Trick or Treat for UNICEF

Few things over the course of our life mark the passage of time quite like Halloween.  When we are young children, it's all about the candy and the costume.  When we are teenagers, it's all about the mischief.  When you are in college, at least if you went to SUNY Oswego, it was all about the infamous "Bridge Street Run".  When you become a parent, it's all about taking your kids "trick or treating", and finally, when you get older, it's all about those damn kids ringing your doorbell, demanding candy, upsetting the dog, and vandalizing your house while you shake your fist furiously at them with righteous indignation.

As incredibly awesome as the concept of walking up to people's houses and having them gleefully hand you over their candy can be, the fact that you get to dress up in a costume is a mucho-bonus!  It does however give you two very challenging choices to choose from.  Do you:
A - Go with a store-bought costume that always looks better on the package then it is in reality.
B - Go with the tried but true homemade costume, that your mother tries valiantly to convince you is way better then those store bought ones.

The homemade ones were usually better, but there was always the possibility you would be labeled as too "poor" to afford the store-bought variety.  The store bought costumes usually consisted of a "body-suit" of sorts that was supposed to mimic a superhero or television character.  It was typically sold with a very cheap plastic mask that would be held to your face with what had to have been the thinest rubber band allowable by law.  The combination of sweat and drool on the mask meant that by the third house, you were usually done with the mask for the night.  This meant your costume just became about 50% lamer.  I think my parents indulged me twice as a child with the store bought costume.  I believe one year I was "Lance-a-lot Link, Secret Chimp".


  It's every bit the classic I imagined it to be.  The other costume I remember my parents purchasing for me was something called "The Bug-a-Loos".
I'm not sure I even remember what the "Bug-a-Loos" were, perhaps a poor man's "Banana Splits"?

The greatest concern that all parents lived in fear of was the old "razor-blade in the apple" trick.  It was the dread over this fiendish move that forced you to turn over all of your candy to your parents so they could inspect it like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls.  I'm quite confident that when the kitty for the night was returned to me, it was typically a little light...know what I'm sayin?

When it was Halloween at college, the costumes were pretty much all homemade since all available funds went for alcohol.  I do remember that many girls chose to dress as prostitutes on Halloween.  I don't recall it making things any easier if you know what I mean,  but nobody seemed to mind.

For those who went to SUNY Oswego, you may recall the aforementioned "Bridge Street Run". (Like Woodstock, if you remember the "Bridge Street Run", you probably didn't partake).  Bridge Street was the main drag through the thriving metropolis that is Oswego, New York.  It's not quite the Champs d'elysee, but what it lacks in high end shops and magnificent  architecture, it makes up for with a prodigious amount of bars. a couple of dozen between East 9th street and the campus.  Most looked like houses where somebody decided to hang a "Genesee" beer light in their front window, but as long as they were open, they were going to get perused by the brothers come Halloween.  

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Our goal as brothers' of Zeta Chi Zeta was to have at least one beer in all of them.  The only problem was that it was rather time consuming, and it interfered with our Community Service Projects, but those who didn't get into a fight or get arrested could arrive at the Woodshed and claim the winning "stakes". (Which was in fact another beer).

Ofcourse, once you have kids, Halloween means taking them trick or treating and getting or making them a costume, and serving as "Inspector General" of the candy.   As chief candy inspector, I immediately begin to eye-ball the ones that I wished to set aside for myself, the ones that are not always the most popular, sort of like "hidden treasures".  Maybe a "Clark Bar" or a "Pay-Day", or best of all, the "$100,000 Dollar bar".  I felt that I had earned this right, since I was usually the one who took the boys out on Halloween.   My wife preferred answering the door and seeing the kiddies in their costumes.  This was fine by me since it always meant trying to keep our dog from running out the front door and howling like a stooge every time the doorbell rings.  My wife also proceeds to keep count of how many kids say "Thank You" after we give them candy.  You would be surprised how many don't.  My wife is also in charge of Pumpkin carving, and does a great job.  Sometimes we leave the carved out Pumpkin around the house and develop fruit flies, which then like to perch themselves on your wine glass which is kind of gross.  

One thing I never see anymore is trick or treating for "UNICEF".  UNICEF is a United Nations' organization that helps with children's charity needs.  Since it is run by the U.N., most of the people involved with it ride around on black helicopters, and spend most of their time preaching about the "new world order"!  One year though, our school made us carry a box for pennies and we had to ring people's bell and say the phrase, "Trick or Treat for UNICEF".  I don't remember how many "pennies" I collected, but I do know my father was against it.  According to him,  UINCEF was an anti-semitic organization.  He also told me the same thing about the Red Cross, the Dallas Cowboys, the I.O.C, the entire southeastern part of the United States, the Baltic States, OPEC, and the Vienna Boys Choir.  (I might be a little off on that last one?)

My favorite part of the night is when I can shut off all of the outside lights that I use to keep young "toughs" from terrorizing our home with various silly string, eggs, shaving cream and toilet paper.  Then I can go to sleep, wake up the next morning, survey the damage, and wonder why for one night, it's okay in our society to act like an ass-hole?

Colonoscopy!.....is Such a Lonely Word

Wednesday, 10:15PM (EST):  I chow down on a hand full of "Bachman" Pretzel Rods.  By far the best pretzel rods on the market.  I remind myself that this will be the last solid food I eat until late Friday morning, when I awake from my Colonoscopy.  Pretzel logs seem like a weak choice, but considering I'm going to be ingesting multiple fluid ounces of bowel movement inducing chemicals, I don't want to go for anything to flavorful.  This is no time to start experimenting with "Buffalo style" anything!  There's a colon at stake here, and the good lord in all his wisdom only gave us one.

Thursday, 5:35AM (EST): I awaken for work well into my cleanse, I've already gone six hours without eating solid food,  (It probably bears mentioning that I was sleeping during this time, but a cleansing is still a cleansing)  I believe I can now empathize with Gandhi,  the father of modern fasting.  We share so much, our soul force, our discipline, our, "six-pack abs", our hatred of the British empire, we are truly united through our common suffering.
  

