LEFT OUT TO DRY

 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-01-24)

     I was riding my motorcycle the other day, one hand on the throttle, the other hand on the brake (not at the same time), and it dawned on me that an estimated ten percent of all people in the world have to ride a motorcycle the other way around. I guess this means that left-handed motorcyclists stop when they should go, turn to when they should turn fro, go back when they should go forth. Are there motorcycles for left-handed people? Or are they cast adrift, like left-handed Jimi Hendrix playing the National Anthem upside down on a right-handed guitar, proudly hailing at the twilight's last gleaming from the other side of the fretboard?

     I don't want to imply anything about left-handed people that you don't already know, but the word in Latin for "left" is "sinistra," or sinister. Yes, I took two years of Latin in middle school, and if Latin hadn't already been a dead language I would have killed it right where it stood. But even back then, when people were saying things like, "ubi est agricola," they knew southpaws were different, maybe because they had paws.

     There are so many things a left-handed person has to learn to do backwards that the rest of us take for granted. At every meal at the restaurant, their knives and forks are on the opposite sides. So instead of eating what's right, they're stuck with what's left.

     Using a pair of scissors is a frustrating undertaking for left-handed people, and I can only imagine what it was like before they were sold in pairs. Taking a picture with a traditional camera must be a real pain in the aperture for lefties, who have to reach over the lens to push the button. It makes me shutter every time.

     I made the mistake of buying a jacket once in Europe, where the zipper is on the opposite side. This is also true of the buttons on women's blouses, and that's one of the things that makes cross-dressers so cross. I once read that the reason that women's clothing has the buttons on the left side was because it was easier for their dressers to dress them from the front. But what if their dresser was left-handed? You just can't win.

     A tape measure pulled to the left means whatever you're measuring will be calibrated in the metric scale. Objects may be smaller than they appear, apology accepted.

     These days you can thank goodness that Google was invented, so you can order left-handed versions of many things right-handers take for granted. And while you're thanking goodness, thank it for inventing a keyboard to replace an actual typewriter, where the carriage return is on the right.

     Having "two left feet" is considered an insult. It means you can't dance. But really, dancing is actually one of the few things where it doesn't matter if you're right-handed or left. My dog has two left feet, and she can  do the foxtrot if the music is right and there is romance in the air.

     The idea of two distinct hemispheres of the brain came to light in the 1960s, when Nobel winner Roger W. Sperry's research detailed evidence that the right side of the brain controlled artistic functions, while the left side managed the analytic operations. This led to a belief that there were "right-brained" and "left-brained" people. This theory has since been disproven, but if the scientists who published the study were right-brained, who knows how accurate it was.

      Last year I broke my right foot right after we had bought tickets to "Prairie Home Companion," but nothing was going to keep us from that show. Not even my wife injuring HER right foot. So there we were, driving through New York City traffic. My left foot is usually only used for depressing the clutch pedal in my car, but now on my wife's automatic it was called upon to depress the  accelerator AND the brake. Which was much more depressing. All the while my right foot was making smug and unhelpful comments like how "reckless" driving is a malapropism if you get into a wreck.

     How hard could it be to be left-handed in a right-handed world? I got hold of a left-handed guitar and played it right-handed, through a loud amplifier. And the sounds that came out were surprisingly similar to those made if I played it left-handed. Or if I ran over it with my car. While driving with my left foot. My wife said that if I really wanted the true Jimi Hendrix experience I should burn the guitar like he did at the Monterey Pop Festival. "Great idea!" I said. "Maybe after my next-" "I already burned it," she said. Well, I'm sure it was great. Anyway, here's to you, left-handed warriors of the world, you are modern-day heroes. Although that might be a bit of a left-handed compliment.

YOU SHOULD BE IN PICTURES

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-18-24)

 

     Last week was National Camera Day, when cameras get together to celebrate, get drunk, make fools of themselves and promise not to take pictures of each other. I couldn't really call in sick and take the day off work to celebrate, not with all those cameras around. Since hardly anyone even has an camera anymore, I guess you could call it National Phone Day. There's a website that follows all these "National Days," and it offers a timeline of significant events in the history of photography, and invites us all to celebrate the camera as a way to tell our story. You should always tell your "story" while you're living your "truth, especially if you're on a "journey." Usually if I'm telling a story I pretty much made it up, and that's my truth.

