ELEPHANTS AND THEIR RELEVANCE

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (05-05-16)

     Recently the Somers Historical Society helped celebrate World Circus Day. As you know, Somers is the "Cradle of the American Circus." It is not the "Birthplace of the American Circus," since there are a bunch of towns fighting over that moniker. There will probably be some DNA testing, a custody battle and some shaming by Maury Povich, and it might get messy, so watch where you step. But even being a "Cradle" rocks!

     Somers has long been associated with the circus, and you have only to look at that pulchritudinous pachyderm on top of the granite obelisk in front of the Town House to know why. Hachaliah Bailey was a farmer and rancher in Stephentown, soon to become Somers. While at a tavern in New York on a cattle trade, Bailey agreed to buy what was probably the second elephant in America for $1,000 dollars. Was there alcohol involved? My research suggests that 9 out of 10 elephants bought at a bar are acquired after considerable cocktails.

     Some say the sea captain who sold him the elephant was his brother, and some say the elephant was his brother. The year was 1804 or 1805, and Hachaliah sailed the beast up the Hudson in his sloop and disembarked at Sing-Sing, now Ossining. He named her "Old Bet." This could not have pleased his daughter very much, whose name was Elizabeth.

     Bailey and the elephant packed up their trunks and started walking to Somers. About 10 or 15 miles into the journey, Bailey was thinking that if he had only gotten a little drunker, he might have held out for a tiger or something that walked a little faster. No one knew how many days it took him since he traveled only at night- he didn't want gawkers getting a free glimpse.

     It's unclear whether he might have bought the animal to help plow his fields, but he soon realized that the attention it got could translate into a better living than he could make on the farm, since money doesn't grow on trees. He knew that he had something huge on his hands, and once he convinced the behemoth to stop sitting on his hand, he began to charge money for the privilege of viewing it.

     The Somers Historical Society has a newspaper clipping from 1808 announcing that a "living Elephant" will be seen at the house of William Satterwhite from the 20th to the 31st of December. It didn't say whether William Satterwhite had any choice in the matter. Admission was 25 cents, which back then was only a quarter of a dollar.

     Bailey wanted to address the elephant in the room, and the address he gave it was 335 Route 202, where he built the Elephant Hotel. His enterprising idea of showing exotic creatures was copied by others, and soon there were traveling "menageries" touring the country. The exhibition of lions, bears and others grew into what we now know as the NFC Central Division.

     Unfortunately, Old Bet was shot and killed while on exhibition in Maine by a farmer who thought it a sin to display animals for money. He should have known that even in the wild elephants are known to charge.

     As of 2018, elephants will no longer be employed in the "Greatest Show on Earth." Whether or not they will appear in the greatest shows on any other planets remains to be seen, but Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus has said that new local laws governing the transportation and housing of the animals has made it difficult to continue the tradition. The thirteen elephants now traveling with the circus will retire to the Center for Elephant Conservation in Florida. There they will complain about their bad hips, knees, and how their kids never call them, like everybody else who retired to Florida.

LAST RITES FOR MEGABYTES

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (04-28-16)

     Last Saturday was electronic recycling day for many residents, a solemn occasion where we bid goodbye to the many devices and gadgets forced to leave the closets of Somers to make room for newer devices and gadgets. For five dollars a carload hundreds of people went to the Somers Intermediate School and dropped off what was either the worthless clutter around their house, or valuable artifacts that continue to define the history of their lives, depending on if you were a husband or wife. The proceeds went to benefit the Somers PTA.

     My friend Margaret from the PTA council was directing traffic and answering questions. The purpose of the event was to safely dispose of metal and electronic equipment, but people showed up with all sorts of things that haven't worked in years- one guy showed up with his nephew, for instance.

     Michael was there from City Carting, which donated four huge container dumpsters to cart away all the e-crap. I took a look inside one of them and it looked like my office, only a little bit tidier. There sat all these outdated electronics and computer peripherals that no longer talk to each other because the drivers are no longer supported by any company that still exists.

