behind him, weaving the strands together. The original building was four times the length of this 250-foot structure. Could just anyone do this work? I think knot.

     Many of these disciplines are flourishing again as the Mystic shipbuilders refurbish the Mayflower II, a replica of the original on hand from Plymouth, Mass. The Mayflower carried the pilgrims from the original "Brexit." Now that they see what's going on in America, they may want to go back. As I strolled the grounds of Mystic and talked with the artisans there and learned how much goes into it all, I will never again complain about "shipping and handling" charges.