     I was always fascinated by photography, starting in my teenage years, and my Dad even bought me a camera for graduating something he was surprised I graduated, like the 8th grade. It was a very nice camera, too, an Olympus SLR. I made a darkroom in my basement and actually printed photographs. I had an enlarger, and all the chemicals in various trays, and a "safe" light, so you couldn't really see how unsafe all of it was. It was definitely much safer than when I had a chemistry set down there. You were supposed to perform experiments like testing for pH or seeing how crystals form. I was focused on mixing the chemicals together to see if I could make them blow up. But I did learn some useful things, like cats hate having their pH taken. My Mom wholeheartedly welcomed the transition to photography, but she did get nervous when I told her was down there blowing up my photographs.

     I fantasized that my Dad and I would bond through our photography. My Dad had a Nikon, which was considered the Cadillac of cameras, just as Cadillac was considered the Nikon of watches, and Rolex was considered the Dom Pérignon of shoes. We could go out with all our camera gear, automatic winders, extra lenses and batteries, waiting for that once-in-a-lifetime subject to come along. I was nervous about seeing a once-in-a-lifetime subject at my age- what does that say about the length of my lifetime?

     It's just a matter of time before we're going to find something rarely seen in nature to photograph. You have to be patient. I'm very patient, but I'm also getting very hungry. Finally we see it: A woman wearing a shower cap in broad daylight. Dad says, "Let's get a picture of her and put it on Facebook. We'll cube out her identity so she doesn't sue us." "Dad, we're going to put her on Facebook without her face? Also, Facebook is not invented yet." He says, "I know it's not exactly nature, but at least it's human nature." "Cut her a break, Dad, maybe she just came from  baby shower. Hey, Dad! Isn't that a passenger pigeon over there?" "A what?" "It's a bird thought to have been extinct since the year 1900!"

     "Okay, this is good. First, let's figure out your depth of field. Walk off in feet the distance to your subject. Now, adjust your aperture accordingly. What's your F-stop? That was a trick question- aperture's the same as F-stop. Now take a reading on the light meter. What does it say? Really? It must be nighttime. Wait- you have it upside down. Okay, set your shutter speed based on the light reading. Low light, so we'll need the tripod. What's your ASA set at?" "Dad, the bird's been gone about 10 minutes." The passenger pigeon had hopped on the local.

     My friend Georgia is always posting a fantastic photo of an amazing scene, like a beautiful castle at the top of a canyon on top of a mountain, with a sheer 1,000-foot drop on all sides. First of all, I'm not scaling that cliff to come up there and conquer you in your stupid castle.  When you finally come down for pizza, and you will, because the pizza guy's not going all the way up there either, I'll slay you then. I might even smite you also, just out of spite. My point, if there is one, is that I can no longer believe that any photo is real. There is photo-shopping going on, there are filters, there is retouching.

     I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that I may be one of the most photographed people in America. That's because I've taken the train into Manhattan for 44 years now. And when I arrive it's like Grand Central Station there, and every tourist is running around with a camera taking pictures, and I must be in the background of quite a few of them. For that reason I'd also like to point out that any photo taken of me may not be real, and may be altered or retouched. And if it is real, please take a few moments to alter it and retouch it, because I'm much better-looking in person. And don't retouch it in an inappropriate place.

BEATING THE HEAT

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-03-24)

 

     It was above 90 degrees for three days in a row last week, and that's the definition of a heat wave. If I could not keep from crying and it was tearing me apart, that's the definition of a heat wave burning in my heart, and luckily it didn't come to that. But it was really hot. The city opened over 500 cooling centers so that people who didn't have air conditioning could get a little cooler. I tried one of these centers, and when I emerged I was into Radiohead, I now never wear Crocs for any reason, I lasered off my tattoo that said "I heart my poodle"  and I no longer own a sweater-vest, so it worked.

     What are the rules at the cooling center? How long can I stay? If I'm visiting New York and I'm too cheap to get a hotel room, can I go to the cooling center for a couple days? Can I bring a date even if her apartment has air conditioning? If I bring a girl who's super hot, what's she going to look like when she comes out?

     I still can't believe that when we moved into our house the previous owners had not installed central air conditioning, and were relying on a hodgepodge of window units of varying effectiveness. I guess they were counting on the pool to lower their body temperatures. That pool in our backyard, oblivious to the hazards of global warming, maintains an average summer temperature of about 40 degrees. I thought it would be warmer if I measured it in Celsius, but it's even worse. "Rick Melén was hospitalized yesterday for hypothermia, and is expected to fully recover, but only to his previous state."