     There were a lot of items that were broken or damaged. I would estimate that 90 percent of the televisions in the dumpster were destroyed by people throwing the remote control at them during a Giants game when Eli Manning, WELL within field goal range, saw fit to throw an interception in a place where there wasn't a receiver within 500 MILES.

     There was both a humidifier and a dehumidifier that obviously did not get along together in life, now bound forever in eternity. You used to keep a radio or TV in your house pretty much forever, and if it broke, you brought it somewhere to get it fixed. You normally wouldn't consider taking it to the PTA. It was hard to believe that some of the stuff that was recycled ever had a cycle in the first place.

     But Michael said that most of the items people dropped off still worked perfectly well. It's just that everyone wants the newest gizmo with the most features. Everything now has all the bells and whistles, and for that reason nobody remembers anymore what a bell or whistle was. "See this? It's the best cellphone I ever had! I never lost it once since it's the size of a cinderblock!"

     My wife wanted to get rid of the washing machine. There's nothing wrong with it but she hates doing laundry. "Why don't we get rid of the iron while we're at it?" I asked. "I have to take extra vitamins because of the iron deficiency in my clothes." "What's an iron?" She asked. "And when are you going to get rid of that thing in the garage?" "What thing?" I asked. "EVERYTHING in there!" She yelled.

     I wish they had recycling events when I was trying to get rid of my Datsun B-210 back in the day. I couldn't give the thing away; junkyards didn't even want it. The brakes didn't work very well but the floor was rusted out so you you could stop the car by dragging your feet along the ground Fred Flintstone-style if you needed to. I would have driven it off a cliff if I could find one, but there is not actually a mountain in Mount Kisco. For five bucks a carload I could have just driven it up to the school parking lot and run all the way home before anybody from the PTA could
catch me.

UP THE RIVER WITHOUT A PENCIL

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (04-21-16)

     Someone once said that the pen is mightier than the sword, and that might be why we were asked to refrain from bringing one along on a recent tour of Sing Sing Correctional Facility in Ossining. There are two ways to get into Sing Sing- the easy way and the hard way. We did it the hard way, with a full security check. I immediately started complaining about the baggage fees from force of habit, forgetting that I was not at the airport. The metal detector here is so sensitive that the alarm goes off  even if you happen to mention Led Zeppelin's fourth album. There was no cavity search or anything, which I don't agree to even at the dentist's office.

     My wife and I were there as part of a group tour arranged by an originative program called Rehabilitation Through the Arts. This is an organization that encourages prison inmates to become involved in the arts as a way to sublimate the personality disorders that brought them to this place and change the course of their lives. People who do not believe that time and resources should be spent on criminals do not understand that a very small percentage of incarcerated individuals remain there for life. The rest will be back in their and our neighborhoods at some point, and society would benefit if they knew their lines and could hit their mark on cue.

     The theater workshops culminate in a full-fledged production, complete with a professional director, and Broadway-caliber book made available by the playwrights themselves. This is all done on a shoestring budget, if shoestrings were allowed in prison. The group survives on private donations, so please contact me to find out more about he transformative work being done by RTA.

     Our tour was led by John, Assistant D.S.P., who took us through the halls of "the Big House." We passed by the commissary, where prisoners shop for snacks and personal items using an internal system of currency. Inmates get paid about the market equivalent of having a paper route, but their overhead is low.

     We saw the actual dormitories in Cell Block B where the residents live, and they are as small as you would think, each with its own bed, commode and not a whole lot of privacy. As bad as conditions were it was better than my first apartment, which was above an unpleasant-smelling fish store in Pleasantville.

     In the "honor block" we met inmates who earned the right to special privileges such as cooking their own meal. There were almost 70 residing there, including Morris and Tiger, two felines possibly in for cat burglary or some other cat on cat crime. We have two cats that lie around grooming each other nicely, and then suddenly violence breaks out because one of them can't hold his licker.

