Put me in Coach!

As a teacher, you are sometimes called upon to do a myriad of things.  Coaching is probably the most common "extra" that a teacher performs.  Experience and expertise are sometimes less then necessary when there is high need and low availability.  When we first moved to the capital region, teaching jobs, particularly Social Studies teaching jobs were few and far between.  I was lucky enough in the fall of '94 to get a part-time job at Rensselaer High School, where I eventually became full time, and I have been there ever since.  But while I was still part time there, I received another part-time gig at Schalmont High School in Rotterdam. (For those of you who are not native to the capital region, Schalmont is an amalgamation of Schenectady, Albany and Montgomery counties...hence "Schalmont".  You are now 11% more knowledgable than you were when this posting began)

In order to make myself more marketable, I often when filling out job applications, would write in that I would be willing to coach or advise almost any extra-curricular activity that existed.  I didn't burden myself over the issue of whether I was qualified, I just figured, the more I can be of help, the better I would appear to those doing the hiring.  While some would call my claims "exaggerated", I found my proclamations of competency to be well within the bounds of common fantasy.  "Hmm, let's see.  What areas could I coach or advise?  Well, I can help out with the "Kick-line", Computer Club, after all, getting a "D" in Computer Science 101 is at least something to crow about, after-all, it meant I knew at least 60% of the material, now where are those damn punch-cards? Oh, here's one I can coach...Ballet Club, I can really rock a tutu...Desmond Tutu....snicker, snicker. snort, snort".

So, you might say I was slightly being mildly dishonest when I wrote on the application that I could coach football.  I wasn't concerned since I figured that they had a bunch of teachers lined up for that job anyway.  So, imagine my surprise when they told me I was coaching JV Football?  Now, like any passionate football fan, who had enjoyed one solid year of Modified football at good old Sylvia Packard Middle school, where I was so valuable to the team, they gave me different numbers for home and away games.   (Honestly, how was my family supposed to find me on the sidelines???) I figured I knew more than enough to coach JV Football.  Well, it's a lot more complicated than you'd think.  First of all, drawing plays with a stick in the dirt is apparently frowned upon.  Despite not really knowing anything, and answering most players questions by shrugging my shoulders, until at one point, the players just started saying to me, "You don't really know, do you coach"?  Any-who, I along with the other JV coach, did manage two .500 seasons, while the Varsity team went 1-9 both years.  You gotta have the horses I always say.   I guess I couldn't have been accused of over-coaching.  In one game, we were driving for a touchdown late, and we were down by 7.  I said to my co-coach, "coach, if we get the touchdown, don't kick the extra point for the tie, let's go for two for the win".  I was so full of bravado and pride in the way our team was surging down the field.  It was a bit of a comedown when my co-coach reminded me that he would of course go for two, seeing that we didn't have a kicker on the team. Um....if it matters, we lost by a point.

It's really not my fault I was incompetent, you only need a certificate that says you've taken and passed CPR and First Aid Training.  This is no great task believe me.  They give you that filthy dummy to breathe into and and make you compress its chest.  While I was unable to resuscitate the dummy, I did get to 2nd base. (Yeah baby!)  They didn't even teach us the Heimlich maneuver, not that I needed it, since I've now used it to save my wife's life twice.  Once when we lived in Flushing when she was choking on a pistachio, and just last Sunday while eating pizza.  You'd think after saving her life twice, I would have the world as my oyster?  "Oh honey, how's 'bout peeling Papa a couple of grapes"?  Nothing doing!

I did eventually get a full Coaching certificate, but not until I started coaching bowling at Renssleaer, which I did for several years.  The previous coach gave me some excellent advice. He said, "don't let them eat while they bowl, the grease from the pizza and nachos will make the ball slip out of their hands, and don't let them act like ass-holes.  If they act like ass-holes, they'll bowl like ass-holes".  He was kind of like the Yoda of the Keglers.  (Pick up 7-10 split..we must).   Most matches consisted of me saying meaningful things like, "nice shot"! or "don't worry, lots of wood up there", or "let's pick-up that 10 pin", or "I think these lanes are a little oily", or "I'm going to get coffee and a bag of pretzels", or "I'm going to take a leak....again" etc...  One time, one of our "captains" came up to me to tell me how much he wanted us to win, which sounded great.  He said that we had to do something, and then before I could lay a championship caliber cliche' on him like, "we need to close out the 10th frame strong"! he said, "we have to do more, we need to play defense".  I looked up from my somewhat stale pretzels and extremely strong coffee and said.."defense"?  "What do you propose we do, fling ourselves down the lane?"  At that point, he and I both laughed, and he realized we were best served if we could somehow knock down one more pin that those bastards from Catskill. (Or it might have been Chatham or Coxsackie, it really didn't matter)

At the end of the season, we would go to a huge 50 lane bowling alley for sectionals, the big end of the season bowling tournament.  Before the all-day match was to start, the lights would go off, the strobe lights would come on, and a Bob Sheppard type would get on the PA, and call the bowlers out to the middle of the lanes.  "Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a round of applause for our athletes and now, put your hand on your hearts for the playing of "God Bless the USA".  Now, call me old-fashioned, call me corny, or just call me a real red-blooded American, but I couldn't hold back the tears when I saw this unfold before my eyes. (It may have had something to do with the Jalapeno poppers I was eating.  It should be noted that my main responsibility on that day was to make sure I ordered lunch for the team for halftime.  That and watch game-film...lots and lots of game film).

