The Last Drop

Suspended in Ice - A Day on the Top of the World

2012-01-22T08:39:00.001-05:00

Suspenders. I’m standing among rocks encrusted in thick rime ice on the tallest peak in New England, the wind whips against my body, and I can see the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. Turning around I spy distant lakes (Winnipesauke and Sebago), ski mountains (Gunstock, Attitash, Wildcat and Shawnee Peak, to name a few), and ranges in Vermont and New York. The scenery is almost too much to describe. But the only word that comes to mind is “suspenders.”

There is nothing like a wind chill of minus 28 degrees on your backside to remind you to add suspenders to your birthday wish list. The wind has a habit of finding any exposed skin, and my pants, I’m realizing, need a little adjusting to account for this bitter cold that would turn any plumber’s smile into a frostbitten frown in seconds.

It’s been close to five hours since we started this day, down at the base of Mount Washington. Eight of us signed up for a Winter Day Trip with the Mount Washington Observatory, and our guide, Jeff DeRosa is pointing out the clouds over the Gulf of Maine, far off to the east. We’re next to him along the south edge of the summit - the Observatory, communication towers and buildings are behind us, and Jeff’s explaining rime ice. “It’s frozen fog – the suspended water in the clouds freeze on the first thing it comes in contact with, so what you’re standing on isn’t snow – it’s rime ice.” The rocks, buildings, wires, poles and signs are coated in a brilliant white. Rime ice looks like ivory coral, patterns of prisms, swirls and clusters blanketing everything we see. And if I don’t hike up my pants, I’ll be taking some rime ice home with me.

Jeff’s a fantastic guide. He met us earlier down at the base of the Auto Road where we rendezvoused for this Observatory-sponsored journey. The Day Trip is part of the Observatory’s mission to “Advance understanding of the natural systems that create the Earth’s weather and climate.” The first thing Jeff said to us was, “It’s cold today!” When a guy who’s spent most of his adult winters either on the summit of Mount Washington or at the South Pole (average temperature minus 100 degrees) tells you it’s cold, you better be prepared.

This group, a family trio from Maine, a pair from Vermont and a few of us from the Granite State, is covered head to toe in gear. I’m wearing six layers on my upper body, three on my legs, a neck warmer, balaclava for my head and face, a hat, glove liners and gloves, two pair of thick socks and fancy winter mountaineering boots that look like footwear for the stylish Mars explorer of the future.

We load up the huge white Snow Cat, a boxy tractor/truck that rides on thick treads, sports a massive grader/plow in the front and seats each of us in heated comfort. Our driver, Pete Roberts, steers the Cat towards the Auto Road entrance, and we head up. Mount Adams looms above to our right, its white peak stark against the brilliant blue sky.

Pete makes a few stops along the eight mile trek upward. At each stop, we marvel at the view and at the fact that the weather’s quite good for a mountain that boasts “the world’s worst weather.” Jeff tells us how today is “not typical. This is rare. We’re normally walking in clouds. We never get sunny days like this,” he says. Most of us ditch hats and gloves, but something tells me it won’t last. Twenty minutes later we pull over, the tree line a distant memory. The Auto Road snakes back and forth above us, and the wind makes me take notice. I leave the shelter of the Snow Cat, and the cold air smacks me in the face.

We arrive at the summit, and Jeff and Pete hustle us into the main entrance, off-limit to the half-dozen hikers who’re milling around out of the wind’s reach. They all walked up here today, putting their crampons and ice axes to good use. I admit feeling a little guilty as I complain about how chilly it is while walking past. One guy’s eating handfuls of gorp, his face a mixture of exhaustion, elation and determination.

We remove our outer layers and head down to the living quarters. We meet the two volunteers, Steve Moore and Pat Luddy, who’ve made us turkey vegetable soup. The warm broth is perfect. Steve’s been volunteering on the summit for more than thirteen years, and Pat, a retired doctor and hospital administrator from New Haven, tells me he looks forward to this week in the winter more than any other in the year. Volunteers arrive on a Wednesday and stay for seven nights, cooking for the Weather Observatory’s staff and visitors like us. “This week’s been amazing,” Pat says. “We’ve had every kind of weather you can imagine.” To his left I can see a screen showing the current weather outside. The wind’s around 45 mph, and the wind chill’s close to minus 30. We need to keep our voices down – one of the Observers is asleep. The Weather Center runs non-stop, all day every day, and the Observers and one intern take turns sleeping while the others record the weather and maintain the instruments.

After lunch, we add our layers and head to the Observation Tower, the highest point of the Observatory and the “center of our weather collection,” as Jeff says. We walk out onto the circular platform and feel the wind push against us. It’s my turn at the top of the tower, and I climb up a metal ladder to a small turret, the Pitot tube anemometer perched above me, collecting the wind speed. At this moment, I’m literally on top of the world, or at least on top of New England. Later, Jeff tells me that the staff has to climb out here hourly when the clouds come in to knock off the rime ice that builds up on the instruments. “The ice can grow about eight inches an hour, so we use crowbars to knock it off. It can get pretty intense.”

On the drive up, Jeff told us about the Century Club. Membership to this club requires Observatory members to walk upright and unaided the entire length of the building’s promenade in sustained winds of at least 100 mph – up and back. Considering I was teetering in wind speeds less than half that strength, I can only imagine how hard it must be to earn that merit badge.