     We ended up in the Chapel auditorium, where several of the cast members were practicing scenes from Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night." If you can't believe prison inmates could or would perform Shakespeare, well neither could I. They rehearsed lines like, "If music be the food of love, play on!" Even though "food" and "love" are rarely heard in the same sentence this close to the prison cafeteria. Some of them stopped to talk with us and answer questions, then went back to work on the play, which they will perform to a captive audience of their fellow inmates, and then again to the public. I found out that it is not productive to yell, "Break a leg!" in a maximum-security prison.

     Once they had me safely off the streets, would I be allowed to leave Sing Sing? "They would  never let you to stay here, you'd be shipped off to Juvenile," my wife predicted. But they opened the gate, and the taste of freedom newly re-savored, we left the complex in our Ford (I kid you not) Escape.

THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (04-14-16)

     There is an area outside my house that some might refer to as my lawn, and which I affectionately call the "ungrassy knoll." And this is that dreaded time of year when it becomes quite apparent that this area and I disagree as to what color it should be. It looks like someone hit it with "agent orange," since it is more orange than green. At least during the winter I am able to brag about how nice my lawn is, because it is under three inches of snow.

     I finally found something green on the lawn, which was a patch of moss. I was watering the moss hoping to at least keep that alive, when Paul from next door strolled over. He's the one who has to come over and fix all the things that I manage to screw up, and he had to retire from his job because I kept causing so many problems he was afraid they would spill over onto his property, and eventually the entire neighborhood.

     "You gotta get rid of this moss. Did you put lime on it?" Paul from next door asked.
"Of course I put lime on it. Any idiot knows you have to put lime on it, and that's how come I know it so well. I also put some lemon on it just in case. Smell this lawn"

     I went down to smell the lawn and I almost tripped over a hole. There are all these holes in the ground around my house now, and they seem to lead to a complicated system of underground tunnels. I assumed that they were made by the infamous Mexican drug kingpin nicknamed "El Chapo."

     By the way, in case you do not have an extensive knowledge of the Spanish language, as I do, the English translation for "El Chapo" is "The Chapo." Also, not to show off, but "LL Cool J" means "The The Cool J." When I was in grade school they made us memorize the numbers one through ten in Spanish, but I kept getting them mixed up with the books of the Bible, which I had to learn for Sunday School.

     Anyway, Paul from next door took a look at all the holes in the ground and said I should put mothballs in them. How am I supposed to get those? The moths themselves aren't going to want to part with them easily. But I found them at the hardware store and tossed them down the holes, even though I doubt that moths dug them in the first place.

     If the tunnels are mixed up with the "El Chapo" operation, the infamous drug kingpin is going to have ZERO holes in his sweater from moths, so he's probably never going to leave. He may even get himself an infamous drug queenpin to move in with him. In that case, my idea is to get hold of Sean Penn and a Mexican actress, to talk some sense into him. I would do it myself, but if I mistakenly say "Leviticus" instead of one of the Spanish numbers, I'm going to look like a dope.

     "Hey Paul- come over here and look at these flower beds- they are SO much better than yours," I challenge.
"I haven't seen anything bloom over there since the early 1970s," he replies.
"That's what I mean! These flower beds are so comfortable that the flowers sleep through anything."
Paul looked at me with that look that he has, you know the one. But I didn't want to press the issue, since he has a HUGE wood chipper, and I haven't seen the guy from two houses down in quite a while.

TOO RAUCOUS FOR THE CAUCUS

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (04-07-16)

     So who are you caucusing with these days? The answer to that question seems to be of primary concern. But what is a caucus, and why are we so sad after one? I don't have too many opinions about politics, at least that I can share in mixed company. Instead I found myself curious about the actual nomination process.

     Most of the time, after all the primary elections are over, the delegates go to their party's convention, wear a bunch of silly-looking hats, hold up a sign with the name of their state on it and everybody goes home happy. There are a lot of balloons, more than at a "Kate Plus 8" birthday party. There are close-ups on the Jumbotron of fawning blonde attendees, rapt with attention during the speeches. This year at the Republican Convention, the delegates may arrive with a huge case of buyer's remorse.