Like all great coaches, I've suffered from a bit of "coaching burnout".  I've moved on to a more laid back job, the coach of the Rensselaer High School Masterminds' Team.  Masterminds is a bit like "Quiz Bowl" without the "Homo-erotica".  (I'm guessing on that last claim since I've never seen "Quiz Bowl").  Since its mostly played by nerds, I've been cleaning up on the lunch money that the "athletes" show up with.  They do get free pizza, but I don't let them eat it during the matches.  I don't want any of the answers to "slip their mind".

In Consideration of my "Fu*k-it" List

A few years ago my wife and our two boys were down in Myrtle Beach along with my wife's sister's family.  We had rented a very nice beach-house, which we had done several times before over the years while our kids were growing up.  Now that the kids were well into their teens,  we all decided that it would be fun to go para-sailing.  For most people, para-sailing has all the thrills and risk of sitting on a park swing.  Cab rides through the city offered more chills and spills then the risks involved in the average duration of an uneventful ride spent para-sailing.  In fact, other than the risk one runs from a significant wedgie, there is virtually no risk involved in  para-sailing.  But for me, para-sailing was wrought with danger.  I hate heights, I always have.  I don't like ladders, roofs, trees, or standing in platform shoes. (The latter significantly retarded my attempts to boogie in local discos in the turbulent yet devil-may-care '70s.)

Despite my issue with heights, para-sailing was definitely something I had always wanted to try.  Since everyone in both families was going to do it, I felt that this was my best opportunity.  Nobody wants to look like a weenie in front of their kids.  I almost went para-sailing on my honeymoon, but I chickened out.  This time, I was not going to be defeated by my fears. (It should be noted that my fears had accumulated quite an impressive winning streak against me that had dated back practically throughout my entire life.)  I'm not sure what convinced me that this was the time to try something  that was so foreign to my character., but a few years ago, a movie came out called "The Bucket List", which talked about older men who knew they were dying and  had a list of things that they wanted to accomplish before the end.  A lot of people started referring to their bucket list whenever they did something that they always wanted to do.   Was this my inspiration?  It got me thinking, do I have a list of things that I wish to achieve before the end?  Well, in all honesty....no.  I do however have a lot of fears, and so perhaps what I really need is a "fu*k-it" list.  A list of things I would do once I've convinced myself that it simply no longer matters.

Fear causes us to miss so much of our lives.  When I was 10 years old, my father took me to Disney World.  It was a great time and a priceless memory, but there was one small issue that gnawed at me for years.  My father, who also was afraid of heights, and most other things, loved roller-coasters.  For a guy who wasn't exactly Evil Knievel, he liked the thrill of the roller-coaster.  So he asked me and in fact begged me to go on Space Mountain with him.  The problem was, my brother Dave had been down in Disney World right before us, and told me how there were signs saying, "If you have a heart condition, you shouldn't go on this ride", and other such warnings.  That was all I needed to hear.  As much as it disappointed my Dad, nobody was dragging my chubby-ass on to that ride.

Fast-Forward many years, and I'm on my way back to Disney World, but this time with my wife.  Once again, the subject of going on Space Mountain comes up shortly before we leave while we are out with our friends.  I of course play the role I was born to play...."The Pussy", and reiterate that I'm not going on any such ride.  My good friend Scott D. from high school chimes in with a simple yet powerful message.  "Hoff", he says "you have to conquer your fears".  It's not exactly "I have a Dream", but its brilliance is in its simplicity.  I went on Space Mountain, and felt at least for one 2 and one-half minute burst, that I could face down my enemy.....me!

A "Fu*k-it" list isn't only about conquering your fears.  It's also a list of things you do because, well, your just don't give a fu*k.  I'm not there yet, but I think at some point in the next 10 years, I'm going to start doing the following:

1. Going to Burger King.  I don't go near the place because it's so bad for you.  But I love their marketing ploy. "For when you've given up trying to look human!"
2. Sandals with socks.  It's the most comfortable thing in the world, but someone in my house (ahem) won't let me out when I'm rocking that look.
3. Sitting around watching re-runs of "Wonder Woman".  Me likey Linda Carter!
4. Eating cake icing and Pie Crust.  Interestingly, I find that the only true purpose of cake is to hold icing, while pie filling is simply an impediment to the crust.
5. Growing mutton chops.  I would actually like to bring back my mullet.  However it's hard when you're speeding towards bald.  You can't have business in the front and party in the back when the front is closed for business.  The "chops" though is an unrealized dream. When I was a child, I attended day-camp at  the Mid-Island-Y or "Young man's Hebrew association", most of the counselors had big mutton chop side-burns.  I thought they  were the coolest things ever.  Oh, if I could only look like Tim "Dr. Hook" McCracken from Slap Shot.  Unfortunately, by the time I could actually grow sideburns, the "Chops" had become horribly out of fashion.  However, once you don't give a Fu*k, it no longer matters.