     So we did what anyone with a questionable understanding of geography would do, and that's go south, where it was cooler. Just traveling down the Garden State Parkway is always an experience. My Android Auto GPS map informed me that 10 miles away was a 20 minute slowdown. To me that's not a transportation problem, it's a math problem. How fast to I need to go NOW to make up for the time that the slowdown is going to slow me down? I calculated that If I got to the slowdown in two minutes, I could make up the time. I will need to go 300 miles per hour.

     Let me know if you've seen this: Sometimes the GPS will offer an alternate route: "17 minutes slower, tolls." Are there other fine qualities of the route that they're not telling me? OMG it's SO WORTH IT! Everyone seems like they're in such a hurry I feel like the entire parkway is a race track. People are jockeying for position and even old ladies are cutting me off when I try to enter the fast lane. It's like there's ONE parking space at the end of the parkway and no one can stand the thought of anyone else getting there first. I have to go 78 miles an hour just to gain access into the left lane and immediately people behind me are flashing their lights for me to pull over into the right lane because it's too slow for them. But in doing so I would be aiding and abetting the crime of going 79 miles an hour in a a 65 mile-per-hour zone, and I would have to place myself under citizen's arrest.

     I'm bouncing these ideas off my wife, but she's sound asleep, so I'm bouncing them off parts of her body that I know won't wake up. Should I pivot to the New Jersey Turnpike? Might be faster but there are so many trucks. I feel safer if I get behind one that has a sign that says "How's My Driving?" and a phone number I can call. "I'm behind one of your drivers and he's making a face in the mirror like he's going to cut me off. Could you ask him if that's his regular face?" 

     We finally get to the shore, and I have a few minutes to relax and unwind before I start thinking about how bad the traffic's going to be on the way back. We stroll the boardwalk. The offer of an ice cream is readily accepted. Heroically I only order a kid-sized ice cream cone, but I tell them to make it a fat kid. There's an Escape Room place with a line out front. If it takes that long to get in I'm probably just going to stay there.

     It's Father's Day weekend, and Dads ride free at the amusement park. It's also Pride Month and Juneteenth. If I was a gay, black Dad I bet they would pay ME to ride the rides. There are only a couple I can go on that won't make me sick. There's one with helicopters that roll around slowly on a track with small hills on it. I think I could go on that, but my wife won't let me because she thinks it's for babies. Then why do the helicopters say "POLICE," "RESCUE" and "MARINES" on them? I'm an elite performer in that chopper, in service to my country. Plus there are other Dads riding in it. "They're holding their kids in," my wife points out, so I look around to see if anyone might let me borrow their kid for a few minutes.

     I tell myself that the Garden State Parkway is much more fun than any old ride here, and I keep telling myself that until Juneteenth fades into Julynth.

PORTUGUESE EXPLORERS II

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-13-24)

 
     Madeira is an autonomous Portuguese Island famous for its fortified sweet wine, and a short flight from Lisbon. We strolled to the waterfront area of Funchal, stopping for ice cream along the way, which I was able to convince my wife was an ancient fishing custom. In the evening we ventured out into the Atlantic with 5 or 6 other couples on a sailboat sunset cruise, where we met a pod of dolphins with the same idea. We stopped for a dip in the ocean, which even in May is not bad once you get used to it. I figured I would be used to it by August. The sunset that followed was made even more gorgeous with the flattering effects caused by a potent concoction made readily available on the trip.

     We were up before the crack of dawn the next day to see the sunrise, and the crack of dawn has never been so lovely as it was from where we saw it. We were shuttled by van to the summit of Pico do Areeiro, the second-highest mountain on the island, above the cloud that is forever parked around it. The sun rising from beneath the clouds is an other-worldy experience. While I was there I checked around for my data, which I'm told is somewhere in the cloud. 

     We had signed up for an e-bike tour along the North Coast of the island the next morning. What's impossible to know from a brochure description is that the topography of Madeira has its ups and downs. Mostly ups. The extreme hills of the north make it a pretty but pretty challenging ride, even with a motor-assisted bicycle. Once our motor became angry that we were not assisting it more, we cut our ride short to get some coffee at the local cafe and head back to the scenic overlook to meet up with the others on their return.

     The next day we flew to the island of Sao Miguel. I can now say that I've been to the Azores, but we were really just on this one Azore. Sao Miguel is a lush island, rich with friendly people and beautiful trees and flowers, none of which are original equipment. When the volcanic island was settled in the early 15th century, it was essentially uninhabited and bereft of anything but a subtropical forest of laurel-related shrubs. The beautiful flowering plants you see today were all brought to the island, notably the colorful hydrangeas, whose fast-growing root structures were important in containing erosion as it became more populated. 