     The 2016 Republican Convention may feature close-ups on the Jumbotron of men who feel disenfranchised, with that look on their face that asks, "Did you happen to notice what I did with my franchise???" Men who are wondering if their hands are big enough to be good Republicans.

     At their own convention, Democratic delegates will be thinking, "I really do NOT care for socialism, because the word itself makes it sound like I might have to invite people over and possibly clean the house." Regardless of your political affiliation, if you still have one after all this, there are things that you should know about the nomination process.

     A caucus differs from a primary election in that the process is an open debate held in person in each polling district of a state. During the Iowa Caucus neighbors in each precinct discuss the merits of their preferred candidates for 30 minutes and try to convince the others to endorse their choice. If after that time no merits are actually unearthed, they vote anyway. In some states, the delegates who attend the convention are bound to vote the way they did in the primaries or caucuses, and in others they are allowed to change their vote once they have had a chance to sober up. This approach would work less well in New York, where we do most of our caucusing with a two-by-four.

     There has been some talk of a "brokered convention," where no candidate finishes the primary process with a majority of delegates and the winner is decided by subsequent balloting. We used a broker when we sold our condo in Bedford Hills during the best "buyer's market" in decades. True enough, after paying off the bank and his fee, we were indeed broker than before.

     A "super delegate" is a Democratic party leader or state politician who is awarded an automatic seat at the convention and the privilege to vote for whatever candidate they wish, regardless of the choice their state is pledged to. A super delegate is so strong that he or she does not think to himself, "I wish I was from Iowa instead of Massachusetts, where the sign weighs a whole lot less."

     The process is confusing and fraught with political pitfalls. All I know is that at this moment, senior Trump campaign officials are hard at work trying to iron out their positions on tough issues to tackle if Hillary Clinton is their opponent in the general election. Namely, how will they broach the question of who's wife is hotter?

THE MAGIC OF EASTER

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (03-31-16)

    I hope you and your family had a nice Easter Sunday this year, in whatever way you chose to celebrate it. Easter came and went at our house with a minimum of fuss, and only a few extra calories. The same could not be said at a mall in New Jersey, where a costumed Easter bunny went viral in a fistfight with an angry dad. At first I thought, "What is this world coming to?" And then I remembered what holidays were like at my house when I was growing up: six kids and a whole lot of candy- it's an explosive recipe that could far outstrip anything grown Easter bunnies can do at a mall.

    Back then my parents took us to a magic show and Easter egg hunt that they used to have at the Mount Kisco Country Club. I remember that even as a ten year-old, grown people performing magic tricks seemed a little silly to me. Pouring a pitcher of milk into a newspaper? That is nothing more than a great way to completely ruin breakfast- the newspaper is shot of course, and who wants to put milk in their coffee tasting like a bunch of bad news? And if you spill the milk? Well there's no use crying about that I guess.

    The Easter egg hunt didn't go much better. There were a bunch of plastic eggs hidden all over the grounds, and each one had a prize or a piece of candy in it. I know my Mom and Dad thought it would be fun for us, but the minute they blew that whistle, a zillion kids elbowed me out of the way and descended upon those eggs like a swarm of bees.

    And I have never been great at finding things, you can ask my wife. Where is the spaghetti sauce in the refrigerator? I've been looking for five minutes. It's right in front of my face, she tells me. That comment is of limited value, since I took the time to locate my face, and directly in front of it is NO spaghetti sauce. She comes in, moves a couple things around, and presto Prego! She holds it up to me so close I can read that it contains 13% of my daily requirement of potassium. NOW it's in front of my face, I call out to the back of hers.

    I think it might be fun to organize an REAL Easter egg hunt- If we're going to call it a "hunt" let's use actual guns and shoot at them! Maybe I haven't thought this through very well, but they shoot clay pigeons don't they? And where do you think clay pigeons come from? Clay eggs, duh. It certainly isn't any less sporting than "sportsmen" insisting that they need AK-47s to hunt deer.