So, if you see a man chowing down on a double-whopper with cheese, while wearing sandals with socks, watching reruns of "Wonder Woman", and washing it down with some vanilla cake icing on oreos, pausing only to groom his mutton chops and semi-mullet, just leave him be.  He knows what he's doing.

I

Did You Ever Know that You're My Hero?

By the time I was still quite young, I was pretty certain that professional athlete was not going to be my future profession.  It might have been my lack of speed, balance, coordination, and poor eyesight...i.e. every time a ball was hit to me in the outfield, I always took a step in, and it always soared right over my head...and I didn't possess what they call in professional sports, "closing speed".  But this didn't stop me from having heroes to look up to in the world of athletics.  In light of recent events, I think I'm glad I grew up when I did.  From the time of the first professional athletes up until the mid 1970s, the public was not privy to the seamier aspects of our sports heroes.  That was probably a good thing.  A young beady-eyed kid like myself could idealize the great Tom Seaver, star pitcher for the New York Mets, and not be burdened by the idea he might...I don't know, I'll make something up that's so stupid and crazy that it could never happen.  Something like, hitting your kid repeatedly with a tree branch, or punching out your fiancee in an elevator, you know, nothing that could ever really happen.

Unfortunately, this type of anti-social behavior is not reserved for athletes alone.  Since I loved sports, but lacked the ability to excel in them,  I thought that being a sportscaster would be the next best thing.   My favorite announcer was the great Marv Albert.  Marv was literally the voice of the Knicks.  "Bradley, over to Frazier, from the top of the key....Yes!"  Marv became a superstar in the world of sportscasting.  He did the Rangers, local sports news in New York City, the NFL, the NBA, Whiffle-ball tournaments, whatever.  But then, at the height of his success, his career came grinding to a halt.  It seems that Marv had a thing for women's underwear.  Apparently he enjoyed wearing them, he also apparently liked biting women as well.  Woody Allen, another short nebbishy Jewish fellow had a thing for young asian women.  The fact that she was essentially his adopted daughter apparently did not give him pause.   Another noteworthy person whose work I looked up to, cut down to size by their inflated sense of ego and power.  One day you're learning how to lay T'Fillin, the next day you're playing "hide the salami" with your sort of adopted daughter.  It's a slippery slope.


As time has passed, we are finding out more and more about the "foibles" of past celebrities.  Bad and downright criminal activity is nothing new, it's just that we didn't know what dirt-bags our so called heroes were.  For example, silent film star Roscoe "Fatty Arbuckle saw his career ended when he allegedly raped an actress in his trailer.  He was eventually found not guilty, but millions of "Fatties" (My made up nickname for his fan club) were forever disillusioned and had to now throw their adulation to one, Norman "Chubsy ubsy" Chaney of the "Little Rascals" fame.  HIs career was also tragically cut short when he was found in his trailer with Ms. Crabtree.  (In fairness, that's a slight exaggeration, in that, I made that up)

Shameful celebrity behavior knows no age range either.  Paul "Pee-Wee Herman" Reubens was infamously caught master bating in a movie theatre in Florida, temporarily putting his career as a child entertainer on hold.   Thanks a lot, "Moral Majority"!  Not to be outdone, 80 year old comic actor, Fred Willard was caught doing the same.  In a way, we can still look up to Willard, not only for his apparent virility, but for his throw-back approach to self-pleasure.  Talk about going old school.  "Who needs the internet and the privacy of my home?  All I need is a comfy balcony chair, and an eleven dollar extra-large popcorn".

Perhaps no modern hero fell further from grace, then multi-Tour de-France winner and famed anti-cancer activist Lance Armstrong.  Armstrong's story was a study in faith, and the perseverance of the human spirit.  A man suffering from cancer of the everything, overcomes the dreaded disease and wins the Tour de-France seven times.   As if this wasn't admirable enough, he would go on to establish and successfully operate his charity, "Livestrong", which dedicated itself to raising money and awareness to fight cancer.  It was ultimately discovered that Armstrong had some help in winning his multiple titles.  Help in the form of syringes filled with "juicy-juice", that made him unbeatable.  He then lied and bullied others into lying for him so he could protect his reputation otherwise known as his "brand".   Now he has become so grossly disgraced and unpopular, that Lance Armstrong has accomplished what here-to-fore had been thought to have been considered impossible.  People have not only turned against Armstrong, they've turned against his charity.  People have actually become pro-cancer!

