Razor Burn

libraryThis is a photo of what I saw when I looked up from the book I was reading in the library today. That book was the latest silliness from Carl Hiaasen that opens with a woman who gets in a car accident because while she was driving she was shaving her, uh, girl area. razorgirlKnowing Hiassen I’m convinced the book will evolve into something even more, um, entertaining, but looking at what was in front of me I felt a bit ashamed. A careful look at the selections of books on CD, and instead of enjoying my guilty pleasure, I could have chosen to learn to speak Hindi, French or Turkish or hear a reading of the life and times of Coco Chanel or step by step instructions to debug my laptop or whittle a likeness of Grover Cleveland. All worthy choices, but I’ll stick with Hiassen’s “Razor Girl,” because, well, honestly, I think more than enough people already know how to speak Hindi. 

In support of Guido Bruhl

While many voters are in struggling over the POTUS choices, I think back to the 1964 elections: Goldwater vs LBJ. My father hated them both but respected our distinguished neighbor..a man named Guido Bruhl. His son Gunther was a classmate of mine. His wife Christine was a seamstress whom my mother employed from time to time. On election day my exasperated father declared, “I’m voting for Guido Bruhl!” No matter that the excellent Mr. Bruhl was ineligible as he was born in Germany and even wore Liederhosen on occasion. From that time on, each election cycle, when the choices were less than optimal, our family let it be known our support was firmly behind Guido Bruhl. We never bothered to inform Guido Bruhl of this fact, which was a strategic move as he was a very large man with a mustache.

A New Year’s Sermon..and some jokes

rosh2016Today is New Year’s Day 5777 Don’t look for a ball to drop in Times Square, but perhaps a matzo ball or two will plunk into a shisl of chicken soup. It’s OK if you’re not wearing a silly hat, but it’s OK to wear a yarmulke. Noisemakers? Um..no, unless you want the rabbi to toss you out on your talis. Why are we 3,761 years ahead of everyone else? Ever wait for a Jew to get ready to get in the car? We needed that much of a head start.

Unlike the secular turning of the calendar celebrated with drunken gatherings and other forced frivolity, today, on Rosh Hashanah, we Jews spend the day seriously assessing our lives of the past year and hope to book another trip around the sun by being inscribed in the Book of Life after seeking forgiveness and atonement for our sins 10 days hence on Yom Kippur. That’s the day you don’t eat. You pray and think and hope the other old men in the temple broke the rule long enough to brush their teeth.

When I was younger I never missed a Sabbath or holiday to attend temple. Before we had kids my non-Jewish wife and I attended each other’s services. Then, as life intervened, we stopped, but we never stopped celebrating and respecting our holidays and faiths and teaching our children about them. Indeed, my late mother marveled at my wife’s wonderful matzo balls and tried to pry from her that “secret recipe.” My wife simply deadpanned, “I followed the directions on the box.” She must be great at following directions because they still kick the tushies of those I’ve had in the best Jewish delis.

By the same token, I’ve helped erect and decorate the Christmas tree and my wife makes sure the right number of Chanuka candles are in the menorah. I noticed that this year the two holidays are on the same day. Since Jesus started as a Jew we can celebrate his birthday and..conversion..simultaneously!

There’s not much I can contribute to Easter besides using some Peeps to plug up some holes in our pipes, but my wife puts on an absolutely incredible Passover seder. Yes, we read the entire story from the Hagadah before dinner and have never once missed a year.

The real point is, on this day of reflection, we’re all one. We may have different beliefs about how the world began, who’s running  the show or what symbols to respect, but we all want the same things…health, happiness, good things for our families, success and peace and maybe a Dove bar once in awhile.  And you must always add humor. We used to joke that a mezzuzah is just a cross without handlebars. Remember that. Be well.

 

 

Mall Story

mallDo you still visit the mall? We do because it’s a place to walk when the weather is bad. But we don’t actually buy anything at the mall because the prices are higher since the stores have to pay rent equivalent to Venezuela’s annual budget.

Today is a rainy day so my son and I used the mall to kill some time and get some exercise. As we walked along the concourses we passed one store after another all missing the same thing: customers. The hangdog looks of the bored clerks, ahem, associates, ahem kids earning money to feed their Starbucks habits, is pretty pitiful. As you walk by they stare at you with the same longing a Millennial might have for a 3-hour work day. Indeed, no one’s holding anything besides a latte’, a baby stroller or pretzel. Actual merchandise purchases? None, unless you count a box of Cinnabons.