     We stayed in the city of Ponto Delgada, which is completely tiled, both streets and sidewalks, with an artistry unknown in America. If my bathroom was in the streets of the city it would be re-tiled by now.

     As we relaxed by the hotel pool we were spoiled by the sunny weather, which comes and goes in the Azores. The next day we embarked on an all day tour in the misty rain that took us to various important locations around Sao Miguel. Our first stop was the Gorreana tea plantation, the oldest in Europe and the only one left on the island from the historic era of tea as one of its major exports. Some of the drying and sorting equipment from the old days is still used today. Which makes me feel pretty good, as I myself am one of the things at my job from the old days of the television industry that is still being used today.

     After stopping at a scenic point overlooking the caldera of Furnas valley, we traveled to the fumaroles, where the Earth blows out plumes of steam as if breathing on a cold day. The bubbling natural cauldrons provide a unique way to cook a lunch. Buried into the ground in a large pot, the traditional meal of Cozido das Furnas is a gigantic stew containing just about every meat and vegetable that could be corralled in a 20-mile radius. It is a hearty repast, but could cause vegetarians to faint. 

     The highlight of the tour was a dip in the ferrous pool at the lush Terra Nostra Park, a botanical garden brimming with horticultural and arboreal wonders, founded in 1780 by the American Consul to the Azores. The pool is man-made, spring-fed, 108 degrees and completely orange, due to the high iron content of the water. Bathing in it is unique and disturbing at the same time, and not to be missed. Don't wear a light-colored suit, and don't let your president bathe here, as either could be permanently stained orange.

     We left our final day free for a bike ride along the waterfront to the fort of Sao Bras, a 16th-century military installation that also houses a museum containing a collection of World War II Howitzers that would be able to meet your every Howitzing need. We took in the views of the harbor, then returned our bikes.

     Then it was back to New York, due in at work the next day, at least fortified with the memories of having conquered another foreign country....

PORTUGUESE EXPLORERS I

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-30-24)

 
     Part of my services as a respected journalist is to report on experiences I think my readers might themselves enjoy, while trying not to misuse phrases like, "respected journalist." I've had Portugal on my short list of vacation destinations for some time now, so maybe the list was longer than I thought. Lisbon is a great choice for any world traveler. It's clean and safe and there's plenty to do, see and eat. We rented an e-bike on 24-hour hire so we could spend an evening in the Alfama district, which is the soul of Lisbon. Its narrow cobblestone streets and cafes have a strictly European character. They eventually all start to look alike, but we navigated things deftly with only the use of a compass, knowledge of the movement of the stars, our raw courage and of course a Google Map GPS.

     I always recommend seeing a European city by bicycle, as long as you feel like you can find your way around. Once you're on it you don't have to deal with fares, and you can go door-to-door without having to walk to a subway or bus station, or the site itself. All that will turn you into a statue before you see your first statue.

     First we visited the castle of St. George, impenetrable by any force that does not possess 15 euros. It is a formidable Moorish structure whose oldest occupancy dates back to the 2nd century. It has since been used by the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Moors, Portuguese and now, tourists. Those who scoff at us for not riding a conventional bicycle have not seen the hills you have to go up to get there. If you do conquer them the views are amazing, and you can climb up and around the parapets to see the entire city below from several vantage points. The place is also home to an ostentation of peacocks, which you can hear a mile away, because one sounds like a Siamese cat in heat on steroids that just lost its best friend, amplified through a public address system. We also got to meet some cute baby pea-chicks.

     A miradouro is a Portuguese lookout point, and there are several in the hills of Lisbon. We found the Miradouro da Senhora do Monte, a scenic overlook not to be overlooked. Good views of the castle, the Tagus River and the sea of orange-tiled roofs below make it a selfie wonderland.

     Our dinner reservation was at a famous Fado spot in Alfama. It was worth the wait, and the passionate crooning of the various singers accompanied by the expert picking of the 10-string Portuguese guitarra, bass and guitar were melodic and easy to like. Fado ("fate") music is a traditional genre, with serious themes of melancholy, love, the plight of the poor and the draw of the sea. I pictured myself as a Fado singer, singing sad songs lamenting the loss of the Choco Taco and the cancelling of "Blue Bloods." I might have made a career of it if more things rhymed with "Choco Taco."

