HALLOWEEN NOSTALGIA

HALLOWEEN NOSTALGIA

I can’t get over how different Halloween is now than it was when we were growing up. There is just no longer the inner desire to try and procure by any means available as much candy as is humanly possible. Is there a glut on the candy market? Are many more moms now candy-shunning vegans? Or is it just laziness?

We live in a picture-perfect neighborhood, all the neighbors dress up their homes for Halloween, they have more than enough chocolate-related products, and the only thing missing is children to give them to. This year we had three trick-or-treaters ring our bell, and they made the trip all the way from the house on our right. They did not make it as far as the house on our left, as I found out the next day. The house on the left had one group of seven, who didn’t get as far as our house. We had three bags of candy, and my wife said we should have given each kid an entire bag and gone to bed.

When I was a kid you made damn sure you had enough energy to get up and down the driveways of at least 20 or 30 houses. Even if it was up a hill. Even if there was five pit bulls guarding the door, a chicken-wire fence, and a chicken. If something about the house seemed a little scary, hey- IT’S HALLOWEEN! It’s supposed to be scary. There were no pedophiles back then, just gym teachers and clergymen. The most dangerous threat was the presence of other rogue groups of kids who might seek to unlawfully gain access to your candy.

And if god forbid we ever received anything healthy, like a candied apple or something, you should expect it to end up in your mailbox, minus the candy. And don’t even talk to me about a box of raisins. We never went out while it was still light out, especially if we didn’t spend a whole lot of time on the costume. Since it was impossible to see through your mask anyway it didn’t make much difference.

This year our young guests arrived with UNICEF boxes, which I hadn’t seen since the last time I trick-or-treated myself, age 18 or so. I remember getting the boxes in school, and spending about an hour and a half trying to figure out how to put the damn thing together, tab A into slot B, fold here, etc. I can’t even get a newspaper to fold the right way, so I just scotch taped the damn thing into the general shape of a box and called it a day. When I was through I couldn’t find the slot that the coins were supposed to go through so I had to cut a new one.

When the kids arrived with UNICEF boxes, I had to wrack my brain to figure out how much to put in it- back when I was a kid you would put a penny or two in. Adjusted for inflation over the years, I figured out that today you would have to put $187.30 into each box.

I keep trying to think of a way to make Halloween work better financially for me. In my own mind I think of candy as a charitable donation. I wrote on my 1040 that we gave away 6.2 million dollars in $100,000 bars. One year a kid took so much candy we claimed him as a dependent.

The day after Halloween re-donned my Jesus outfit and went on a mission of “Reverse trick-or-treating,” whereby I give candy to the neighbors who may have run out already. You can’t keep that stuff in the house, especially if you are Jesus, trying to set examples about gluttony and avarice. No one likes a corpulent Christ, a meaty Messiah, a swollen savior…. I know I was only pretending to be Jesus, but it gave me some great ideas. Like what about a handy reference section in the back of the bible, with a conversion table that tells you how many locusts make up a plague, or how many inches in a cubit (about 18).

Incidentally, if an owl sees you through the window, it is considered to be bad luck for you. If the owl sees you naked through the window, it’s his own bad luck. If you are an owl yourself and another owl looks at you through the window, it’s a “push.”

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NATIONAL HOLIDAYS

NATIONAL HOLIDAYS

Halloween isn’t a national holiday but it should be. When else can grown people get all dressed up, drink to excess, say scary things to one another and eat fattening foods? Well besides their wedding day? We went to a party on Saturday night at Matt’s vintage guitar store- what a cool idea to have a party in a place where one can do the MAXIMUM amount of damage to irreplaceable objects? About 500 beautiful guitars were hanging up in a row, and I pictured myself getting really drunk and knocking one of them over. But that one bangs into the next one and knocks it over, and all of a sudden all the guitars are falling over like one of those playing card displays that goes around and around the room each card knocking over the next... Or like one of those movies where the Hells Angels are all inside the bar and they come out just in time to see Chevy Chase or somebody knocking over all their motorcycles. Or like the economy.

