So I'm listening to the Mets game on the radio, and I hear a commercial for Nathan's. For those that may not know, Nathan's is a Brooklyn institution and the home of, arguably, the greatest hot dogs in America. I'm proud to claim it as part of my home city.
I'm listening to the narrator mention its storied history. 97 years old. And I'm enjoying it...until I hear about "the contest". That would be, of course, the hot dog eating contest, begun by them in the 1970's. And my mood changes on a dime from pride to disgust.
This blog isn't about the "sport" of "competitive eating." Which, of course, is especially popular in Bangladesh. It's about how some things get to be considered sports, whereas when us 50 something types were growing up, things like this would just be considered...well...gross.
But there's more. I notice that as I get older, things that have nothing whatsoever to do with athletic prowess are now considered sports. Why? Easy. Because people like me can't compete as easily in demanding sports. So the most rudimentary, mundane, everyday tasks can now be considered a sport.
Hey, ESPN has 10 sports channels. That's 1,680 hours of programming per week that has to be filled. There are only so many reruns and talking heads to go around. The rest of it has to be filled up with, well, "inventive" sports.
In all fairness, some of these newly minted sports DO require some mental toughness. Poker being one example. I love a good poker game. But let's face it. I could destroy everyone at the table and be morbidly obese. Same for fishing. Even chess. Or billiards...something else that I love.
I used to put golf in that category, but that's only because I've never played it and I imagine I wouldn't be very good at it. I do remember a couple of pretty overweight golfers but the good ones all look like they're in pretty good shape. So I'll grudgingly grant golf legitimate sports status. I still think it's boring as hell to watch. Then there's NASCAR, another sport requiring very little, if any, physically athletic prowess. Mentally, of course, it might be the most demanding sport of all.
And in the early days of Sports Illustrated, there were actually fisherman, chess wizards, and the like who made the cover.
It raises a question to me of how one defines a sport. How important is being physically fit?
I have my own personal sport. One I invented. I called it the 3 foot dash. I stand on a line with 11 other equally talented sprinters. When the starting gun goes off, I move my right leg three feet forward. As soon as my leg crosses the finish line, (and I'm almost impossible to beat at this), I get sponsor endorsements, bling, and groupies (well, not those anymore).
It's all in the timing, the rigorous training, and the Nathan's hot dogs that I consume before every event.
Anyone want to sponsor me?
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
I'd like to be...under the sea
But not necessarily in an Octopus' Garden...in the shade.
I hope I don't shock my girlfriend with what I'm about to post. But I don't want to be in ANY garden. Shade, sun, or otherwise. Technically speaking, I'm OK being IN the garden. It's actually very nice. But I don't want to WORK the garden.
For the last 4 days, my left hip has been itching like mad. I have a rash the size and color of a small piece of salmon. To accompany this rash, I also have poison ivy on at least 4 places on my body. I have no idea where I got the PI from. Maybe it's not that. Maybe it's a bunch of bugs. Or I attacked myself with a red pen while I was sleeping.
My girlfriend is fine. No problems at all. She loves gardening, and is in fact very good at it. She's been trying to show me, through words and deeds, and the occasional drill sergeant mode, how wonderful a hobby gardening is. It's relaxing. It's spiritual. It's good for the environment.
That may all be true. But it sure isn't good for me on any of those levels. To be sure, it IS good for the various blood sucking leeches that have feasted off of me. I hope they appreciate what kind of a meal I've provided for them. That rash? My guess is that they're red spiders, who I briefly encountered at some point in my gardening forays. Or they may be fire ants. Or spider ants. Or one of my deceased aunts.
Speaking of which, I had an experience yesterday at my local Walgreen's. I went to buy some cortizone stuff to relieve the itching. Found a Walgreen's brand, with an applicator. And on sale too. Perfect. I bought it, went outside the store, looked at the directions, which said to shake and then, with gentle pressure, apply to affected areas. I never understand why they say to shake. I shake all over and it doesn't do anything.
(Bad joke, I know. Still reading?)
But seriously, I shook the tube. Tried to apply it. Nothing. Shook it again. Nothing. Pressed the tube a bit harder. Nothing. Pressed it harder still. Something. The "something" is that it exploded, spilling the cortizone all over my forearm, hand, and clothing.