Stores for overpriced purses, Native American blankets and trinkets, tea, popcorn, tuxedos, $200 jeans, ladies evening wear, faux diamond jewelry, candles, make up, fudge, cases for smartphones, eyebrow knitting and shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes. All sorts of things, but no one to buy them. Even the anchor stores appear adrift. As we buzzed through one to get to the exit a hopeful sales person begs to help me.  When you politely respond, “sorry, just making a beeline for my car,” their face sags as if you just insulted their kicky little name badge.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m old enough to remember a time before enclosed shopping malls and they were fun, festival-like market places. But when erstwhile open air centers, like Green Acres and Roosevelt Field on Long Island  were “malled” they instantly became popular destinations jammed with actual shoppers. Yeah, we bought things. Malls were also places we could drive to and hang out just after we received our drivers licenses. Now, they’re as cool as MySpace, populated mainly by speed walkers who would just as soon mow you down rather than avoid a collision that threatens to slow their pace.

Yes, malls are still jammed with Christmas shoppers but it’s not the same. In the 70’s when we lived in Central New York State we’d make a 30-mile trip to Syracuse and power shop at Fairmount Fair or Shoppingtown Dewitt. We’d buy so much we’d have to make several trips to the car to dump our bags and dive back in for more. Both malls are now dead and we do most of our shopping online or at strip centers where prices are better and you can zip in and out without having to endure walking by the screaming at the kid’s play place.

It’s still a kick to walk around the mall once in awhile, but I really don’t buy anything except maybe a snack or a drink from a vending machine. Although it is a little bit of fun when one of those obnoxious kids working at a pushcart attempts to stick a sample of “essence of tripe” under your nose, you advise them “get that away from me! It triggers my recurring flesh-eating bacteria.” It’s all in good fun.

 

 

Dupes are Wild

nflwildcardWhy do they call it the “wild card” spot in the playoffs? Doesn’t “wild card” really mean a card that can be anything? You know…deuces are wild! That means even a lowly 2 of clubs can be an ace of spades. When it comes to the playoffs for Major League Baseball and the NFL the term “wild card” refers to teams with mostly marginal records scamming a shot at actually winning the league championship by recording just enough victories to gain a spot in the tournament to fill in the bottom half of one of the brackets.  mlbwildcardNow by definition, if such teams were truly “wild cards” they could act like the wild deuce in poker and play as the first place team if they wished, gaining home field advantage and playing the worst-qualifying team in the first round. But they are not wild. They are what they are. Deuces who remain worthless twos, where every other card is better.  Indeed, “wild card” is a misguided euphemism for “crappiest team to scam a seat at the adult table.”

The NHL and NBA are much more honest about a team’s position in the playoffs. Teams are ranked by their records. Number 1 plays number 8 in the first round. In baseball, number 8 could hide its lousy record behind the “wild card” label. Actually, in baseball there are two wild card teams, giving  fans in two cities hope their under-achieving teams have a shot at the big prize.

Now, if I’m on a team that actually played well most of the season and earned a division or conference title I would be royally pissed that some lowly wild card team could get lucky and eliminate my team from contention   and win the championship, as has happened several times.

When I was a kid, it was simple in baseball. The first place teams in the American and National Leagues at the end of the regular season played each other in the World Series to determine that year’s champion. If your team ended up a half-game out after game 162, tough beans. Better luck next year. That made for some amazing pennant races and gave the regular season real meaning.

Remember the original meaning of the term. If you’re a “wild card,” it just means you have the right to pretend you’re something you’re not.

Read-tirement

Books HD

Books HD

When someone retires thoughts generally run towards travel, relocation, spending more time with the grandkids, or tackling those long-deferred “projects.”

We don’t have any grandchildren so cross off that one from the list. We like where we live and I’ve seen enough airports for a long time so travel, except for short one or two-day car trips are on the back burner. I have begun to work on some projects I’ve put off, but the thing I’ve discovered to be the most satisfying after two months on the shelf, is grabbing a comfortable seat near a window with the sun shining through, and reading a book.

Oh, I’ve always been a reader but most of my reading would be at bedtime and within ten pages I’d conk out and the book would clunk me on the noggin’. What a treat to read during waking hours! Doesn’t matter what the book is. I’ve buzzed through everything from John Sandford and David Baldacci cop capers and international intrigue, to memoirs from John Fogarty and Toni Tennille to the guilty pleasure of a James Patterson page turner, a guide to paddling in Michigan and a battered copy of a Hemingway novel.

Doesn’t matter what form the book is in as long as it’s in English. I’ll read ’em on my Kindle or an actual book. The library is a five minute drive from our house and we’re there several times a week, so there’s no excuse to ever be without a book.

When I find myself with even a five minute window of opportunity, I rush to grab whatever I’m reading at the time and slam down a page or three, rather than waste the time online or watching TV. At any one time I might have two or three books stacked up on my night stand ready for consumption. The pile is never depleted. When I’m down to one, I’m off to the library.

I honestly didn’t see this coming when I thought about retiring, so this has been a pleasant surprise. So much so, if I can put down the book I’m currently reading…I might write one myself. But meanwhile, I don’t need to relocate or travel much. I can visit all sorts of places, and with a myriad of fascinating characters, right from my Lazy Boy.