Thursday, 6:30AM (EST): I'm drinking coffee but without creamer.  Black coffee!  All I'm missing is a pack of cigarettes and a "wife-beater".  However, all is not well, this minor yet noteworthy change has me off of my routine.  I'm supposed to be eating breakfast now, but I'm all disheveled.  I go to make my son Alex breakfast, but because I'm off my routine, I burn his "French Toast Sticks"!  Why does everything have to be so difficult?

Thursday, 11:45AM (EST): It's lunch time and I'm eating canned, store brand chicken broth.  It looks like a tupperware full of urine, and not in a good way!  I feel lightheaded, and what's worse is that I have no "walk through the door and have a snack" (or snacks) moment when I get home to look forward to.  This is 1st world suffering at its worst!

Thursday, 4:00PM (EST): I'm home now, and I mix my chemical laxative with cold water and the lemon flavoring packet they have generously provided me with.  The bottle looks like it was designed to hold bleach. (Which is what the concoction looks like)  I put it in the fridge and tear open a container of Lemon Italian Ices.  I've never tasted anything so good in my life.   It's the closest thing to solid food I've had, or will have all day.  I'm starting to see the appeal of gruel in some parts of the world.



Thursday, 6:00PM (EST): I drink down the first of approximately 15 glasses of the "lemony" concoction.  While the texture is gooey, you can't beat the oily taste.  I can't believe how much of it there is.  How come when I have a six-pack, I sit and wonder if it will be enough, but this jug of "Clorox" seems bottomless.  The good news?  I'm not hungry anymore.

Thursday, 9:00PM (EST): I have just finished my 9th glass, and I'm done.  The taste is relentlessly bad.  I'm reminded of the worst things I've ever tasted:
1. Sambuca
2. Scotch (I've tried, I really want to like it, but like the little girl in "The Exorcist" when she was doused with holy water, "It burns"!!!
3. Black Licorice
4. Too much Mayo
5. The Jets loss to the Patriots last week...so, so bitter!

Friday 8:45AM (EST): I'm on my way to the Doctor's office.  My wife is driving and soon we see the sign, "Colonoscopy's While you Wait".   My insides are devoid of all debris.  The hardest obstacle right now is that I can't have coffee.  I'm so addicted to caffeine that I need an intervention.  Uh oh, it looks like it's time for the big event, it appears they've brought in the "A" Team:



In the words of Pete Townsend, "They could see for miles and miles".  I guess that lemon flavored "Drano" really works.

Friday, 11:30AM (EST): I'm awake and I feel as anal probes go, this one wasn't too bad.  I feel that if I was to be abducted by aliens for the purpose of that very same said style of probing, I think I could handle it, nay, perhaps even thrive in such a world!  In a related bit of good news, the nurse who is giving me my instructions advises me to try to pass gas liberally throughout the day.  A "License to Fart" if you will.  That's like giving a dog license to lick his genitalia.  Since I don't want to be one of those difficult patients, I reluctantly agree.  My poor wife, trying to figure out what the actual difference will be whether I have medical permission or not to pass gas, silently contemplates the pros and cons of separate bedrooms.   I get dressed, we leave the medical building, hop in the car, and as my wife begins to drive out of the parking lot, I implore her to drive as fast as she can, we  are on our way to the Glenville-Queen Diner.  Papa needs coffee and an Omelette!

Friday, 3PM (EST):  Back on my couch in my "happy place".  All in all, it was quite the little adventure.  It was a test that I waited 50 years to take, and yet in so many ways, it seemed like it arrived way too soon and far too frequently.  Still, it was the fastest I've ever lost five pounds, so anyone who thinks I'm full of sh_t will have to be careful not to be so careless with their facts, apparently I'm barely 2.223% full of sh_t, the rest, like my boy Gandhi is just pure "Soul Force".  By the way, if you get a chance, google "Gandhi Shirtless", it's quite an eye opener.

"Odd Job"

The teenage job is one of the true character building experiences in a young person's life.  It teaches responsibility.    More importantly it teaches you early on that you often have to choose between fun and work.  Other then death, the coldest fact we have to deal with is simply this:  If you want to have fun, then you're going to have to get up and go to work.

Before one embarks on their eventual career, there are many pitstops along the way.  Not only do these experiences provide you with a little spending money and the freedom that comes with that, it allows you to figure out which professions that you definitely wish to avoid for a career.  Case in point, my first stop on my climb to the middle, the kitchen of Necrotos.

Necrotos was a family style Italian restaurant located on Hicksville Road in North Massapequa.  I walked in, and they gave me a job as a dishwasher for 2.50 cents per hour...cash!  The only time I was asked to do any critical thinking was when the bus-boy came in with a lobster claw and said, "Don't throw it out, they want to take it home".  I proceeded to throw it out since I was like a dishwashing robot and just tossed everything out before I put the dishes into the nuclear dishwashing machine.  I quit after two weeks over creative differences.

My next stint was considerably longer.  I worked in a local old-fashioned pharmacy called, "Arlo's".  I don't know who "Arlo" was, but the job was pleasant enough and I was now being paid a whopping 3 dollars per hour....cash!  I did the usual, stocking shelves, working the cash register, hiding in the basement, cleaning up baby puke, making sure old people didn't shoplift, running out and getting dinner for the pharmacists,  running out and buying cigarettes for the pharmacists so they could smoke in the stock room, so the customers couldn't see them, so my clothes could smell like smoke, so my mother could accuse me of smoking,  and of course, going out and purchasing  porn for the pharmacists, as in , "Rob, could you go across the street to the card shop and buy me this month's copy of Penthouse," you know, the usual stuff.  When I quit, the delivery boy who was a born again Christian bought me a bible that was made for young "hipsters" like me.  It was an abridged version of both the Old and the New Testament combined together so that young people could really relate to it.  I haven't finished it yet, so don't tell me how it ends.