The bar has become so low today for judging our modern athletes and celebrities, that when we praise one of them, we often offer as proof the idea that, "you know, he's never gotten into any trouble,"  much as we do when we praise our dogs for rarely peeing inside the house.  Perhaps the problem is us?  Maybe we are looking in the wrong place for our heroes. Maybe we only need to look as far as the people who raised us.

I'm not a religious man, but ancient man did present to the world a tablet for living called the "10 Commandments".  I know this because I saw it in a great movie starring Charlton Heston called "Airport 75".  In those rules for living, one of the top 10 did include something about honoring your mother and father.  Obviously somebody thought they had a pretty important role to play in our lives.  The role of father, the guy who was supposed to be every child's hero has been reduced to a stranger who never fails to disappoint.     I can't help but wonder if all of these young superstar athletes who can't seem to refrain from beating up their wives and children were missing a strong male role model in their lives.  Adrian Peterson has five children by three different women, that's approximately 1.3 children per woman.  I know he's fast and all, but I don't think he can raise all of them at once.  Maybe he wouldn't have to disseminate discipline via the tree branch if he, oh I don't know, lived with his children?

The real tragedy here isn't that professional athletes and entertainers aren't worth looking up to, the real tragedy is that they mirror society.  Approximately 2% of all NFL players have brushes with the law, this is approximately the same percentage for the general public.  Statistically, we now live in a nation where a majority of children are born to women who aren't married.  Dan Quayle of all people criticized this back in the early '90s, and was ridiculed for pointing out the need for children to be raised by two parents.  Maybe he was smarter than we thought......nah, I prefer the theory that even a broken clock is right twice-a-day.

I teach in a district where a lot of the children come from single parent homes.  Some of them are practically raising themselves, and are dealing with issues that most of us never had to even think about in our wildest dreams when we were growing up.  However, some of the mothers and fathers who do this difficult job on their own,  raise fine and upstanding young men and women  who any of us would be proud of, and these single Moms and Dads are all the heroes anybody will ever need.

Parent of the Year!

I see a lot of posts on Facebook from people complaining about how children today are not allowed to play outside or do any of the things we were allegedly allowed to do in "our day", whatever day that was?  Parenting has changed an awful lot since the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.  So what happened?  All of a sudden, the same baby-boomers who love to reminisce about their free and easy childhoods of riding their bikes where they please, going to the store, tuning in, turning off, dropping out....whatever, have as parents, overseen the greatest puss-a-facation of our a culture's youth since the bed-wetters of Mesopotamia were routed by the Spartans in 250 BD (Before Diapers).  By the way, you may not find this story in too many history books seeing that I just made it up, but you get the idea.

A few years ago, a writer far more talented than me (Which I'm afraid doesn't narrow it down very much) coined the phrase "helicopter parent" for this generation of parents.  I believe it is an unfortunately accurate term in describing the parenting style of so many parents over the past 3 decades.  If you have children, think about how many organized activities they are involved in.  If it's more than two, ask yourself why?  We have two sons, and we are guilty as charged for over-scheduling them while they were growing up.  At some point however, it became the norm to involve your child in multiple activities, organized by very enthusiastic adults who saw one too many Vince Lombardi highlights.  I fear that children today struggle with the concept of "downtime".  Do kids know how to entertain themselves when they are not at school, an organized activity , or heaven forbid, there are no video games to play. Is there any worse torture then when the power is out, the cell-phone batteries are running low, and your kids (ages....let's say 4-18) have nothing to do????  My wife will say something radical like, "family game night"! I'm not sure what happens next, because we have to wait for the collective groaning to pass.  But kids who are over-scheduled and over-stimulated are not equipped to handle a world without electricity.  For years I considered getting a generator, and only using it so my kids could play video games. "Sorry honey, I know you need to plug the respirator into the generator in order to breathe, but little Alex is becoming increasingly....bored!!!"   "Nooooooooo"!!!!

A large degree of so-called helicopter parenting can be found in the world of education.  In the district where we live, you practically need valet parking to get a parking space on Open School Night.   You might as well be Adrian Peterson as a parent (how's that for up-to-the-minute references) if you don't show up for Open School Night.  Now, let's all be honest for a second.  Do you really care about anything regarding your child's education other than that time-honored question that every parent asks their child's teacher, "So...how's he/she doing"?  Perhaps as a teacher, I'm a little more aware of the curriculum and state regulations than the average parent.  But really, why do we need to go to this "dog and pony" show.  They are professionals after-all.  I trust that the teacher knows what they're doing.  What other profession is forced to explain to people once-a-year what they do all day.  "So Dr., tell me what you do all day"?  "Well, first I play golf, then I make my rounds for exactly one minute per patient at the hospital for a fee of 3000 per minute, then I go to the office where I make sure that no matter what time I scheduled you for, you have to wait at least another 20 minutes.  Then I proceed to lick all the little wooden sticks just to screw with people, shake up all the urine samples, and then practice using my remote starter on my BMW, it used to be a Mercedes, thanks a lot Obama care!"  By the way, we stopped going to open school night a long time ago.