I went dressed as Jesus, because I hate wearing a mask or a wig. I don’t mind stockings or a push-up bra or Manolo pumps (size 11EE). I understand that Jesus didn’t wear stockings or a push-up bra, but I figured who’s going to know? My wife was dressed as Janis Joplin, but she did not realize that it was a costume party. There was another jesus there already, and they were about to hold a jesus-off, but I whipped out my drivers’ license with my birthday listed on it, and won that one hands down. Plus I out-annoyed the other jesus with bad jokes about me talking things over with my staff, and that back at the manger there is a sheep in wolf’s clothing (hey it’s Halloween for them too).

I grew a beard just for Jesus, and it’s one of the few things I have ever done for him. Only it came in half gray, and made for a geriatric jesus, a senior savior. So I got my hands on some “Just For Men.” The directions said to brush it onto the beard and leave it on for less than 5 minutes. Unfortunately, at that moment water from the rain outside started streaming in through the improperly installed windows. 35 minutes later, I looked like Osama Bin Laden. And my beard did not grow in evenly- it looked as though some parts of my face got more sun than some others. Another thing I always forget is that food always ends up in my beard, and I wonder if the same thing happened to Jesus. I went back and looked at the famous painting, “The Last Supper,” and sure enough you can make out what looks like a sprig of broccoli in his beard.

The party was fun, and I enjoyed jamming with the guys. As Matt was saying, since drunk people have no conception of time, each song can last an eternity. The songs have no discernable beginning or end, only a middle. Sometimes after a 20 minute lead break, no one can remember what song we started on. Most likely you will hear 5 or 6 people singing a different verse at the same time, although sometimes a moment of kismet will cause one word to overlap. Typically a song lasts until someone has to go to the bathroom. Sometimes it goes on just past that point, but hey- that’s rock n roll. One Led Zeppelin song would still be going on right now except the lead singer passed out.

The strange thing about Halloween is that after a while you forget you have the costume on, and you may find yourself engrossed in a very serious conversation. And if someone from another country that does not celebrate Halloween walks in it could be very confusing. He could see Jesus talking to General Custer with an arrow through his head talking to an M & M about global warming. He may wonder what qualifies an M & M to converse freely about global warming, but if the polar ice caps could be made to melt in our mouths and not in our hands, it may do some good.

Incidentally, traditional games such as “bobbing for apples,” already known in Ireland during the festival of Samhain, became popular in the U.S. in the middle 1800s, when immigration dramatically increased. Participants would fish for apples bobbing in a water-filled tub using only their teeth. In a variation for senior citizens, players would fish for their teeth in a water-filled tub using only an apple.

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INTERNAL MEDICINE

INTERNAL MEDICINE

I recently turned 50, and I just had a routine medical procedure done. I don’t want to gross anyone out, so I won’t say what it was. Suffice it to say that they stick a tube up your ass and look around for half an hour. If they like what they see, they invite you back to do it again over and over. The tube has a camera in it, and they take pictures that you can post on Facebook if you like. If you are on Assbook, so much the better. They print the photos out in color, and they are really quite beautiful. Mine had a thing on it that looked like the Sea of Tranquility. I looked at it with a magnifying glass, and I thought I could make out a little American flag that someone had planted there years ago. It turns out that eating more fiber will get rid of the Sea of Tranquility.

The better your medical coverage, the more painless the procedure is. Working as I do for the television industry, my basic plan covers a colonoscopy that utilizes not exactly cutting edge technology. They took an actual VHS camcorder from the 1970s and barged it right in there. When it came time to change the tape, enough said.

First the nurse subjects you to a battery of questions, most of them “true or false,” relating to your medical history. She asks you if you have any allergies. And I told her yes, I am allergic to people sticking anything up my ass. And also, cats. “Are you on any medications?” Yes, I am currently on a prescription called cyclobenzazoxlazone. It doesn’t say on the bottle what it’s for, but I have been taking it since 1987 and I haven’t had whatever it cures since then. They ask if there are any medical problems in my family, and I tell them my parents are both dead so I would say a big YES on that one. They ask if I have any diabetes, and the answer is never even ONE diabete.