 

Dart misses target

lastddart

Personally, I wasn’t happy when they named it the Dart. We had a history. The good part was I passed my driver’s test in my brother’s ’65 Dart. The bad news is when I inherited that lemon during my senior year in college, first I got into an accident that crushed the trunk, then I decided to make a little $$ by offering a rides home and back for Thanksgiving break. The Dart would have none of it. Somewhere on Route 17 in the middle of the Catskills the Dart decided “no mas!” At least for a few hours while it took a long break on the shoulder and mocked me as I sprayed something into the carburetor that was supposed to cure what ailed it. My passengers were not amused and by the time we limped onto Long Island many hours later, they rather brusquely informed me they would find another ride back to school. The Dart appeared to have felt flush with victory at the news its mopey passengers wouldn’t be making the 300 mile return trip, and performed flawlessly on the way back.

Busted by a birther

In a small way I relate to being on the wrong end of “birther” accusations. I was born in Woodbury, New Jersey, but my family moved back to its native New York City just 6 months later, meaning I had no recollection of my brief time as an infant in the Garden State. I’ve always considered myself a New Yorker, because that’s where I was brought up. Many years later when my wife and I moved to Arizona we registered to vote. When I was asked where I was born, I instinctively said “New York City.” At which my wife, helpfully cut in to correct me by blurting out, “No you weren’t! He was born in New Jersey!” Duly busted I could only grimace and nod to the clerk who gave me the most sympathetic look as she shook her head…and made the correction.

A 24-year wait for the perfect pizza

I’ve been living in my neighborhood for 24 years and never once stopped in a little deli that sported a modest sign hawking pizza and wine. Been by the place thousands of times without stopping in but I decided today was the day to end the string. Looked up their number. Wasn’t easy. The place has no website but does have a Facebook page which is also where the menu is found. When I called to order a pizza and bread sticks the phone rang a few times and was answered by a woman with a light accent that I couldn’t quite identify. When I gave my order, she “ok, I’ll get it ready. Give me 25 minutes.” It sounded like a mom taking a request for a special dish from her kid. When I arrived an older gentleman greeted me warmly, smiled, and directed me to the pick up counter. The place was immaculate and modern with rows and rows of fine wines and a cigar humidor. The kind woman who took my order smiled when she saw me. Didn’t have to say my name. She just knew..and brought me my order. I paid the gentleman up front and told him, sheepishly, how long I’d passed his place without stopping in. He just replied, “it’s ok..you passed by for 24 years, I’ve been here for 28, so it’s not so bad.” Well…the food was awesome. Not some corporate franchise cardboard, but a tasty pie with perfect crust. The moral of the story, slow down, get to know your neighbors..and support them. They’ll appreciate it.

One HoJo’s to Go

hijoI have a couple of lasting memories of Howard Johnson’s. One, because of the shape of the scooper they used, the ice cream looked like upside down dunce caps sitting atop a sugar cone. Each scoop not only had that distinct shape, they all also seemed to always be infused with chips of ice because, I guess, of some mandated freezer setting that was totally inappropriate. 

hojocone

My other lasting memory is service that varied from slow..to glacial. A stop at a HoJo on a road trip meant you were going to show up at your destination at least an hour late.  But you didn’t really care because that orange roof, the prospect of digging your teeth into a clam roll or hot dog on one of those oddball buns and licking one of those dunce cap ice cream cones represented everything good about America. The service may have been slow, but at least it was friendly. The prices weren’t bad and moms and dads could feel confident they were treating their families to a wholesome meal and clean bathrooms.

I’m thinking about Howard Johnson’s because with the recent closing of the Bangor, Maine restaurant, there’s only one left–in Lake George, New York. That one seems to be doing well but I expect that one day the last HoJo will be NoMo.

Only those of a certain age remember time when there wasn’t a fast food joint at every exit and places like Howard Johnson’s and Stuckeys and Horne’s horneswere the oases you hoped would appear around the next bend with their tall signs stuckeysbeckoning you from the road for food, rest and yes, their restrooms. I never fell victim to a Stuckeys pecan log roll but guess what, I still have a shot. According to their website  there’s a Stuckeys near Indianapolis…that’s within a day’s drive from my home.

Just as Howard Johnson’s hangs on with one last location, one Horne’s restaurant remains in Port Royal, Virginia.

I think the last time I went to a Howard Johnson’s was back where I went to college in Oswego, New York. My then-girlfriend, who’s now been my wife of 43 years, and I, would hop over to HoJo a few blocks from campus to take advantage of their “Double Bubble” drink special, which provided giant alcoholic beverages at college student prices. Even though the college was the town’s meal ticket the waitresses always scowled at us scruffy students and served us only begrudgingly knowing we were not only scruffy, but crappy tippers. Still, for my wife and I it brings back warm memories of our courtship and we still do “double bubble” several times a week at home. I can tell you this..the service is a lot friendlier!

Still, it’s sad to see some of our cultural touchstones fade with time but business is business I suppose. However, I’d give anything to lick one more ice chip -infused dunce cap cone. Fall in Lake George sounds nice.