     The next day we rode around the city and visited the world-famous tile museum. My favorite exhibit was a large wraparound mural of the city made entirely of tile. It was imposing and beautiful, and showed exactly how we would get lost on the way back to our hotel. We ended up back at the waterfront area of the Tagus River to return our bikes. A ride on the Bica funicular is a colorful way to get you up into the Bairro Alto district, the heart of nightlife in Lisbon. Daylife wasn't bad either, and we stopped for coffee at the historic Luís de Camões plaza to people-watch. 

     It's worth mentioning that you wouldn't stop JUST for the coffee, which is an abstraction they don't understand too well in Portugal, and Europe in general. I don't know what people do to wake up in Portugal, but whatever it is does not involve a decent breakfast or coffee. If you want a perfect fried egg, you may have to wait until somebody sticks it on top of your steak for dinner. French toast, English muffins and Belgian waffles are almost unheard of in France, England and Belgium. I remember that when we ordered coffee in Greece that wasn't espresso we were treated to a muddy solution that looked and tasted like it came from the bottom of the crankcase of a 1968 Ford Fairlane. Anyway, back to the hotel we took the subway, which was clean and easy to navigate, and takes an ordinary credit card, a concept that deserves some credit.

     There was so much more to see, but we had to limit our itinerary to two days before continuing our journey. Fly on with me next time to the scenic islands of Portugal.

MR. MANNERS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-16-24)

 

     I was discussing rules of etiquette with reader Maria a little while ago, and I asked her why would you say "bless you" after a sneeze, when a cough seems much more serious? I discourage people from blessing me when I sneeze, and they ask "why?" After the 47th sneeze when there is finally a lull, they say, "Oh, okay."

     The human concept of manners demonstrates our dedication to civilization and separates us from the rest of the living beings on the Earth, who by the way are a bunch of animals. I thought my cat was different, because he waits near the door as I'm walkingto the bedroom, as if to say, "You first, sir, since I see that you are balancing a sandwich, a crossword puzzle and a glass of apple juice." I nod thank you, but the minute my foot crosses the threshold he darts in front of me and I almost trip over him, dropping the sandwich and spilling most of the apple juice. Even though the crossword puzzle is wet, at least now I know a four-letter word meaning "cat."

     I saw a picture of Trump walking in the rain with his wife Melania, holding an umbrella over only himself, and I thought, WOW, this guy is the perfect role-model! If there's only one umbrella, why should I hold half of it over someone else's head, ensuring that both of us will be half soggy? If we're both right-handed one of us will be doing almost everything we do, wet.

     There are a lot of new rules about how you address people. You used to start a letter with "Dear Sir," but then women learned  the complicated secrets of how to open a letter, so we thought "Dear Sir or Madam" might be better, but there turned out folks falling through the cracks, so we said "To Whom it May Concern," but when we found out it may not concern anybody, we went back to sirs and madams but people who identified with other genders or inanimate objects complained, so now I just open my correspondence with "HEY YOU," which seems both inclusive and nice.

     How did all this even start? There some rules of etiquette that are based on common sense. "Save the women and children first" is based on the idea that, if all the boats in the world capsized at the same time, you'll need women to bear children and carry on the human race. "YAY! We are saved! And there are no more men around to bully us about our use of hummus and unattractive sneakers! The first thing I'm going to do is binge-watch 'The Good Witch.' Then I'm going to purge-watch it!" "SO fun! And we can have children whenever WE want to have them! And carry on the human race! All we need is some... Hmmm. I'm not sure we thought this entirely through. But let's see that remote control!!"

     Other rules I would guess are based on human nature. Why is it always "ladies first?" Well, I don't know much about the history of etiquette but I know a whole lot about dudes. Somewhere around the middle ages, a typical middle-aged guy was probably out with his girlfriend and he wanted to keep an eye on her. If you knew her you would agree. The rear-view mirror hadn't been invented yet, so the only way to get the same view was to have her walk in front. 

     Some were based on personal safety. I've read that the custom of clinking glasses during a toast originated with the practice of pouring a little wine into each others' glasses, to prove that it was not poisoned. The bar for drinking buddies was much lower back then.

     Some rules are clearly outdated, such as the direction in an 1883 etiquette book that a man should be expected to choose the woman's horse. I would not want the pressure of having to gauge both the woman's and the horse's personality. The chances of offending both run fairly high, leading to a disparaging phrase regarding me and also the horse I rode in on.