This over-scheduling seems to start with the concept known as the "Play Date".  I never remember my parents scheduling my "play" as a child.  I said I'm going to "whoever's" house, and knocked on their door.  Try having your child just go and knock on somebodies door.  The other parent acts like your kid was trying to see the Mom naked.  From there it's Cub Scouts/Girl Scouts, Little League,  Religious School, Travel Hockey, Synchronized Hemp Growing, etc...Where is the down time?

The bigger question is, where is this all leading?  Well, recent studies suggest that 30 is the new 20.  That kids are taking longer and longer to launch.  Is it because we are making it too easy for them?  Whatever happened to struggling and learning from your mistakes?  Our kids must never fail...ever!  There can never be adversity in their little lives.  We make sure it all works out wonderfully, why would they ever leave?  My parents made sure that none of us were going to be lifers.  For those of you having trouble saying anything even remotely critical to your kids in fear of ruining their fragile self-esteem, here are some quick-tips from the late Seymour and Janet Hoffman school of getting your kids to move the hell out:

• The "Knock and Enter".  The move perfected by my Father  It seems he  felt it was necessary to come into our rooms whether he really had to or not, he would then proceed to  knock, but then walk in before you could even respond.  That'll get you thinking about moving out after a few of those
• "You're wearing that"?  My mother once didn't talk to me for a week when she saw that my suit had a hole in the crotch.  Her theory, which she screamed at me through her tears of shame was that when I left the house, I represented her!  
• "You need to throw some of this garbage out".  Anything other then the clothes on my back was seen as excess and should be thrown out, and every moment my stuff was taking up valuable real estate in the house was seen as a geopolitical nightmare to my parents who if they had their way would have  had a house literally filled with nothing.

I think the real culprit for all of this is Facebook.  We are all (us included) so hell-bent on putting up all of our children's accomplishments, that they are raised to think that everything they do is worthy of publicity.  They think that every one of their inane thoughts should be published on some sort of narcissistic virtual scribe, as if every little detail of their drab life is worth reading about and should be shared with strangers.  I guess we're all doomed.  Thanks for reading and next time, I'll discuss how I got my ear wax out.

How do You do This???

It's been said that the last good Jewish carpenter was Jesus.  Like most tough guys, he was a bit of a "Momma's boy", probably compensating for a "Dad" who wasn't "around", if you know what I mean.  But be that as it may, whether it's because I'm Jewish, or because I have terrible small motor skills, or simply because my father couldn't fix or build things, I can't do anything mechanical.  I mean nothing.   When I try to fix, or build or assemble something, it's always a catastrophe.   I usually damage whatever project I'm supposed to be fixing or building, as well as any surrounding parts of the house that "get in the way".  I usually end up breaking at least part of what I bought, and it never looks like it's supposed to when I've finished putting it together. "Is that a bird-feeder or a hot tub"?  Well it's neither, and it's assured not to work...whatever it was I was building?

I try not to be jealous of what other people have, be it skills, money, whatever.  But if I could have one skill, it would be to have the coordination/patience to be one of those guys who can, oh I don't know...put in a new floor, replace shingles on the roof, change the oil, put up shelves, use a chainsaw in a way that doesn't fill neighbors with a combined sense of comedy and tragedy.  In other words, I wish I was one of those handy guys.  However, I fear it shall never come to pass.  And lets face it, as I get older, I don't see it getting better.  Nobody ever says, "gee, now that I'm 70, not only do I have more patience, but my eyesight is keener, and the strength in my hands has never been more evident".

Unlike my father, my father-in-law was as handy as can be. He could build a shed, install a tub, work on his truck, kick-ass in a bar fight, you know, like a real man.  He once told me proudly, "I never started any trouble, but I finished it once it came my way".  Now that's a real man.  He would think nothing of saying, "Yeah, after breakfast I'm going to rip up the bathroom and put in a new tub".  Rip up the bathroom???  What does that even mean?  How do you rip up a bathroom?  Do you pull the floors up?  What do you walk on??  When I put up a new shower head, I strutted around the house in my denim short-shorts like the guy on the Brawny package...proud, sturdy, ass-cheeks....barely covered, etc..  I actually learned a lot from my father-in-law.  In my most manly moment, he took me out to shoot a gun for the first and only time in my life.  We went out in his pickup (of course) and he grabbed his .22 rifle, an empty can of Planters Cheese Balls, and an empty can of tuna.  He took me out to the woods of western New York, we parked the truck, and then he gave me two simple yet vital instructions.  He said, "alright, here's the gun, now there's two rules.  Don't point the gun at me, and don't point it at my truck".  It seemed like a reasonable request, so I acquiesced.  He put the tuna can up in the tree, and to my pleasant surprise, I actually hit it.  Testosterone surged through my pulsating member as I pumped my powerful weapon repeatedly, and then I...whoa, wait a second, heh heh, lost my mind there for a second, but anyway, it was fun.