Now, I confess to 2 things. One is that I don't like "stuff" on me. That can be cologne, even solid things like jewelry. When it's a potentially toxic chemical, that makes it way worse. The other confession is that I have a short fuse when it comes to bad packaging. I don't know why. Maybe it's the perceived laziness or incompetence of not being able to simply package a product correctly. Healthy food makers are notorious for this. Exploding cereal. Torrents of soy milk through a mangled container. Snacks more impenetrable than Fort Knox.
Anyway, I went back into the store. Got the same product. This time I went to the pharmacist and told her my story. She tried it. Same result. And I'm thinking, "If I had just said 'no to gardening', I'd be itch-free, a few dollars richer, and in a much better state of mind." I also thought this would make a dynamite practical joke. Too bad it's not April Fools Day.
By the way, before I forget, a quick shout out to the pharmacist and store manager at Walgreen's. They were both very nice and courteous. Which is my experience with most people who work in retail. The managers only hear complaints. Rarely compliments or nice things. I make a point to tell managers when things go well and to compliment their staff when appropriate, along with any major complaints.
But back to the point: I will help in the garden if it means that much to my girlfriend. I will get muddy, itchy, smelly, break my back, even get bitten by every critter in creation. After all, she treats me better than I have any right to be treated. She watches baseball with me. Except that there's no danger in watching the Mets, other than the emotional loss of watching them lose 2 of every 3 games.
And the Mets don't itch.
I hope I don't shock my girlfriend with what I'm about to post. But I don't want to be in ANY garden. Shade, sun, or otherwise. Technically speaking, I'm OK being IN the garden. It's actually very nice. But I don't want to WORK the garden.
For the last 4 days, my left hip has been itching like mad. I have a rash the size and color of a small piece of salmon. To accompany this rash, I also have poison ivy on at least 4 places on my body. I have no idea where I got the PI from. Maybe it's not that. Maybe it's a bunch of bugs. Or I attacked myself with a red pen while I was sleeping.
My girlfriend is fine. No problems at all. She loves gardening, and is in fact very good at it. She's been trying to show me, through words and deeds, and the occasional drill sergeant mode, how wonderful a hobby gardening is. It's relaxing. It's spiritual. It's good for the environment.
That may all be true. But it sure isn't good for me on any of those levels. To be sure, it IS good for the various blood sucking leeches that have feasted off of me. I hope they appreciate what kind of a meal I've provided for them. That rash? My guess is that they're red spiders, who I briefly encountered at some point in my gardening forays. Or they may be fire ants. Or spider ants. Or one of my deceased aunts.
Speaking of which, I had an experience yesterday at my local Walgreen's. I went to buy some cortizone stuff to relieve the itching. Found a Walgreen's brand, with an applicator. And on sale too. Perfect. I bought it, went outside the store, looked at the directions, which said to shake and then, with gentle pressure, apply to affected areas. I never understand why they say to shake. I shake all over and it doesn't do anything.
(Bad joke, I know. Still reading?)
But seriously, I shook the tube. Tried to apply it. Nothing. Shook it again. Nothing. Pressed the tube a bit harder. Nothing. Pressed it harder still. Something. The "something" is that it exploded, spilling the cortizone all over my forearm, hand, and clothing.
Now, I confess to 2 things. One is that I don't like "stuff" on me. That can be cologne, even solid things like jewelry. When it's a potentially toxic chemical, that makes it way worse. The other confession is that I have a short fuse when it comes to bad packaging. I don't know why. Maybe it's the perceived laziness or incompetence of not being able to simply package a product correctly. Healthy food makers are notorious for this. Exploding cereal. Torrents of soy milk through a mangled container. Snacks more impenetrable than Fort Knox.
Anyway, I went back into the store. Got the same product. This time I went to the pharmacist and told her my story. She tried it. Same result. And I'm thinking, "If I had just said 'no to gardening', I'd be itch-free, a few dollars richer, and in a much better state of mind." I also thought this would make a dynamite practical joke. Too bad it's not April Fools Day.