After returning home from college freshman year, I landed a job at a "Rock Bottom", a "CVS" type of drug store.  I was now making the legal minimum wage in 1983 of 3.35 cents per hour....cash!  It was here, where I  was yelled at on a regular basis for not working hard enough, while the other stock boys were throwing merchandise all over the stock room.  It seems breaking into the merchandise, stealing and damaging merchandise, was less important that the fact that I hadn't properly straightened out the toothpaste display.  When the store manager wasn't telling me racist and anti-semitic jokes, he would proceed to tell me that I was just a "college punk" who thought everything was a joke, but this job was how he fed his family and put a roof over their heads.  At the time I congratulated myself on my incredible self-control for not laughing in his face, but now that I've grown up and understand the pressures of providing for a family, I can honestly say that he really was a racist douche bag!

My best college job, and maybe the best job I ever had was when I drove an ice-cream truck with my good buddy Rob Greenbaum for Circus Man. Circus Man was a Long Island version of Good Humor.  In addition to the "fringe benefits" of having ice cream at my disposal, the money we made was great.  I grossed close to 4000 dollars....cash!  The hours were good, and we were our own bosses which at 20 years of age is a beautiful thing.  I did once have a kid put entire coffee can full of pennies on the windowsill of the truck, only to have it fall off,  forcing me to wait while he picked the whole thing up, this time full of rocks and grass, and say, "What can I get for this"?  It was also at Circus Man where I learned how to place my order for the daily refill of ice cream from that legendary ice cream man, Wes.  Wes knew how to order ice cream.  Toasted Almond Bars were dubbed "Toasted Ass-Holes".  Strawberry Shortcake bars were ordered as "Strawberry Short-C_cks" etc....

My last college job was not nearly as profitable.  It did however, give me a chance to participate in a politically liberal activity...canvassing for clean water.  I was walking door-to-door for the Long Island Citizen's Campaign, a non-profit group trying to protect Long Island's water supply.  Oh my god, did that suck?!  Because of my excellent timing, I quit before they fired me, apparently the people of Long Island didn't find me very convincing when it came to my description of the plight of their water supply.  I had the last laugh though, I went to work for a chemical dumping group, going door-to-door advocating the benefits of chemical waste seeping into the drinking water, for quite a lucrative sum of money I might add.

In college, I found myself doing little things here and there to make a few extra bucks.  I tutored students in history, I did videotaping for some professor for some reason that now escapes me, I swept and mopped the floor at good old McCarthy's in Oswego, I refereed intramural football....poorly, and I was a delivery boy for Dominos Pizza.  Because the pizza had to be there in 30 minutes or less, we always had to run to and from the car, although they never specified how fast we were to be running.  My favorite part was the training video which instructed us not to get out of the car if we felt we were in danger.  They showed a Domino delivery boy in his horrible orange, white and blue" uniform driving through what looked like war-torn Beirut in the 1980s having a rock hurled at his Dominos' vehicle.  Message received.  Sometimes to punish us they would make us "crew pies." Some of the other teenage drivers had wives and children, and they would try to time their visits so they could eat for free.  Ouch!

So, the next time you're in McDonalds, or Carvel, or Dunkin' Donuts, or in the grocery store, and some pimpled faced kid is moving a little slow, or is unsure what to do, or perhaps by accident messes up your order, don't scream indignities at the poor lad or lass, just call over the manager and remind them that time is money and that a monkey could do this better, faster, and cheaper.  After all, we're old, we have a right to be outraged!

Hitting the Universal Lottery!

I'm pretty confident that a lot of my friends are not fans of Bill Maher, the somewhat famous comedian and social commentator.  I say this with confidence since most of my friends are Republicans, and if you know anything about Bill Maher, you know that he's slightly to the left of Leon Trotsky.  Why my wife and I, both self-proclaimed liberals hang out with mostly Republicans is perhaps best discussed in another blog, (or perhaps not at all) but it could be because as my wife says I'm really a closet Republican. (Like most Republicans, I haven't come out of the closet yet...heh, heh, heh)  But whatever your political leanings may be, I'm convinced that most Americans would agree with the following observation Maher made in his stand-up act.    I'm sort of paraphrasing, but basically, Bill Maher stated that if you think about it, Americans who were born after 1950 hit the universal lottery.  Let's explore that, shall we?

Now for openers, it doesn't have to be America, the nations of western Europe, Japan, Australia, perhaps a hand full of others that escape me are all places where you could live a a pretty good life.  Now I know what you're thinking, "Rob, this is all highly subjective on your part, just because somebody doesn't have an I-phone or some other creature-comfort, does that mean that their life is not worth living"? Well, kind of, yeah.  Not that you need an I-Phone to be happy, but there are some things that we've developed as a civilization that makes life a lot better.  It certainly makes life a lot more comfortable.  I've never had to walk 10 miles with a basket on my head filled with water from a well during the dry season for example.  In fact, I'm perturbed that I can only water my lawn on even numbered days in the summer time.  What is this?  The U.S.S.R.?

I'm not sure what my favorite modern convenience is?  But there are definitely those that rank amongst  my favorites.    For example, is there anything better than walking into an ice cold room, the air conditioner cranked up just as high as the ozone layer will allow,  the atmosphere outside, a full-blown "HHH", better known as Hazy, Hot, and Humid, better known as every fat person's worst nightmare?  That beautiful blast of cold when you emerge from the swelter is as my mother used to say, "Delicious"!  I used to ask my father what he did before air conditioning when he found himself "shvitzing" on a brutal Bronx summer day.  He said that he and his friends would go to the movies, where for a quarter they would see a couple of cartoons, a couple of shorts (Three Stooges), a double-feature, and of course, Movie-Tone News, courtesy of John Cameron Swazye.  Oh, by the way, did I mention, it was AIR-CONDITIONED!!   It should also be noted that the very same quarter that his mother (my bubby) provided,  afforded him a snack in addition to the price of entry.  Today you have to fill out a Mortgage loan application just to get a large popcorn.  Then when it was night-time, my father and the other Bronx-ites of the 1940s would hang out on the stoop, go in, take a cold shower, lay down in bed and think "cool thoughts".