I think a great deal of my shortcomings comes from very poor small motor skills.  A couple of years ago, I decided I was going to learn to play guitar, so I decided to start taking lessons.  After a few months went by, the gentleman who was giving me lessons was watching me try to form a bar chord, and he said to me, "excuse me Rob, I don't mean to be insulting, but did you suffer an injury to your hands as a child?"  Despite my best efforts, I gave up after about two years, never having successfully played a single song that sounded like...a song.

Despite my limitations, I do enjoy a good power tool.  When our kids were young, we used to go out to the woods and chop down our Christmas tree.  As a jewish person who never had a tree growing up, I brought all the expertise to the task of an aardvark doing calculus.  We brought the tree home, and despite everything I tried, I couldn't get the tree to stand up since the bottom was not straight thanks to my inability to saw it properly.  I preceded to fire up my gas powered chain saw, and in our living room, I sawed the bottom down nice and straight.  With the smell of gas and holly in the air, shards of wood in all the couch cushions, our tree, surely the finest tree in  all London (and Clifton Park) would indeed....stand up!  God bless us all......everyone.

Neutral....like Switzerland!

My father was a man of passionate opinions.  He felt very strongly about the things he felt, well, very strongly about.  There was very little room for gray in his black and white universe.  Perhaps it was because he was an accountant, and he needed all of his little columns to add up on his ledger sheets.  It could be that it was his way of making sense of the world thereby keeping his life simple.  Or, maybe, it was because he was out of his freaking mind!!  Exhibit A: My father hated the Dallas Cowboys the way fat kids at the beach hate crotch rot.  (Crotch rot, it should be noted, is the 6th leading cause of chafing)  Now, the amateur sleuth would deduce, that as a Giants fan, my father naturally hated the Cowboys, the Giants' rival and chief tormentor during most of the 1960s and '70s.  But it ran much deeper than that.  Dallas, as my father was to explain many times, killed Kennedy. "The whole city Dad"????  "Yup"!  I'm pretty sure my father believed that Tom Landry was on the Grassy Knoll.

 Exhibit "B" is even more convoluted so pay attention.  As I've already mentioned, he was a huge New York Giants fan.  But the Giants moved to dreaded New Jersey in 1976, while at the same time, the Hoffman family scored season tickets to the New York Jets.  The path forward was now clear.  The Jets were the team, and the Giants...the traitors, could go "suck it" in the swamps of East Rutherford.  Fast forward a few years, and low and behold, the Jets decide that the pastures were indeed greener in the Meadowlands.  Does my father disown his beloved Jets and swear his allegiance to the now only true New York team...the Buffalo Bills?  Uh no.  It would seem, in my father's eyes anyway, that while the Jets were now indeed playing their home games in New Jersey, it wasn't their fault, it was the Giants' fault for luring them there, as if the Giants were offering the Jets candy from a windowless van.

However, if we are to put my father's idiosyncrasies aside, I believe he was on to something.  Much like Columbus, Jefferson, and Doc Brown (the guy from Back to the Future, not the soda innovator) , my father was ahead of his time.  I believe that despite the best efforts of Switzerland and referees everywhere, no matter what the situation, it is impossible not to take sides. It is innately human to look at a situation, weigh the options, and then find yourself pulling in some manner for someone or something to emerge victorious.  Why is this so?  Why can't we look at choices and just say, yeah, either one is okay.  And of course, it's not just that we like something, we feel personally affronted if someone rejects what we like.  Have you ever told somebody you like a movie, or a restaurant, or a team, and they say something along the lines of, "ugh, that sucks".  We feel that our entire value system has been assaulted.  The things we like are an extension of who we are.  When people reject what we like, they are rejecting us.  "If you don't like "Breaking Bad", then you can't possibly like me!"

It's very hard to imagine the scenario where the possibility to take sides doesn't exist. The list is practically endless:

• Chocolate vs. Vanilla - Statistics tell us that Vanilla is much more popular, Vanilla is light and delicate, Chocolate is slovenly and sloth-like.   
• Abbott vs. Costello - Just once, we all wanted to see Costello slap Abbott, it would have been a victory for fat guys everywhere.
• Yankees vs. Mets - The Yankees  are cold and analytical, they actually expect to win games and be competitive.  The Mets are happy to have hope for the future.  For example, their upper management hasn't been taken in a Pyramid Scheme in over 4 years.  Let's go Mets!
• Democrats vs. Republicans - One has balls but no values, the other has values but no balls.  Can you guess which?
• Corn beef vs. Pastrami - They're both fatty and salty, and go great with mustard, but somehow, they are as different kishkas and kreplachs.