By the way, before I forget, a quick shout out to the pharmacist and store manager at Walgreen's. They were both very nice and courteous. Which is my experience with most people who work in retail. The managers only hear complaints. Rarely compliments or nice things. I make a point to tell managers when things go well and to compliment their staff when appropriate, along with any major complaints.
But back to the point: I will help in the garden if it means that much to my girlfriend. I will get muddy, itchy, smelly, break my back, even get bitten by every critter in creation. After all, she treats me better than I have any right to be treated. She watches baseball with me. Except that there's no danger in watching the Mets, other than the emotional loss of watching them lose 2 of every 3 games.
And the Mets don't itch.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Ssssh to !!!!!
Reggaeton: An urban form of music that blends Jamaican musical influences of dancehall, and Trinidadian soca with those of Latin America, such as salsa, bomba, Latin hip hop, and electronica.
I'm not positive it was Reggaeton that I heard Saturday night, as my band was trying to do a show in Branford. I do know this:
1: I literally felt like someone was hitting my stomach and head with a hammer. Hard to sing or play keyboards that way.
2: It was coming from a private birthday party literally in the same venue...on the other side of the cashier.
3: I asked the DJ to turn it down, so we could at least perform for, as it turned out, quite a few people.
4: The DJ turned it down fractionally, if at all.
5: I couldn't focus on our show. Neither could my bandmates, as far as I could tell. But being troopers, we went on. We do a really neat medley of songs from Abbey Road (Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End). If you know them, you know much of it is pretty soft. We always close with it and get a nice round of applause. It's a sort of showcase for our drummer, Rob, who does the lead vocals as well as the iconic Ringo drum solo. It's rapidly becoming our signature work. Well, we did close with it, for the dozen or so people remaining. Everyone else left early because, presumably, they couldn't hear themselves think, let alone our music.
I like to think I've got a reasonably healthy attitude about our band. That is, we work very hard to put on the best show we can. I take the music very seriously. But I don't take us as a band, nor myself in particular, nearly as seriously. We're a cover band, like hundreds of others just in CT alone. We're not looking for Grammies. We don't pretend to be the Beatles reincarnated. All we want to do is put on a good show, make people happy, get them dancing, and preferably get reasonably compensated. I happen to think, objectively, that we DO put on a good show. We're a six person band (5 men, 1 woman) and we all sing, do harmonies, and play various instruments. We're probably not session quality musicians but we know what we're doing. We like each other and it generally shows when we play out. We have a small but growing following.
But Saturday night, no one could tell how we sounded. Because no one could hear us. Which raises a number of questions:
1: Who was responsible for scheduling a deafening birthday party literally 20 feet away under the same roof? Answer: The club manager. Club managers, and/or restaurant owners, frankly, aren't known for being highly ethical. Or compassionate. Or giving a rat's ass about the quality of music. They often have trouble making the connection that if you treat musicians with respect, you get better music. And...better music = more people. More people = more consumption. More consumption = more money.
2: What do we, as a band, do about this? What do I, not being the frontman, do in particular? Answer: I do nothing other than my foray to the other party. Our frontman, John, curtails our show, correctly. He then talked to the manager and explained what happened. I'm told the owner/manager was very apologetic and even upped our pay. I suspect a drove of complaints from our audience helped. He paid John via check and as I write this, based on years of experience, am nervous whether the check will clear. The owner has some investments here so probably won't vanish into thin air.
I give John high marks for handling this the right way, especially given his, and our, mood. I wouldn't have handled it as well.
3: On a wider level, did anyone care in the least that we were being drowned out? Answer: For the birthday party, no. For the owner, also...no. Until he got an earful and realized he was losing money.
I'm not very proud of myself. I like to think of myself as tolerant and not someone prone to stereotyping. But mentally, I was fighting it. ("Why can't they speak English?" "Why are they being so rude?" "Do they have any idea, or care, that they're disrupting a show?" Even a brief, "They're all like that", even though my experience is that nothing could be further from the truth. The overwhelming majority of Hispanic people I've met over the years are exactly the opposite).
The birthday party, I'm told, was not Puerto Rican. Which is where reggaeton originated and is most popular. I was told that the party was, in fact, Ecuadoran.