Then the anesthesiologist waltzes in and asks the exact same questions, and just for fun, I mix up the answers. He doesn’t even notice. But I feel like he knows a lot of personal information about me, and I know nothing about him. So to even it up I ask him some questions: Who was the 27th president? (Taft) What is the capital of North Dakota (Bismarck). He got them both right so it was time to begin.

This isn’t one of those deals where they ask you if you want to watch the procedure on TV, like my knee surgery. I didn’t want to watch that either, so I asked him to flip to The Price is Right, and he totally agreed. The anesthesia is very fast-acting, so he asks you to count backwards from one. When I woke up, the damn thing hadn’t even started yet- turns out I had fainted from him putting the IV needle into my arm. This is an unpleasant examination, and I don’t think it’s any less unpleasant for the doctor either.

The preparation is the annoying part. You can’t have breakfast the day before the procedure for instance. I got around this by delaying my dinner from the night before until 7AM the next morning. You are not allowed to eat any foods in a solid form the whole day. So instead I cooked my hamburger so well done that it ended up in a gaseous state, then I just inhaled it. You can eat Jell-o, and it didn’t say you couldn’t have Jell-o shots, so I did plenty of those. In fact I had a lot of intake in liquid form. Then starting at 6PM you have to drink this stuff that gives you diarrhea. Obviously it also gives me diarrhea of the mouth.

The anesthesia wears off quickly, but you are still not allowed to drive or use heavy machinery- anything over, say, 15 pounds. The doctor also told me not to sing, but I think that was unrelated to the procedure.

Incidentally, March is National Colon Cancer Awareness Month. Hopefully it also the month of something less ridiculous-sounding. The colon is 5 to 6 feet long, which means it can probably dunk a basketball. If you have a semi-colon it’s about half that; the semi-colon is the one that winks at you at the end of cute emails.

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PHILANTHROPY

PHILANTHROPY

My band played at a gala benefit recently for the Hudson Valley Writers Center, for which my wife is a sitting Board member, mostly because of her back. Even the band had to wear a jacket and tie. Nobody said anything about pants, so I didn’t wear any. Every time I put on a jacket and tie it feels like I am pretending to be something I am not, namely a functioning member of society. One look at me should tell you that I just don’t belong in formal wear. It always seems like I am back at my Senior Prom, maybe because it’s the same jacket. This was even more like a senior prom because of all the senior citizens.

And I don’t know how to act among rich people either. For instance, the table setting has too much silverware. A knife and a fork is all I know how to use. I don’t even need a spoon, since anything you can eat with a spoon you can just slurp into your mouth by tipping the bowl. There is always a really small fork, which I avoid because I’m afraid they will serve me a really small dinner. But I guess they have to put it there because babies could be eating there also. There are usually two knives: one is really dull, and the other even duller. In order to kill someone with this knife you would have to turn it around and beat someone over the head six or seven hundred times, and after the first couple hundred times they would just end up getting annoyed. There is also a really small plate, and invariably just as I am about to put something on it someone takes it away. The better the restaurant, the more plates they have that they take away before you are able to use. Usually there are two or three glasses. I think one is for wine, one is for water, and the other one they never fill so it’s a mystery. Which one is for beer? If only I could get them to fill the beer glass like they fill the water glass- after each sip I took of the water a guy would appear from underneath the table and fill my glass as I was putting it back on the table, and then quickly duck back underneath. And then I’m looking for butter for my bread, and somebody hands me a plate of oil. I didn't have any use for it eating-wise, but I did dip my reading glasses into it because they are hard to open. Am I supposed to put it on my bread? When I bring my car in for a tune-up, do they put butter in my crankcase? Well my mechanic sometimes does so bad example.

I don’t know how to converse with rich people. Since they are not concerned with the problems of the proletariat, their discussions are loftier. As soon as someone says, “Did you see that piece in the ‘Times’…?”, I am always too embarrassed to join in. I only saw a piece of that piece, since my attention span is so short. The “Times” always has so many words in it, but aptly named, since it takes so friggin’ long to read. Rich people can talk about food for hours. The word “hummus” always comes up, I’m not sure why. Rich people all seem to know what a “haiku” is. There are specific rules for a haiku, and if you break them people will scoff at you. There was a piece in the “Times” about it.