I can keep going.  Tigers vs. Lions....Jello vs. Pudding...Beards vs. Mustaches...Oscar vs. Felix...Firemen vs. Cops... Al Qaida vs. ISIS...James Buchanan vs. Andrew Johnson...Playboy vs. Penthouse...Juggs vs. Hustler, c'mon, I'm just scratching the surface...peas vs. carrots, bees vs. wasps, ketchup vs. mustard, sausage vs. bacon, burgers vs. hot dogs, boxers vs. briefs, and on and on. Everyone of your choices in those pairings says something about you as a person.  For instance, if I see somebody eat their hot dog with ketchup, I immediately form a negative opinion about that person.  "Look at 'em, what's he trying to prove?  He's one of those guys who thinks it's fun and care free to eat a hot dog with ketchup...oh look at me, I don't live by someone else's rules, I'm a hippee who's unconventional, who's not going to let the man tell me what to do....is what I'd be thinking".

  Everything in this world has a natural rival, and we, despite our protests and reservations can't help but get sucked in to the debates.  So, to make life simple and allow us all to get back to our exciting breakneck existence, here's how I see it:
You're either a Vanilla Ice Cream eating,  Republican, Yankee/New York Giants fan, who likes your Corn Beef while Abbot slaps Costello around, or you are a Mets/Jets fan, Chocolate Ice Cream eating Democrat who like Costello, can understand how difficult it can be to figure out just who, is on first?  And getting slapped isn't going to make it any easier for you to understand.  Now go and enjoy your Pastrami!

45 Years of Futility!

I often tell people that the story of my life can be summed up thusly.  The Jets are my favorite football team, and always have been.  They've been to one Super Bowl, which they won.  However, that win came in January of 1969 when I was 4 1/2 years old.  And sadly, I don't remember it.  I know everything about it, but I simply have no memory of the event.  My team has one piece of fleeting glory, and it predates my memory by two Super Bowls.  In fact, I've never even seen the Jets get to the Super Bowl, all whilst watching the Giants, the Jets Landlord for most of the past 30 years waltz their way into 5 Super Bowls, winning four of them.  I'm not a Giant hater, but whenever the Giants have a great year, you have to sit there and listen to all the smug Giants fans tell you what's wrong with the Jets.  "You see, what you guys need is  a Quarterback and a better defense".  Really Vince Lombardi??? Thanks for the helpful tip.

Now, rooting for a perennial loser is not without its merits.  It's a character builder.  You have to constantly keep your expectations low and always expect the worst.  Rooting for the Jets always constitutes a what if "worst comes to worst" scenario.  And when you root for the Jets, worst always comes to worst.  There are in fact plenty of people out there who root for a loser.  Cub fans have crafted that "lovable loser" tag so that if the Cubs ever win, (They haven't been to the World Series in almost 70 years) everybody will be on their bandwagon.  Red Sox fans for many years had earned that "hard-luck loser" label through decades of gut wrenchingly close calls, only to be foiled by the Yankees or Reds, or some other uber-power.  But this is all small potatoes compared to the entire city of Cleveland, which has embraced the "loser-town" label to the point that LeBron James came  back to Cleveland just so the locals wouldn't storm the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and raid the KISS exhibit.  Cleveland hasn't won anything since 1964, a great year to be sure, but that's a 50 year drought.  That's a city with a lot of character!  And let's not forget...they have to live in Cleveland!

But rooting for the Jets doesn't come with any of the aforementioned charm.  The Jets are not lovable losers, or lovable anythings.  They are arrogant and thuggy.  Their fans are drunken boars.  They are fueled by a hatred of Bill Belichick, Tom Brady, Dan Marino, Don Shula, the Giants, Joe Namath's knees, John Riggins' mohawk, the "fake spike", OJ (and that's before he became an alleged murderer), playing in the Giants' stadium,  Rich Kotite, (he of the 3-13 and 1-15 records), and on and on.  The Jets had defending Super Bowl winning coach Pete Carroll, but he was fired by Jets owner Leon Hess.  Hess said, "I'm an old man, and I want to win now".  He subsequently hired Kotite!  Yeesh.

People have often asked me why I have wasted the better part of my life rooting for the hapless, hatable Jets.  It really begs a much bigger question, why are we attracted to losers"  "I don't know, ask my wife?"  Boo Yeah.  (I couldn't resist, and besides, you pricks were already thinking it)  There have been many losers throughout history who have garnered a loyal following.  For example:

• The French army, which is on a 74 year losing streak, but don't fret, the Maginot line is almost rebuilt
• The Washington Generals, who if they played anybody but the Harlem Globetrotters, would easily have won a game or two by now.  (The Globetrotters have been able to exploit the Generals suspect interior defense by using a ladder)
• Gus Hall, American Communist Party candidate for the Presidency, who ran and lost four times.  Obama called him a "trail-blazer"
• Larry Doby, the second African-American major league baseball player who came up the year after Jackie Robinson, suffered much of the same indignities that the great Jackie Robinson did, and with the same grace Robinson did, but is almost forgotten in baseball history.  By the way, the team that Larry Doby played for?  The Cleveland Indians!