I wanted so much to just let it be, accept the moment and find something humorous in all of it. I could not. Some people tried to cheer me up, something that no one should ever try to do with me. I find "cheering someone up", albeit well intended, actually disrespectful. It's something I don't do with anyone else. If I'm pissed, let me work through it. Ask me questions if you like, but don't play Annie "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" with me.
On a larger level, I find myself repeatedly, as I get older, craving silence. We seem to be addicted to volume. The louder, the better, I suppose. Loud music, loud politicians, comedians, celebrities. Odd...even in college, I wasn't that way. I remember wanting to walk out of loud clubs. While everyone was into Led Zeppelin, I was into the Moody Blues. While my friends liked Procol Harum/Robin Trower, I was into Procol Harum/Gary Brooker. I was (and still am) OK with loud music on occasion as long as it's rhythmic and not assaultive.
Which leads to 2 rules I'd enact if I was POTUS or dictator. (The two are rapidly becoming the same. But that's another blog).
1: As mentioned numerous times in earlier blogs, it's time for a national STHU (Shut the Hell Up) day. We start out with 15 minutes of silence. It's not a religious thing, although if you're the type to pray, this would be a good time to do it. But all internet servers down. All TV's off. Radios, smartphones, billboards...all off. Most of all, just be quiet. Please. Tell someone you love them if you like. Other than that, please just STHU. Maybe we can eventually build to an entire day. And then make it a worldwide thing. Can you imagine? The whole world quiet for, hell, even 30 minutes? How cool (and healing) would that be? "Imagine there's no volume." I think John Lennon would approve.
2: It's time to simplify our legal system. No more labyrinth judicial systems. Felonies, misdemeanors, etc. From now on, we just have 3 levels of being an asshole. We have minor assholes, major assholes, and hopeless assholes. A jury can decide on the level. When proclaiming sentence, they can collectively say, "You're a (adjective) asshole." And the convicted can go to asshole jail. We can keep an asshole database, so if it's a first offense, it can be noted but maybe we can let the asshole walk. Because, let's face it, we've all been assholes at some point in our lives. Numerous times, most likely. So we can be allowed a few priors before imprisonment.
I begin with club owners. And then anyone who chooses to be obnoxious. Throw 'em in minor asshole jail. And crank up the reggaeton to maximum volume. Follow it with Celine Dion. That'll change anybody.
I'm not positive it was Reggaeton that I heard Saturday night, as my band was trying to do a show in Branford. I do know this:
1: I literally felt like someone was hitting my stomach and head with a hammer. Hard to sing or play keyboards that way.
2: It was coming from a private birthday party literally in the same venue...on the other side of the cashier.
3: I asked the DJ to turn it down, so we could at least perform for, as it turned out, quite a few people.
4: The DJ turned it down fractionally, if at all.
5: I couldn't focus on our show. Neither could my bandmates, as far as I could tell. But being troopers, we went on. We do a really neat medley of songs from Abbey Road (Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End). If you know them, you know much of it is pretty soft. We always close with it and get a nice round of applause. It's a sort of showcase for our drummer, Rob, who does the lead vocals as well as the iconic Ringo drum solo. It's rapidly becoming our signature work. Well, we did close with it, for the dozen or so people remaining. Everyone else left early because, presumably, they couldn't hear themselves think, let alone our music.
I like to think I've got a reasonably healthy attitude about our band. That is, we work very hard to put on the best show we can. I take the music very seriously. But I don't take us as a band, nor myself in particular, nearly as seriously. We're a cover band, like hundreds of others just in CT alone. We're not looking for Grammies. We don't pretend to be the Beatles reincarnated. All we want to do is put on a good show, make people happy, get them dancing, and preferably get reasonably compensated. I happen to think, objectively, that we DO put on a good show. We're a six person band (5 men, 1 woman) and we all sing, do harmonies, and play various instruments. We're probably not session quality musicians but we know what we're doing. We like each other and it generally shows when we play out. We have a small but growing following.
But Saturday night, no one could tell how we sounded. Because no one could hear us. Which raises a number of questions:
1: Who was responsible for scheduling a deafening birthday party literally 20 feet away under the same roof? Answer: The club manager. Club managers, and/or restaurant owners, frankly, aren't known for being highly ethical. Or compassionate. Or giving a rat's ass about the quality of music. They often have trouble making the connection that if you treat musicians with respect, you get better music. And...better music = more people. More people = more consumption. More consumption = more money.