They had a silent auction to raise money, in case there were deaf people. They also had a louder auction, and then an even louder one. Thank god they didn’t have one of those auctioneers who talk really fast. So fast that if you raise your hand to ask them to repeat something you have already bought it. They had a couple speeches, but you could only hear every other word, because the P.A. was malfunctioning. I had to spring into action and hook the microphone up to the band’s P.A., which was about 500 feet away. So then you could hear the speaker talking, and then it came through the P.A. really softly about three seconds later. I’ve found that people don’t know how to talk through a mike. They always hold it really close to their mouth, confusing it with an ice cream cone. Some orators even took a lick or two from it. And every time they pronounced a word that begins with the letter “P,” pieces fell off the chandelier. And for god's sake don't blow into the microphone. Did you ever blow directly into your dog's face? A microphone reacts the same way- it doesn't like it and it makes a loud noise. But then it forgives you and licks you.

But we played, and people danced, and they seemed to have a good time, although it’s really hard to tell with rich people.

Incidentally, the history of auctions dates back to biblical times, where maidens were auctioned off in a “descending auction,” where the price started high, and came down to an affordable option at some point. But, as in a singles bar, the more alcohol they served, and the later it got towards closing time, the price went back up again.

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ORTHOPEDICS

ORTHOPEDICS

I threw out my back two weeks ago. I always figured that if this happened to me, it would be because I was doing something I shouldn’t have done. Something that seemed important at the time, but in retrospect was not. Lifting a car off an injured guy who was changing his oil, for instance. I could handle a Yugo, but you don’t need to change the oil in a Yugo- you simply wait until it leaks out. Or carrying 5 or 6 boxes of paper over to the copy machine. Which would be a wasted trip since I don’t know how to clear the paper jams. Or changing out the empty jug in the water cooler.

In reality that describes my injury exactly. As I was about to play a game of doubles tennis, I hurt my back performing what would have been a very very funny and topical imitation of Serena Williams chasing around that little Chinese lines judge at the US Open semifinal. As you remember if you saw it, the lines judge inexplicably calls a foot fault on Serena at 15-30 in the final set, which costs her the point and brings up match-point. Serena walks over to her, and says something to the effect of, “I wanna stuff this tennis ball right down your friggin throat.” And she actually shows her the tennis ball, so that she can see how big it is. The lines judge is a small Chinese woman, with a small friggin throat, and even a squash ball or a racquetball shoved down there might have killed her. So she runs over to the umpire’s chair, because Serena is friggin’ huge, and she is armed with a large tennis ball. Then Serena goes back to serve at double match-point down, thinks about it again, and walks back over to the lines judge and points her raquet at her, presumably to also shove that down her throat. The lines judge runs away again and hides under a plant. Serena returns three of four times, each time with something bigger to shove down the girl’s throat, and chases her around the umpire’s chair, or at least that’s how I remember it. Then the US Open officials come out and tell Serena that she has defaulted the point, and so the match, on the grounds of unsportsmanlike conduct and attempted murder. The next day Serena is told that she must forfeit an entire moment’s pay, never go within 50 feet of any lines judge, and not grunt so loud that it scares people. She immediately issues a heartfelt apology through her agent, saying that she is sorry she foot faulted and had to pay all that money, and that she is very passionate about her sport and might hurt anyone at any time in the future.

So my imitation would have been very important, since comedy often has a healing effect. In this case it had quite the opposite effect, since I felt like I dislocated my back. Once I located it again, it hurt like hell and I should have left it where it was. I was writhing around the ground looking like I was break dancing, and the rest of the foursome was laughing at me, marveling at how lifelike I was.

So I could hardly stand up, and everything I did for the next two weeks was extremely painful. I was walking around at about an 80 degree angle, and on the plus side I never stepped in any gum. In order to put on my pants I had to lie on the floor with one leg up, throw the pants into the air and stick my leg underneath it, hoping that the right leg would land in the right leg. There is still a pair of pants hanging from one of our overhead lights because we don’t have a ladder that tall.