I think a lot of what we love about modern America comes back to the idea of comfort and/or freedom.  Historically, we are a much more comfortable society than we were two hundred years ago.  For example, I was watching the HBO mini-series about John Adams a few years ago, and they showed him going into his house and sitting down in his living room.  So, what would one find in the spacious living room of one of America's founding fathers? A few hard-wooden chairs and a table.  Here was a wealthy Boston lawyer, coming home to utter "sparse-ness".  No television, no radio, no computer, no fans, just a bleak empty room.  After saying hello to his wife and telling her about the day, she went off to boil turnips or wash clothes with a rock, or apply leeches to whatever illness was ailing young John Quincy,  while he sat on his chair and thought about what?  Giving Thomas Jefferson a wedgie?  And this I would remind you was during the daylight.  Once it was night, boredom took on a whole new definition.  The whole concept of having a "night-life" is a 20th century phenomena.  I think other than reading by candlelight, your options were pretty limited regarding nighttime entertainment up until the end of the 19th century.  One go-getter who didn't let a little darkness at night slow him down was the great Thomas Jefferson.  It has been estimated that Jefferson in his lifetime wrote over 20,000 letters!  If only he had television, think of all the stamps he could have saved on.

 Our modern creature comforts might seem trivial, but I believe that our victory in the Cold War can be directly traced to our superior lifestyle.  As we know, the United States and the Soviet Union never fought the cataclysmic decisive war to determine once and for all, whose system would reign supreme.  The victory for America came about as a result of a collapsed Soviet economy.  A bored populace doomed the Soviets,  Why you ask?  Back at SUNY Oswego, I took a seminar class in the history of the Russian Revolution.  My Professor, Dr. Kulakowski spent many years in the old Soviet Union.  Based on Dr. K's research, it can now be told that America won the Cold War through it's huge "snack gap".  Apparently, according to Dr. Kulakowski, not only did the U.S. have vastly superior potato chips, pretzels, and popcorn, the U.S.S.R. didn't even have Yodels, or Twinkies, or HoHo's, or Devil Dogs.  The best they could muster were "Borscht Chips". (Made with 20% real borscht.)   Apparently the only snack product that the Bolsheviks had that was even edible was their ice cream.  (Apparently, they ate ice cream in the winter to warm up because it was so cold in Moscow in January, and no I'm not making that up.  I can't believe we were afraid of those guys?)

It should be noted that modern American convenience and comfort doesn't work on everybody.  When President Bush began the bombing of Afghanistan after 9/11 he also had the United States military drop food and other helpful supplies down on the people of that war-torn country.  (Only in America do we bomb you and feed you at the same time, although there is no truth to the rumor that when we dropped the Atomic bomb on Hiroshima, we simultaneously dropped pictures of Betty Grable in her famous "pin-up" picture with a note that said, "Hello boys, once the radiation levels drop to acceptable levels, you can enjoy some good old fashioned  American "gams".


 I cant make out what the writing at the bottom says, so maybe there is truth to the rumor.

Anyway, so the news went and pursued the story to see if the various Pashtuns and Tajiks appreciated the effort by the U.S. to feed their tribesman while bombing them deeper in to the stone age.  Apparently they came upon one such mule-herder,  (I honestly don't know what he did for a living, but he had a mule with him, it really doesn't matter, he can put it on his resume' if he wants, nobody is going to check up on him I'm sure) who said that while he appreciated the sentiment, he didn't care for the food, particularly the Pop-Tarts!  Now why we would drop Pop-tarts on people is a bit of a mystery.  Perhaps the old codger was bitter that they were the unfrosted kind?  At any rate, while he said that he didn't care for them, his mule found them quite tasty.

I think the lesson here is that while we are very lucky to live at this time period in this country, there are others who aren't aware of what they could be enjoying.  Thanks to President Bush though, we are spreading American freedom and values...one Pop-tart at a time.  USA! USA! USA!

Nobody Puts Robbie in a Corner!

Well, that's not entirely true.  It's actually quite easy to get me to go into a corner...just put on some dance music and ask me to dance.  Of all the things I can't do, my inability to "shake my bootie"  ranks among the most irksome.  I really wish I could dance.  I don't mean that I have to be able to "Moonwalk" or grab my crotch or do the "Bus Stop", or the "Mashed Potato" or the "Alligator" or the "Swim".  (Could the names be any stupider..really?) But to just be able to go out there and not embarrass myself would be nice.  I no longer wish to the "that guy" who people  have to advise to go and sit down as if I was some old grandpa who gets too excited every time he hears one of FDR's old fireside chats, would be quite enjoyable.   My limitations aside however, I have to tell you, I really hate most dance music.  Particularly dance music penned since, oh let's say....1972.

Why is this on my mind?  Well, over the past several years I have had the "honor" of chaperoning the Homecoming dance where I teach.  The honor is based on the fact that I'm the High School, Student Council Advisor, and it is Student Council who is responsible for the Homecoming dance.  My main responsibility revolves around scoring a DJ.  There doesn't have to be food, and there doesn't have to be decorations, but if there's no DJ, then there's no dance.  For some reason, no matter who I get for the dance, the kids will always tell me that the DJ sucked.  I find that curious since from about 7:15, right after the dance starts, until about 10PM, when the dance ends, the majority of the kids hop onto the dance floor and never get off of it.