So, what would I do if the Jets ever win the Super Bowl.  I think I'd cue up "We are the Champions" by Queen, and play it over and over.  Incredibly, I would go to work the next day, probably decked out in Jets paraphernalia, and receive accolades and congratulations from my peers and students as if I threw the winning touchdown pass.  No problem, I'll be happy to take the credit.  But after that I'm not sure.  Will football lose some of it's magic for me?  After all, what is a Jets fan who isn't bitter?  Wait, wait, I know...a Giants fan!

I'm Hot......from the Knees Down.

Now that summer's over, my time spent at the gym will probably decrease.  I don't really have an excuse since I get out of work by 2:40, and it's not like I have little kids to take care of at home, it's just that when you get home from work, you're tired.  It's not easy making history interesting all day in front of semi-motivated 16 year olds, only to have to drag your sorry ass to the gym.  Plus, the idea of coming home and doing nothing is so seductive.  I also prefer working out in the morning, you get it done, you feel like you've accomplished something, and then you can do whatever you want the rest of the day knowing that at least for about 45 minutes, you were doing the right thing.

It's also important in our society of "I'm better than you" to be able to say that you go to the gym.  And, if you take a class at that gym, people start taking you even more seriously.  If you find yourself in a conversation with 4 or 5 people who workout, and you're the guy who doesn't, you might well just get in your Walmart scooter and head right for the Yodels.

As someone who didn't work out most of his life (I know, at lot of you refuse to believe that), I thought that if I ever started working out,  I would look like a complete stud.  The pounds would just melt off, and my inner Jack LaLane would be on display for all to observe and gawk at.    I could finally be one of those guys who could walk around shirtless without the snickers and horrid glares of peering eyes.  I could get into a game of "shirts vs. skins" in basketball, and not pray silently to be "shirts".  (Which by the way also sucked since you had to touch all the sweaty guys, why did we have to be divided that way, what was the big deal, just remember who's on your team!  What are we talking about 2 extra turnovers in a game of pick-up basketball, thank god for the "pinnies" in gym, at least I could wear those with grace and pride)  I am sorry to say however, that going to the gym on a regular basis did not quite workout in the way I had imagined.

As an individual of Eastern European  (Ukranian to be exact) descent, I fear that there are limitations to how much "sculpting" I can accomplish.  Descendants of Eastern European Jews have bodies built for reading the Talmud, not working out in the hot sun.  What bothers me about this is that my Grandfather (Poppy Louie, my father's father) was supposedly as strong as an ox, and would whip the Cossacks with their own whips.  So what the hell happened to me?  What, does upper-body strength skip a generation?  Even more depressing, from the waist down, I look somewhat lean, I've even been called "chicken legs" by my students when I wear shorts during regents week.  But from the waist up, I appear as one of those guys they show walking down the street with his eyes blocked out by one of those black rectangles when the news does a story on obesity in America.  Who put this mess together anyhow??

Which brings me back to the gym.  I've been going fairly regularly for about 4 years, and while I think it's helping me regarding issues such as blood pressure, blood sugar levels, and cholesterol, it's not causing me to strut around in a "wife-beater" in order that I can better show off my "guns".  Part of my problem may be that I'm too distracted by my surroundings.  I don't mean some hot young trainer that I can't take my eyes off of, I'm talking about the peculiarities that one witnesses while going through the motions on the elliptical.  For example, while I applaud all of the senior citizens who show up every day for "silver sneakers" or "geriatric gyrating" or whatever they do to stay active, there is something about the way they go about their business that makes it hard for me to focus.  Now, I'm not against the octogenarians working out,  bravo I say!  But, why do so many old men refuse to wear exercise clothes when they work out.  I'm not saying they have to wear spandex with a bright teal headband, but how about a pair of shorts and sneakers??  Many of the old men who work out at my gym wear a button down shirt, slacks and shoes!  They dress nicer than I do when I go to work.  Perhaps they figure that if they keel over, they'll already be dressed for the wake?

As for the elder-ladies, they always seem to use the treadmills on either side of me..which is fine...on the surface.  The problem occurs however when I get a whiff.  They bathe themselves in that "old lady perfume", the kind my tante's (aunt's) used to wear.  My mother would stick me in the back of our 1974 Chevy Biscayne, windows up, both of my tante's smoking, and doused in what I think was Channel #5, whilst I, am turning a whiter shade of pale.  My aunts (Sylvia and Edith) then say to my mother in their Bronx twang, "Janet, something is wrong with Robbie, he doesn't look well".  Hmm, I wonder why?  Well, since most memory is based on smell (Deja-Smell I call it), trudging along on that treadmill to the smell of old lady perfume doesn't do much for me aerobically.  But not to worry, next time, I'm bathing myself in Axe.  Your move...Gladys!