     Etiquette is more confusing now than it ever was, that's for sure. I already covered gender pronouns and their (they/them) use. I understand that I shouldn't wear white after Labor Day, even though I don't understand why. But on what date does after one Labor Day become before the next Labor Day? And what about civil disobedience? Is that good manners or not? An example of civil disobedience might be: "I only wanted to burn down the courthouse, but the fire spread because I was holding the door open for the ladies." 

     I don't know all the rules but I do try to be nice to people, on the off-chance that they might be nice back. It's not good manners to get into an argument with me about manners. "Rick, you shouldn't chew with your mouth open, especially if it is full of lies." "Excuse me, but did I not hold the door for you?" "Yes you did, and it was a revolving door and I banged my knee pretty good."

PRAYER BNB

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-02-24)

 

     After you come to the conclusion that you need to downsize your life, the next logical step is to buy a smaller place to live, which is what we did. And now we have downsized into two houses: mission accomplished! I think we can have the same amount of stuff in the smaller house, if each item was a third of the size that it is now. I can see I'm going to be good at this.

     The place is not far from the beach, so my idea is to rent it out as an Airbnb when we're not there. The place needs a little work. The first thing we did is take down all the signs that were over the doorways to each room. Over the bedroom was a sign that said "Romance," and I am not kidding about this. I guess if you reached that point in your marriage when you wondered where all the romance had gone, you could just follow the signs. You can expect a little more subtlety from me with the signs, like maybe "Merge," or "Yield," or "Slow Men at Work."

     I'm now a home improvement subcontractor. I'm also the contractor, and I'm not thrilled with my work. I may have to say something, but I don't want to come down to hard, because it's hard to get good help these days, and I'd hate for me not to even show up. 

     Things got off to a rocky start. I spent all day fixing up some furniture and I got glue all over my fingers, and when the sun went down I realized the electricity wasn't turned on yet. I forgot to charge my phone, so I had to drive around with it plugged into my car charger, but since I'm unfamiliar with the area I got lost. I have a GPS on my phone, but since I had glue all over my fingers it wouldn't read my security-activated fingerprint. I considered committing a minor felony so that I could get a more accurate fingerprint. That's when I realized I needed a nap.

     I read that you shouldn't furnish an Airbnb with a kitschy or antique look. Instead of Louis XV furniture, modernize the look with a Louis XVI furniture. All we could really afford was the Louis CK look. Don't fall victim to common decorating mistakes, like hanging your wall art too high, unless it's ugly, then it should be hung from the highest yardarm. Any nudes should be tasteful and well hung.

     I read somewhere that people want to feel like they're staying in a hotel. We found a housekeeper that even put a paper band around the toilet seat and made a little origami flower out of the toilet paper. I realized I had to go to the bathroom, and the housekeeper had already left, so I had to scotch tape the toilet seat band back together, and I made a toilet paper flower that looks like a snapping turtle.

     I guess I'm also technically a businessman now, and I need to pay attention to things that were none of my business before. I was thinking about joining the small businessmen's association, but at six-foot two I'm sure I would not qualify, unless they set a pretty high bar for admission.

     I'll be watching every penny in order to make ends meet. The trick with running your own Airbnb is to advertise a lot of great activities, and then make them almost impossible to actually do, so that it's their own idea to have a lousy time. Save money wherever you can. I'll install one of those motion-detector faucets, so you can't just sit there and wash your hands every time they get dirty. Water doesn't grow on trees, you know, at least I don't think it does. The one in the restroom where I work is perfect, because it only detects the motion of me walking away from it. Nothing will get it to flow. I've tried running in place, spelling the words "I hate you" in semaphore and performing the "Heartland" song from Riverdance. Motion denied. I also tried the paper towel dispenser, which is a motion detector too. I shook my hands underneath it, and the faucet finally went on.

     Don't worry, we'll provide complimentary soap. Complimentary because of the compliments you'll receive after using it. "Wow, what is that smell?" "That's the boutique soap I used at the Airbnb I stayed at. It's 'tree bark and asparagus,' with hints of bacon, motor oil and despair. I should have taken some home with me, because we have raccoons." 

     During your stay I will act as the concierge, if you'll pardon my French. Feel free to ask me anything. At the end of our conversation, I will say, confusingly, "There is nothing more I can do for you, no?" Depending on what your answer is, in either case I will do nothing more for you.
     It all sounds like great fun, especially if you're hard of hearing. See you at the shore!