The music, which I assume is the same played at most high school dances, is predominantly hip/hop - I believe.  Or maybe it's "Top 40".  All I know is, what the music lacks in quality, it makes up for in its ear splitting volume.  The dance floor looks like an erotic mosh pit.   Every so often, I and the other chaperones take a stroll around the dance floor, and what we happen upon is enough to make Bob Guccione blush.  (For those of you who don't remember him, Bob Guccione was the publisher of Penthouse. a hard-hitting magazine known for its in-depth interviews, journalistic integrity, and extremely graphic pictures of girls who were too "slutty looking" for Playboy, I'm only guessing here since I only read it for the Cigarette advertisements...by the way, unlike Playboy, which used to at least try to pretend that the Centerfolds were normal everyday women whose likes and dislikes included phony people, obnoxious guys and red meat, Penthouse, didn't even pretend their girls were anything but strippers, I for one found the honesty refreshing)  Anyway, back to the dance floor.  So as we circumnavigate the crowd,  we often witness students shaking certain body parts in a vigorous fashion    Apparently, I've been informed that this is henceforward to be  known as "Twerking". (Had I known this, it would have saved me the embarrassing 911 call I made reporting an outbreak of sudden "ass-seizures" that had taken hold of the various student body).

"Twerking" reminded me of some sort of pseudo-erotic bat-signal.  In many ways I envy the lack of inhibitions.  It must be wonderful to be so free and unencumbered by society's restrictions.     On the other hand, where the hell did they think they were?  How oblivious can a person be?  Ah youth.

It's somewhat amusing that every generation hates the next generations' music, dance and fashion styles.  I'm sure going back to the time of Mozart, parents said to their kids, "You're not going to see that big-wigged radical play those wild concertos on that loud ear bleeding harpsichord while Frau Schnitizengruuben "twerks" in her corsett like some sort of Balkin Hussy".  I"m pretty sure that's exactly what they would have said.  The "Charleston" was seen as corrupting America's youth in the 1920s, a decade where women known as "flappers" put American values on its collective ears with their smoking, and drinking, and flaunting of most of their upper ankle!  The 1950s saw Bill Haley and  his Comets (who looked like a bunch of CPA's) daring our teens to have the audacity to "Rock around the clock", with literally no end in sight!

Which brings me back to the fact that I still can't dance.  A few years ago, my wife and I, and all of our friends on the block took swing dancing lessons.....for what reason I'm not sure, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  We lasted about four lessons.  It was at that point  I realized that one universal truth remains:  It is easier to make fun of something I can't do, then to try to do something that's difficult.  My dancing shoes rest comfortably next to my cross-country skis, my guitar, my power tools, racquetball racquet, and so many other "good efforts".  So in conclusion, I believe I will leave the "twerking" to the experts.  A guy could get hurt out there!

Cheese....Apples...Cows....What is Vermont!?!

Typically, when we tell people we are going away for a week or a weekend and they ask us where we are going, we usually say something like,  "Myrtle Beach", or "Las Vegas", or "New York City", or "DisneyWorld".  Vermont however, the entire state is in essence, a destination, as well as a state of mind.  No, Billy Joel will never sing her praises, and Sinatra will never belt out the sentiment that if he could make it there, well, he could most likely make it anywhere.  It will never linger on Ray Charles' mind like Georgia, and Elvis will never swivel his hips to "Viva Vermont".  (If he did, he would be wearing a checkered red and green thermal shirt and a "Cat Power" hat).  Despite its lack of presence in songs, one need only state, "We're going to Vermont", and a dozen images appear in our minds...most of them involving foliage.

Columbus Day is like Christmas, New Years Eve, and Kwanza wrapped up into one red and gold package in Vermont.  The holiday simply says "getaway", and Vermont is the ultimate autumn destination.  We are fortunate that we live in the capital region, and are less than 40 minutes from Vermont.  My wife swears that the mountains are bigger and better as soon as you cross into Vermont.  I agree.  Vermont makes you do things you wouldn't normally do.  If my wife approached me 51 weekends out of the year and said to me, "Do you want to go take a drive and maybe look at antiques".  I would answer with all of the enthusiasm of one looking forward to a colonoscopy.  But tell me that we're going to do the same thing in Vermont, and all of sudden I'm frolicking through the Vermont countryside looking for Benny Goodman '78s, and 600 varieties of scented candles.

I'm sure a lot of people see Vermont as a winter skiing wonderland.  But since I can't ski, I think  that people who think that way are stupid.  It's all about fall!  No weekend celebrates the idea of bright colored leaves, Apples, Apple Cider, Apple Cider Donuts, Hard Cider, Cider House Rules etc...more than Columbus Day.   I think Christopher Columbus would be proud that people still remember his historic voyage by embarking on leaf-peeping tours of Vermont, and crazy to hard to resist sales.  In a way, you could argue that Vermont has softened the image of Columbus.  Not unlike Muhammad Ali and Elvis, Columbus has had his reputation rise and fall and sort of rise again like few in world history.  When I was in school, Columbus was one of the three mythical gods of American history along with Washington and Lincoln.  When I was a child, we were taught that Columbus was a beacon of light in an otherwise dark and ignorant world who believed despite the cynics and doubters who made up the majority,  that in fact. the world was round instead of flat.

By the time I became a teacher in 1989, Columbus was a villain, a bringer of death to the new world who knowingly spread disease and slavery, a 15th century Hitler with a blonde "buster brown" haircut.  (It should be noted that despite the many portraits that exist of Columbus, not one of them were painted while he was alive, so for all we know he could look like "Mario" from Nintendo, he was Italian after-all)  Revisionist historians love to point out that the western hemisphere was populated with 25 million indigenous people, but in less than 100 years that number had dropped to barely over one million.  Columbus' "Q" rating took a nasty dip after this factoid began to circulate around elite halls of our learning institutions.  In fairness, many historians dispute this fact and one noted scholar, no less an authority on almost anything, the one and only Rush Limbaugh is on record* claiming that the "Injuns" were asking for it by walking around with compromised immune systems.  Limbaugh was also quick to point out that the Indians were so lame, that despite discovering and contributing the cocoa bean and the subsequent chocolate drink that emanates from it, it took the white Europeans to add sugar to the drink and therefore make it "Yummy for my tummy".
* (Editors note - Limbaugh never said this to the best of my knowledge, but in my head, it seems like something he would say.)