    What if the whole controversy surrounding the Second Amendment to the Constitution was the result of a typo, and recently discovered manuscripts by Thomas Jefferson explained everything? "The weather here in the summer is much hotter than in Englande, and I am weary of our stricte dress code, which prohibits the wearing of shorte-sleeved garments. I am gratified that I had the foresight to include in our Constitution the right of all Americans to bare arms." Back then they stuck an extra "e" at the end of every other worde.

    Anyway, Easter is supposed to be about bunnies, not deer. It's a nice, wholesome family day. But I do note the irony of that little Hannibal Lecter moment where you bite the ears off the chocolate bunny first thing out of the gate. Thank goodness he can't hear what you're planning to do next, which is to chew his little candy eyes off. You ate him senseless!

    My favorites are those little eggs that have a malted-milk ball in the center. I could eat about a hundred of those. Every year my wife says she is going to cut down on the candy, but she can't take the crying and stomping. Plus, I convince her, eggs are a GREAT source of protein.

SPRING BREAKING BAD

SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (03-24-16)

      I don't know about you, but I'm ready for some warm weather, and I know it wants to get here soon. But we're sending mixed signals- as I drive around Somers I see that there are many people proudly sporting their Christmas lights. If you are one of those people, and you already have your Christmas tree lit up for next year, I couldn't be more impressed with your alacrity and zeal. This is certainly a great time to rejoice in the upcoming holiday season. However, if you simply forgot to take the lights down, there may be a whole lot of other things you probably forgot to do, things that don't light up to remind you. I would start with last year's taxes.

      I'm hoping that global warming will raise our temperatures in time for Easter Sunday. It would be a welcome change from the nor'Easter Sunday we had a couple years ago. How do we know that spring is finally here? There are many signs, for those of us who are highly attuned to the rhythms of nature. Frogs are croaking, crocuses are crocusing. Today I heard the lovely call of the Eastern bluebird. It actually turned out to be somebody's cell phone, but the cell phone at least was blue. The tweeting of birds is everywhere, although somewhat drowned out by the tweeting of Donald Trump. 

      What is that springtime refrain I hear? Is it the praying mantis, sounding his mating signal? No, it's me sneezing incessantly. I am allergic to tree pollen, bush pollen, shrub pollen, cactus pollen and actress Tracy Pollan. The fact that I can sneeze 20 times in a row while completing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle is nothing to sneeze at. Come to think of it I may also be allergic to Will Shortz.

      I don't know how the tree pollen gets into my house in the first place- I dead-bolt the doors every spring and never open them unless I see two forms of ID, and I don't have any trees in my house. I do have a small cactus, which I have been trying to kill for three years by not watering it. Not only is that not working, but it has grown a new shoot in the middle that makes it look like like it's trying to communicate something to me in sign language.

      Another rite of spring: green food in the cafeteria where I work. It's disturbing to see green pizza, and I complain to the food service manager, assuming that it's been there for a few weeks. Of course, I had forgotten that it was St. Patrick's day, and everything is green whether you like it or not. I do not. I don't even like the fact that some vegetables are green in the first place. Even the cauliflower was green this year, thanks to a twitter campaign: #cauliflowersowhite

      And take a look over there, it's the colorful cardinal, showing off his plumage to attract a mate! All I know is that if I wore a bright red suit with a lot of feathers, mating season would be a whole lot different, certain questions would be asked, and possibly some Streisand music would be involved. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't need a lot of surprises during mating season.

      Everybody's mood has lifted with the spring thaw. Except my boss- I forgot to set my clock ahead this year and my alarm didn't go off in time. It's not totally my fault- some clocks in the house change automatically, like the computers and the cable TV, some things don't, and some I already changed THEN they sprung ahead automatically. Luckily, I have a biological clock that goes off around June.