So I finally went to the doctor. She poked me in the back and I went, “AAAHHHKKK!” She said, “Was that painful?” I said, “No I am ticklish there.” So she tried another place and I went, “AAAHHHKKK!” And she asked, “Is that ticklish?” And I said, “No- painful.” So she thought I should get an X-ray. I asked, “For my back?” And she said, “No, for your brain- you seem like an idiot.” She also prescribed muscle relaxants, and after two of those I resembled a large puddle, and had to be poured into bed. And then at physical therapy they made me lie on my back and move my legs in a way that if I was a girl on “Melrose Place” would be hot, but for a guy just looks embarrassingly dumb.

The moral of this story is that there isn’t anyone on the planet who doesn’t have a remedy or advice for back pain.
“Try my chiropractor! He doesn’t take insurance so just give him your ATM PIN number!”
“Go to an acupuncturist! Don’t drink any milk for a couple hours afterward!”
“Get a massage- you don’t need the happy ending, but don’t get the UN-happy ending!”
“Put heat on it!”
“Put ice on it! For god’s sake don’t use heat!”
“Lie on your side and lift your hand and leg up and down simultaneously for two minutes straight!”
“Go onto your hands and knees and make a noise like a raccoon!”
“Swallow an entire glass of water, then hold your breath until you start to get a little hungry!”
That last one might have been for the hiccups, I forget.

Even before the injury my wife was constantly badgering me. Before tennis: “Don’t forget to stretch!” I am 6’2” tall, and I think that’s tall enough. And every time I would bend down to pick something up, she would yell: “Use your legs!” I tried and tried to use my legs to pick things up, and sometimes I was able to, but often I just gave up and used my hands.

Incidentally, Astronauts in space can grow 1 ½ to 2 ½ inches, as zero gravity causes their spines to lengthen. Their noses can also grow if they lie in the spacecraft.

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MODERN ENTOMOLOGY

MODERN ENTOMOLOGY

So I was swimming around the pool naked last week and noticed about six zillion bees flying in and out of one of the planters on the deck. They were wearing what appeared to be small jackets of the color yellow. I couldn’t tell what type of bees they were, but I noticed that the horizontal stripes on their jackets made them look fat, so I scoffed at their undeveloped sense of style.

Then I realized in a panic that being naked, they could sting virtually EVERY part of my body! Making body parts swell to THREE TIMES their normal sizes! So I wandered over much closer. It turns out as I looked at their faces that nothing could disgust them more than seeing me naked, and they avoided me like the plague. They seemed very busy; they were flying in and out of that planter with a sense of purpose. I couldn’t guess what that purpose was, but they were clearly not interested in me, even though yellowjackets are reputed to be very aggressive and predatory. There were minding their own beeswax.

Still, the situation seemed dangerous, especially right by the pool. If you are not even allowed to run by the pool, think of the extra peril added by this situation: What if a small baby walked up to our house, jumped over the fence, got stung by the bees, fell into the pool and drowned? What if an adult, weakened by trying to swim in the pool less than 30 minutes after eating, was stung to death? What if they flew into and clogged up my BRAND NEW pool filter? Any of these, or even worse, all of them happening on the same day would be tragic. Clearly I needed to address the situation.

With a delicious sneer on my face, I doused the entire area with Raid Wasp & Hornet spray. Well actually, I also doused our side door and one of our lounge chairs with it, since the first minute or so the can was faced the wrong way. We have never had a bee problem on our side door or lounge chairs, and I’m fine with keeping up that perfect record. I waited 15 minutes or so, laughing diabolically, until one of the neighbors told me to shut up.

It didn’t slow the bees down one visible iota. I sprayed again and again. And again the neighbor told me to stop with the laughing. This time it was not me laughing, it was the bees.

I heard somewhere that bees don’t like smoke, and true enough I have never seen any bee smoking, so I set up my trusty Off Mosquito Coils in an ash tray right next to the nest, and lit them up. I fell asleep for about half an hour, and when I woke up, the bees were still there and the ashtray was broken into 20 pieces. This made me not a little frightened, because they seemed to have little regard for my personal property. I checked all the other ashtrays and china in the house to see if they had broken anything else.