2: What do we, as a band, do about this? What do I, not being the frontman, do in particular? Answer: I do nothing other than my foray to the other party. Our frontman, John, curtails our show, correctly. He then talked to the manager and explained what happened. I'm told the owner/manager was very apologetic and even upped our pay. I suspect a drove of complaints from our audience helped. He paid John via check and as I write this, based on years of experience, am nervous whether the check will clear. The owner has some investments here so probably won't vanish into thin air.
I give John high marks for handling this the right way, especially given his, and our, mood. I wouldn't have handled it as well.
3: On a wider level, did anyone care in the least that we were being drowned out? Answer: For the birthday party, no. For the owner, also...no. Until he got an earful and realized he was losing money.
I'm not very proud of myself. I like to think of myself as tolerant and not someone prone to stereotyping. But mentally, I was fighting it. ("Why can't they speak English?" "Why are they being so rude?" "Do they have any idea, or care, that they're disrupting a show?" Even a brief, "They're all like that", even though my experience is that nothing could be further from the truth. The overwhelming majority of Hispanic people I've met over the years are exactly the opposite).
The birthday party, I'm told, was not Puerto Rican. Which is where reggaeton originated and is most popular. I was told that the party was, in fact, Ecuadoran.
I wanted so much to just let it be, accept the moment and find something humorous in all of it. I could not. Some people tried to cheer me up, something that no one should ever try to do with me. I find "cheering someone up", albeit well intended, actually disrespectful. It's something I don't do with anyone else. If I'm pissed, let me work through it. Ask me questions if you like, but don't play Annie "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" with me.
On a larger level, I find myself repeatedly, as I get older, craving silence. We seem to be addicted to volume. The louder, the better, I suppose. Loud music, loud politicians, comedians, celebrities. Odd...even in college, I wasn't that way. I remember wanting to walk out of loud clubs. While everyone was into Led Zeppelin, I was into the Moody Blues. While my friends liked Procol Harum/Robin Trower, I was into Procol Harum/Gary Brooker. I was (and still am) OK with loud music on occasion as long as it's rhythmic and not assaultive.
Which leads to 2 rules I'd enact if I was POTUS or dictator. (The two are rapidly becoming the same. But that's another blog).
1: As mentioned numerous times in earlier blogs, it's time for a national STHU (Shut the Hell Up) day. We start out with 15 minutes of silence. It's not a religious thing, although if you're the type to pray, this would be a good time to do it. But all internet servers down. All TV's off. Radios, smartphones, billboards...all off. Most of all, just be quiet. Please. Tell someone you love them if you like. Other than that, please just STHU. Maybe we can eventually build to an entire day. And then make it a worldwide thing. Can you imagine? The whole world quiet for, hell, even 30 minutes? How cool (and healing) would that be? "Imagine there's no volume." I think John Lennon would approve.
2: It's time to simplify our legal system. No more labyrinth judicial systems. Felonies, misdemeanors, etc. From now on, we just have 3 levels of being an asshole. We have minor assholes, major assholes, and hopeless assholes. A jury can decide on the level. When proclaiming sentence, they can collectively say, "You're a (adjective) asshole." And the convicted can go to asshole jail. We can keep an asshole database, so if it's a first offense, it can be noted but maybe we can let the asshole walk. Because, let's face it, we've all been assholes at some point in our lives. Numerous times, most likely. So we can be allowed a few priors before imprisonment.
I begin with club owners. And then anyone who chooses to be obnoxious. Throw 'em in minor asshole jail. And crank up the reggaeton to maximum volume. Follow it with Celine Dion. That'll change anybody.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Sloooooow Dooooowwwwnnnn
The title refers to a classic bit from the great sitcom Taxi, back in the late 70's. I can't possibly do justice to it in a blog, but here's the link. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvn-tBeLpCk
In the top 5 for the funniest scenes in sitcom history. Might want to start at the 4 minute mark. That's where it gets good.