Vermont has been indispensable in the resurrection of Columbus' reputation.  A trip to Vermont means maple syrup, fudge, (All driving vacations include fudge on some level, visitors to our country must be perplexed that any trip in the car more than 40 minutes seems to require all Americans to stop and "Fudge up"!) cheese, Ben & Jerry's, Micro-Brewed beer, and apples.  How can a holiday that includes all of that be all bad?

Technically, Columbus is completely innocent, after-all, he thought he was in the East-Indies.  He actually thought he was invading and killing somebody totally different, so you know it wasn't personal.

Let's face it, we may hate Columbus, but none of us is turning  down the day off.  More importantly, without Columbus, the Western Hemisphere wouldn't have coffee, sugar, tomatoes, cows, sheep, pigs, horses, small pox or STD's.  All the Americas had were cocoa, potatoes,  and tobacco.  I guess you could say that tobacco has done its share of damage to the old world.  Emphysema vs. Syphilis!  Thanks a lot Columbus!

Hola'...Ebola'

Ebola is definitely some scary stuff.  It makes you bleed out all of your orifices as your organs turn to pulp.  There's not one good thing about any of this, in other words, there's no way you can spin this in a  positive way.  No one will ever utter this sentence:  "With the way the blood is oozing out of my ears, eyes and ass, I can honestly say, I have never felt better"!  People are looking to take all sorts of precautions, and after-all, who can blame them?  Panic is already starting to rear its ugly head.  One cable news station which will remain nameless  said recently that ISIL,  could be pouring over our boarders carrying ebola!  If you think about it, it's not that far-fetched.  If a suicide bomber would strap bombs to themselves and then walk into a crowded area and detonate the explosive and kill as many people as possible, why not have a suicide ebola patient?   All you'd have to do  is lick some sweat off of some poor infected bastard,  and then go into a subway train and start oozing fluids on to an unsuspecting bystanders.  Ebola-phobes everywhere, take heed, the enemy is already here!!!

Fortunately, I don't think we've reached this nightmare scenario just yet.  However, this hasn't stopped the anti-bacterial "Nazis", or "Sanazis" from forcing their moist gooey concoctions upon us.  Walk into any Elementary School in America, and there's anti-bacterial soap dispensers everywhere.  They are accompanied by big signs that say things like:

THIS IS A GERM-FREE SCHOOL.  WE PRACTICE SAFE HYGENE!  COMMUNIST GERM-CARRIERS NOT WELCOME!

There's only one problem with this logic.  Ebola is a virus not a bacteria.  A virus is a fascinating organism.  For one thing, they're not really alive.  And, if something's not really living...Can it really be killed????? (doo doo doo, doo ..doo doo doo doo)  They need a living host to latch on to, and then they invade your cells and make very bad copies.  Anti-bacterial soap kills bacteria, which are living organisms.  So all of this hand sanitizing isn't going to save anybody.

But I want to take it further than that.  I feel, and I would like to add, without a stitch of scientific evidence to back this statement up, that all of this hand sanitizing is hurting us, particularly our children.  First of all, we need certain bacterias to keep us healthy.    How do we know when we're using our sanitizing soap, that  we're not killing the good bacteria too?  Also, your body has to learn to deal with infection, if we keep killing using sanitizing soap every three seconds, then we're not teaching our immune system anything.  They are going to be as lame as our children who we attempt to solve every problem for that they encounter.

One thing I've noticed lately in the men's room is this almost ritualistic hand scrubbing that certain dudes do when they are done with their "dirty business".  Now, let's get something straight, I'm not advocating taking a "dump", wiping your ass and then, proceed over to yur kids chocolate chip cookies in order that you can start picking out the chocolate chips without washing your hands.  "Doody-hands" is a non-starter.  However, many guys after they're done urinating, will roll up their sleeves and do a deep scrub with that gross slimy bathroom soap (Mass produced in North Korea or some godforsaken place) in those grimy sinks.  "Hey, Marcus Welby MD, what are you doing, going into surgery"??  Let's be honest for a second.  All you did was touch your "member" for about 20 seconds, you didn't just troll for corn kernels in your cesspool.  The great George Carlin said in one of his books, that if your "dick" is so dirty that your have to scrub your hands after taking a leak, you may have more significant issues to address.

I feel fortunate that I'm not a germaphobe.  However, with this being said, there are certain things that gross me out.  Some truly gross everyday things in my humble opinion include:

1. Getting a bone or cartilage in your chicken salad.  There's nothing worse than a UCO (Unidentified Chewed Object) in a "salad.  An addendum to murky chicken salad is the cornucopia of veins and "unidentifiables" that one sees when they bite into a chicken leg or wing.
2. Tapioca pudding.  There's something unnerving about those little tapioca balls.  Too many small balls in my mouth doesn't give me "comfort".  In fact, I'm not sure there is a right amount of small balls that would go in my mouth that would give me comfort. 
3. Moch Bones.  For those of you who aren't jewish, it's bone marrow found in cow bones which are used for certain soup recipes.  My father would suck the marrow out of the bones with a sound that would make monks, silent for decades scream out in dismay.
4. Pubic hair in the butter tray in the refrigerator!  Why? ....How?....Why????'
5. Stepping on a wet bathroom mat.  I don't care if you're a zen-master, you can't step on one of those and not make that "Yuck-face"

So what is my best advice to those of you who fear the hard-sting of communicable disease?  Well, you've come to the right place.  I didn't just get a "D" in Zoology by "going through the motions".  I say, if your grandparents would have ate it, touched it, or crapped on it, it's probably good enough for you.  Hey, as they used to tell me mother when she was pregnant with my brothers and I, "Janet, if you're nervous about the pregnancy, have a cigarette, it'll relax you".