I took to standing in the pool and spraying them individually with Raid Flying Insect Killer. I must have sprayed five hundred bees individually (It’s possible I sprayed the same one five hundred times). Not a thing. I thought I caught some of them yelling things at me on the way by. One of them called me a “drone.” One did a feint and roll, as if it were dying, then just laughed and sped away.

I considered spraying the nest with pepper spray, but the fact is I don’t want to waste it, since I keep it in the closet in case a recipe calls for hot pepper and I don’t have any on hand.

I considered befriending them, maybe even making a “beard of bees” out of them, or possibly just sideburns. They didn’t show any interest in my face at all.

I researched them online, and printed out instructions for an “Eco-Friendly Yellowjacket Trap.” You cut a two inch hole in a plastic 2-liter soda bottle, fill it with eco-friendly dishwashing liquid (bees hate doing the dishes), then smear jelly and jam around the sides of the hole. The bees are attracted to the jelly, climb into the hole, then drown in a sea of sorrows en masse. First of all, when I cut the hole in the soda bottle I got Dr. Pepper all over my pants- the soda bottle should be empty first it turns out. After I was done, not one bee flew into my trap, and it wasn’t even eco-friendly, since I got angry and threw it about a mile into the woods.

I was just ready to try to find instructions for a “bunker-buster” bomb, like the ones they kept trying to use on Saddam Hussein, but just then my wife arrived with a spray guaranteed by the guy at the hardware store. It’s called triamethylchloraflorylhydroflummoxoline, or something just like that. I doused the entire area for about a two mile radius and haven’t seen any living thing now for about a week and a half. On the plus side, I think I also might have killed Saddam Hussein.

Incidentally, every winter the entire yellowjacket bee colony dies, with the exception of the queen. If you have a nest in your closet, and you see a queen there, well, just fill in your own joke I need a nap.

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POP CULTURE

POP CULTURE:

This week {actually last week} I got in all my “brushes with fame” for the whole year. Yesterday as I walked down 53rd Street I saw a large mass of people around the stage door for the Letterman Show, as I often do. The stage manager yelled out “Any second!” so I hung around. Out popped Letterman, Andy Roddick, and for some unknown reason, Rachel Ray (she turned out to be the ballgirl). They had stretched a tennis net between two light poles on 53rd, and Letterman was going to try to return Roddick’s serve. If Andy Roddick was serving tea I don’t think Letterman could return it. He was serving at 90 mph, about 2/3 the speed of his U.S. Open best. I don’t think Letterman ever got a racket on it. I yelled out “I hope you’re wearing a cup!” but I don’t think he heard me- I was serious!

I could sense confusion on the faces of all the tourists as they tried to convert miles-per-hour to kilometers-per-hour, but before they could figure it out some guy got nailed! I caught one of the tennis balls that they lobbed into the audience, nearly killing some people who were not expecting it, but I was not able to convince my dog that this ball was “special,” so there is drool on it now, some of it from the dog.

Then the day before that I was walking next to 30 Rock and I notice a bunch of protesters picketing. I thought it was the Rainbow Room not paying their employees again, but one of the sign said, “Pages are People Too!” so I got suspicious. Sure enough, there was that goofy red-headed guy from the Tina Fey show out there looking goofy. I probably could have gotten into the scene but I didn’t want to miss my train, and besides I believe that pages are overpaid.

Then last weekend just as I was finishing my tennis match, two kids and an old guy come onto the court. I did a double-take then said to the old guy, “I don’t suppose anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Sean Connery!” He said, “Yes my mother told me that!” I told him it was nice to meet him, and left. I guess one of the players was his kid, who belongs to Saw Mill. Not as interesting as Jill Clayburgh seeing my wife naked, or the time Chevy Chase said hello to me and I barely gave him a nod (clueless as usual), but not bad.

So I was kicked off the court by James Bond, almost was an extra in “30 Rock,” and told Dave Letterman to wear a protective cup. This was one of my more productive weeks.

Incidentally, Sean Connery was filming a movie with Lana Turner in 1958, only to have her gangster boyfriend storm the set, point a gun at him and accuse him of having an affair with her. Connery disarmed him and diffused the situation. He gave the boyfriend his arm back and got him to leave, but held onto the gun.

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