I only mention this because "slow down" is becoming a mantra. It can't be this easy, and I know it's not. But every time I get in trouble, it's in some way related to the world speeding up on me. Saying something stupid, not listening carefully enough, losing my temper, even being stopped by a cop, as was the case 3 weeks ago. I was going 57 in a 45 mph zone. And the cop was actually tailgating me, probably entrapping me into speeding up. I fell for it.
Should I ever be stopped again, I have a strategy, which I didn't need to use this time, as I got off with a warning. I plan on saying to the officer, "Officer, if I can tell you the funniest joke you've ever heard, will you let me go with a warning?" I actually have two in mind, one more or less about sex and the other more or less about religion. I plan on giving the officer a choice, thinking that'll be more likely to entice him.
But, back to the main subject. Seems that illegally speeding should be a signal to me to slow everything down. The thing about all this though is that it's not logical. How is it possible to do more when I slow down? Yet, it seems to be true. Add to it that I may have an anxiety disorder. Not officially, but if my mind was a car, I wouldn't be allowed on the road. I refer to this as "mental NASCAR." And I'm the Richard Petty of it.
Somehow, this ties into something spiritual. But I don't think I can write about it, as I just don't understand it. But I do know this...if I was president, I'd encourage slowing down any chance I got. This includes a subject I've blogged about before...silence. I'd suggest we have a national STHU day. (Shut the Hell Up). My real name for it is STFU day but that may be offensive to some.
When I'm racing, I'm not in the moment. I'm jumping ahead of myself, foreseeing a future that probably won't happen. And analyzing a past that's already been analyzed to death.
One really helpful Rx for this, for me, is simply breathing. I can't believe how helpful it's been for me to simply take a series of slow, deep breaths. I start at 10 and count down. But if I'm feeling really stressed, I'll start at 20.
I also can sing my way through my high-speed zones. And with the warmer weather, biking too has been tremendously helpful. But in the end, it's becoming a question of simply slowing down. Or, as the good Reverend Jim might say...
"Whaaaaaat's ................A...................Yehhhhhlllllllow..................Liiiiiiight.............Meeeeeeeeeeen?"
In the top 5 for the funniest scenes in sitcom history. Might want to start at the 4 minute mark. That's where it gets good.
I only mention this because "slow down" is becoming a mantra. It can't be this easy, and I know it's not. But every time I get in trouble, it's in some way related to the world speeding up on me. Saying something stupid, not listening carefully enough, losing my temper, even being stopped by a cop, as was the case 3 weeks ago. I was going 57 in a 45 mph zone. And the cop was actually tailgating me, probably entrapping me into speeding up. I fell for it.
Should I ever be stopped again, I have a strategy, which I didn't need to use this time, as I got off with a warning. I plan on saying to the officer, "Officer, if I can tell you the funniest joke you've ever heard, will you let me go with a warning?" I actually have two in mind, one more or less about sex and the other more or less about religion. I plan on giving the officer a choice, thinking that'll be more likely to entice him.
But, back to the main subject. Seems that illegally speeding should be a signal to me to slow everything down. The thing about all this though is that it's not logical. How is it possible to do more when I slow down? Yet, it seems to be true. Add to it that I may have an anxiety disorder. Not officially, but if my mind was a car, I wouldn't be allowed on the road. I refer to this as "mental NASCAR." And I'm the Richard Petty of it.
Somehow, this ties into something spiritual. But I don't think I can write about it, as I just don't understand it. But I do know this...if I was president, I'd encourage slowing down any chance I got. This includes a subject I've blogged about before...silence. I'd suggest we have a national STHU day. (Shut the Hell Up). My real name for it is STFU day but that may be offensive to some.
When I'm racing, I'm not in the moment. I'm jumping ahead of myself, foreseeing a future that probably won't happen. And analyzing a past that's already been analyzed to death.
One really helpful Rx for this, for me, is simply breathing. I can't believe how helpful it's been for me to simply take a series of slow, deep breaths. I start at 10 and count down. But if I'm feeling really stressed, I'll start at 20.
I also can sing my way through my high-speed zones. And with the warmer weather, biking too has been tremendously helpful. But in the end, it's becoming a question of simply slowing down. Or, as the good Reverend Jim might say...
"Whaaaaaat's ................A...................Yehhhhhlllllllow..................Liiiiiiight.............Meeeeeeeeeeen?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)