Take me Out to the Ballgame

My two sons Andrew and Alex are continuing a proud Hoffman tradition next Sunday, they are going to watch the Jets get their "Taints" handed to them by Peyton Manning and the Denver Broncos.  This great tradition of being inconvenienced at very high prices, only to watch "gang  green" find a way to lose, in what is most likely, the most painful way possible, was begun by my Father many years ago.  For almost 20 years, my father had season tickets to the New York Jets.  There was only one problem.  He wanted tickets to the  New York Giants.  My father like most New Yorkers was a huge Giants' fan.  For those too young to remember a time when New York City had three baseball teams and one football team, the Giants were the only game in town.  In fact, before the A.F.L began in 1960, the Giants were not only New York City's team, they were the team of Long Island, New Jersey, Connecticut, upstate New York, and all of New England.  My father, like all good Giant fans wanted season tickets, the problem was, they didn't turn over very often.

In the late 1960s my father called up the Giants' ticket office asking for season tickets.  They very politely told him that he would be put on a waiting list, and they would call him when his number came up.  They told him he was only about 10,000th on the list.  Several years went by, and he called the Giants back,  (actually, now that I think of it, it was probably my mother doing the calling since my father almost never, ever, spoke on the telephone.  Quick reacreation of every time the phone rang in our house and my mother wasn't home:  ahem ahem,  "RING", "Robbie, turnoff that God-damn "Gumby and Pokey" and answer the phone".  "Ok Dad, it's for you".  "Ok, tell whoever is to go to hell"!) So more likely, my mother would ask if in fact, we had moved up the list.  Well, the news was all good, he had, in fact moved up.  He was now no more than 9990th, so it was looking up.  Keep in mind by the early 1970s, the Giants hadn't even been to the playoffs since the early 1960s, yet their fan based seemed as zealous as ever.  At this point, my father did what a lot of Giants' fans did...he sent away for Jets' season tickets.  He was told politely that he was about 10,000th on the list, but that the Jets would be happy to contact him when his number came up.  The following year we had Jets' season tickets.  I guess many Jets' fans felt that one season was more than enough to enjoy the particular form of entertainment that the Jets provided.

At first we only had two tickets, so myself, my father, my two brothers, and my mother all  would get to go to several games.  Since I was only 11 at the time, I got to go with my father and both my brothers.  My first Jet game ever was with my brother David.  It was one of the those rainy days where it seemed like it was raining sideways.  Joe Namath, the future Hall of Fame Quarterback, good old "Broadway" Joe, proceeded to turn the ball over six times and the Jets lost to the Dolphins 43-0.  My next game was with my father and they lost to the Baltimore Colts 45-28.  The piece of resistance' however came against the Bills, this time attending with my brother Mark.  With the Jets up by six, they decided to go for it on 4th and one in Bills territory instead of going for a game clinching field goal.  They ofcourse didn't make it, and that famous alleged double murderer O.J. Simpson took a swing pass on the next play and went 70 yards for a touchdown and the Jets lost 24-23.  I wouldn't see the Jets win a game until the next season when they shut-out the expansion Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  The Bucs it should be noted didn't win a game all season, so for some "negative Nellies, it didn't call for much of a celebration.

Many times today you hear that going to football games, or really any "event" is marred by "twenty-somethings" getting exceedingly hammered, starting fights, and basically not even acknowledging that there is an event to watch.  Most of this type of element seems to think that they are part of the event and not just a spectator.  Everyone (including yours' truly) shows up in the team jersey as if the coach is going to look into the crowd and say, "You, yes you, with the D'Brickashaw Ferguson jersey, the fat guy who just turned 50, Calvin Pace just twisted his ankle and somebody has to step in, now gear up and go get 'em!"  The question is, was it always like this?  Well sort of.

In the 1970s when we first started going to games at good old Shea Stadium, the crowd was older, but probably not more sober.  For those who've forgotten what a football game at Shea Stadium was like, imagine lots of broken bathrooms, cheap yet overpriced beer, mixed with a lot of losing.  There were a ton of fights, and for some reason, a lot of rolls of toilet paper being hurled.  I believe the Jets' slogan in those days ran something like:
COME FOR THE DRUNKEN FIGHTS..STAY FOR THE DISAPPOINTMENT!

It seemed that in those days, people would come to watch a football game, and then as things went downhill, usually sometime in the 1st quarter, they'd start hitting the "sauce" pretty hard.  Today people come to get drunk, and if they're only semi-comatose, actually see parts of a football game.  My brother David who inherited the tickets when my father couldn't take it anymore says that some people go to the game in big campers, have a huge cook-out, and then watch the game on their televisions without ever going in to the stadium.  Now I know there's a word for that, and I'm pretty sure it's "stupidity"!

Maybe the Jets' management has just stopped trying.  When the Jets played at Shea, the halftime shows were real entertainment.  There was the "Punt, Pass and Kick" competition, where kids 7-12 would compete in all three categories.  There was nothing funnier than watching the crowd boo some poor 11 year old who' just shanked a punt, or get booed for having their hometown be somewhere in New Jersey.  Sometimes, and I'm not making this up, the halftime show was a guy, his dog, and a frisbee.  He would throw the frisbee way down field and the dog would chase it and ideally,  catch it.  When the dog dropped it...you guessed it, the crowd booed!  Of course most of the crowd was smushed into the bathrooms  where you could find some warmth and get a reprieve from the cold in the wide open wind swept Shea Stadium.  The problem was that there was only five urinals, and two were always broken.  You could use a stall, but they looked like they had been rejected by the porto-potty foundation after Woodstock II.

But the creme'-de-la-creme' of halftime shows took place in 1979, and you can look this up.  The Jets were playing the Patriots, and I think they lost on a missed last second field goal by the great Pat Leahy. (Who never met a clutch kick he couldn't miss)  A "performer" came out with his very large model airplanes.  He flew a couple around the stadium and the crowd, barely looking up from their hot chocolate and scotch, scarcely offering up some light applause.  Then, the Public Address Announcer took to the microphone and announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time ever, a flying lawnmower"!  The contraption flew around the stadium to more intensive applause, after-all, this was history in the making.  At first it flew around without incident.  Then it appeared to be heading straight for the far goal-posts, as if he was trying to kick a field goal. (A field goal, ironically the Jets would later need but would fail to get)  It went through the uprights (It's Goooooooood!) and landed in the Loge seats.  To say we laughed our asses off would be an understatement, we were in hysterics.  Fast forward a few seconds, and the ambulance arrived on the field.  Apparently it was far less humorous to those in the Loge seats since the now formally flying first time lawnmower hit someone in the crowd and ended up killing him.  As an aside, it should be noted that this ended the reign of the "Flying Lawnmowers", but for 2 glorious minutes, they ruled the skies.

Sadly,  my brother David gave up the seat this season.  Whether it was the outrageous ticket prices, the parking fee, the losing, the traffic going to New Jersey from Bellmore, the traffic leaving the stadium, or going home on the highway, or the losing, or the drunks and their vile racist rants, or the losing, or the 12 dollar beers, or the losing, or paying for pre-season games, or the losing, etc...

Guilty....as Charged!

Indulgence of the self is truly a wonderful thing.  There are so many things in this world that we enjoy, but somehow have been shamed into feeling guilty about.  People love to look down on us for our guilty pleasures.   In a world where we are constantly looking to get the edge on anyone, friend, family, foe, side-show freak, (whoa, sorry, so un "P.C." of me, I meant, "Carnival Attraction-American") we are often comparing our indulgences to others so we can say that we are "at least not like them".  "Look at that guy, all he eats is Tater Tots, I know I eat french fries, I'm just saying..all he EATS, is Tater Tots".

Perhaps the guiltiest pleasure we enjoy is television.  It's not the all-encompassing family shared event it once was, but it's still a place where we can mindlessly enjoy completely empty, value-less entertainment.  T.V. has always been an American wasteland.  As early as the late 1940s, social critics were groaning over the antics of Milton Berle, Professional Wrestling, and "Amos and Andy".  (Of whom, some liberal elites accused of being racist).  The guiltiest pleasure on television today has to be the reality shows.  It used to be that you needed a talent to get on television, now all you need to have is a willingness to publicly humiliate yourself while sacrificing your pride and sense of shame.

"Reality television"  can probably trace its roots back to the days of that old TV classic, "Let's Make a Deal".  On that show, contestants would dress like buffoons, and then try to trade in some crap that they had on them in exchange for what was hopefully a better prize such as a waffle iron, or a blender.  Contestants could keep trading up for what was behind "Door Number one", "Door Number Two", or "Door Number Three".  Two of the "Doors" would have a good gift like Living Room Furniture or a new Car.  One of the "Doors" would have a "Booby-Prize" such as a Donkey or 500 boxes of Rice-a-Roni. (The SanFrancisco Treat)  However, to get picked by the host (anyone, anyone, that's right...Monte Hall!!) you had to dress up in a buffoon like costume.  What would you do for new living room furniture?  Well, some Americans would dress up like a baby with a fake pig-nose.

Soap Operas are another type of guilty pleasure that people love, but don't like to hone up to.  Nobody proudly announces that they can't hang out, after all, "The Days of Our Lives" is on.  I don't get what the hang-up is over Soap Operas?  Other than the bad acting, the cheap looking sets, the implausible plot-lines, or the fact that you can leave a Soap Opera for 20 years, come back, and literally nothing has changed, they seem like a nice little diversion.

There are always those people though who claim not to watch TV.  It's their particular edge that they are seeking to impose over you.  "Television...oh goodness no, neither my kids nor I ever watch the "boob-tube".  They say it as though they believe the Nobel Committee is going to come bursting through the door like the "Kool-aid guy" and shower them with accolades.  Not only do I love television, I love watching the same show or movie I've seen dozens of time, over and over again.  My brother David and I in the late '70s relished 6-730pm on weekdays.  First on WPIX or "PIX" to us hardcore viewers, we would watch the original "Star Trek", (In Technicolor) and then we'd watch the "Odd Couple".  My father would come home, having dragged his ass off the LIRR (Long Island Railroad), tie askew, suit-coat off, walk into the den, only to see his two sloth-like "go-getters" lying like puddles of pudding on the couches engrossed in our favorite shows that we had seen literally hundreds of times.  My father would walk into the den and say as only he could, "I can't believe your watching this dreck".  (Which is yiddish for shit)  My brother and I would then try to explain the social relevance of "Star Trek", how it discussed racism and the Vietnam War.  At which point he would then look at us and give the "Bronx Cheer".

There are really countless amounts of Guilty Pleasures that we all partake in.  Looking at Gossip Magazines in the checkout line at the Supermarket is one of my favorites.  The issue I always enjoy the most is the one where they proclaim to the world who has the worst beach bodies.  My wife always feels bad for the "Cellulite Celebrities", but it just makes me feel better about myself.  In a moment of weakness, I might have put back the Yodels, but once I see that I'm actually in better shape than say, Kirstie Alley, I can rip off my shirt and start pounding poundcake.

My own particular favorite among Guilty Pleasures, is wasting "the Beautiful Day".  There is something about sunshine that seems to enliven women, but is largely lost on yours truly.  "Look at the sunshine, doesn't that sunshine feel good?, I just want to enjoy that beautiful sunshine, why aren't you out in the sunshine?  How can you be inside on such a beautiful day....with all of that sunshine"???  Okay, I get it.  The sun is out.  And it's very nice.  But you can take that sunshine, and stick it where the sun DOESN'T shine.  All a sunny day does is raise expectations.  You're expected to do something, or accomplish some goal.  What's the big deal?  There's always another nice day eventually.  There's nothing better than waking up and seeing it rain, you just know that people will be expecting very little of you.  That's my sweet spot.  Low expectations.  Right now, I'm trying to justify watching football on Sunday, when every Sunday in September so far has been 78, sunny and no humidity.  The 1-3 Jets aren't making my case any easier.

For a lot of people though, (at least men) I'm guessing that their Guiltiest Pleasure is pornography.  It's the one indulgence that's hard to talk to other people about, and yet "porn" is a multi-billion dollar industry, so somebody must be enjoying it.  I would talk more about this, but we just ordered the Spice Channel, "Shaving Ryan's Privates" isn't going to watch itself.