After more than two hours outside, Jeff takes us in for a cup of coffee and a tour of the Weather Center. The Observatory’s Weather Center’s been an official part of Mount Washington for more than 80 years. We see what could be “The US Wind Gust Hall of Fame” along one wall. Plaques commemorate some of the most memorable gusts ever recorded on the planet, from the July 1996 blast of 154 mph to the December 1980wind speed of 182 mph, equal to a Category 5 Hurricane.

“Just wind, baby!” ought to be the observatory’s slogan. Wind speeds are recorded on a Hays Wind Chart, which looks like a slow-moving paper turntable mounted on the wall. Each day’s wind is recorded on a circle of graph paper, a red marker recording the wind at exact intervals. “The farther away the red gets from the center, the stronger the wind,” explains Jeff. Glancing over his shoulder at the 1980 Hall of Fame entry, I witness the jagged red lines screaming out from the center of the graph, reaching the circle’s outer ring on what must have been quite a day for kite flying.

Jeff shows us a massive topographical map on the wall, explaining why the wind’s so ferocious up here. “If you look at Mount Washington, you can see how the hills to the northwest help create a funnel, forcing the wind up the valley towards the summit.” Mount Washington’s really at the top of nature’s New England wind tunnel.

We’re keeping our voices down as Rick Giard, one of the Observatory’s weather observers, delivers a distance learning session via webcam to a classroom somewhere far away. We can hear Rick explain how temperature, wind, barometric pressure and other measures are captured hourly and shared with the world. Rick finishes the broadcast and points out that today’s highest wind was 68 mph. “It was 122 last week, and yesterday we had 95 mile an hour winds. That’s when you know about kinetic energy!” At that moment I wish I’d paid more attention in 11th grade physics class. “This is like a 6,000-foot weather balloon,” Rick says as he waves goodbye and heads out, his entire body covered to protect himself from the elements. Marty, the Observatory’s official pet cat, licks itself on a nearby table and seems unimpressed.

The sun starts to slip down towards the western horizon, and it’s time to go. Jeff herds us back towards the Snow Cat after we bundle up again. It’s a quick walk to the Cat, and the temperature’s dropping. Our ride down goes quickly. Pete keeps the rig close to the edge, and huge chunks of snow and ice tumble down the mountainside as we lumber along. We’re mostly silent as the road cuts through the trees as we head towards the base.

Pete pulls to a stop, the group disperses, and within minutes everyone’s gone. The sun’s almost set, winter’s gray gloom takes over, and finally the wind’s died down. I’m exhausted but content, knowing I had a short taste of raw winter.

Shelter from the Storm

2011-12-24T10:40:00.003-05:00

“What’s your name?” he asks me, his eyes half-closed from a long day of drinking. He extends his hand, the knuckles covered in scabs, a deep gash across the bridge of his nose, remnants of what must have been quite a scrap. We shake hands, and I join him on the bench, handing him a cup of black coffee. “I’m Erik – nice to know you,” he says as he takes a tentative sip from the mug.

Erik arrived over an hour ago with his friend Mark, who’d all but carried Erik inside, too drunk to walk on his own. Mark talked to him gently, promising him a bed to sleep things off. Erik was in no condition to argue, barely awake and struggling with every step.

Now Erik’s up, our attempt to get him to sleep failing. We’d arranged his cot in Room 6, with a few extra blankets and a pillow. But Erik’s sitting with me on the bench, drinking coffee, telling me what happened to his hands and face, no plans on falling asleep any time soon. “I got beat up real bad,” he shares, the dried blood on his nose testament to that assertion. “But my buddy Canadian Mike took care of the other guy,” Erik says. “He stomped him good for me.”

Mark tries to convince Erik to call it a night. When he’d brought his friend in, Mark did all he could to help. After getting him into his cot, Mark unlaced Erik’s worn sneakers, tucked him in and closed the door. “He’s wrapped up nice and tight – he won’t be awake until tomorrow,” Mark assures me and the other volunteers, only to chuckle as Erik emerges in the hallway, meandering towards us, declaring he needs one more cigarette before he sleeps.

Erik’s a guest tonight, joining fifteen others here in one of Concord’s two adult Cold Weather Shelters. I’ve been here for almost four hours, volunteering at the First Congregational Church on North Main Street. It’s the second week the homeless shelter’s been open to people like Erik, those who need a warm bed, a cup or two of coffee and reassurance that, at least for tonight, they won’t have to sleep outside.

The Shelter’s open every evening from early December until early spring, offering an escape from the overnight cold. Tonight’s not busy, as it’s been a pretty mild start to winter. “But later this winter, when it gets really cold, we’ll have over thirty guests here,” Terri Blake told me when I arrived. Terri’s the Shelter’s director and a whirlwind of activity when the night began. She introduced me to the four volunteers who’ll be here for the next few hours, greeting the guests, placing their cigarettes and lighters aside for later and assigning rooms where they’ll sleep.

I met Terri’s assistant, Don Belaire, who says hello in a soft voice. Don came here as a guest in 2004, working his way out of desperation into a paying job at the Shelter over the past seven years, now responsible for making sure this place runs smoothly for the many members of Concord’s homeless community. “This place saved my life,” he told me.

Mike LaFontaine is tonight’s manager, tasked with overseeing the volunteers and ensuring all goes well. Mike knows many of tonight’s guests by name, greeting them as they arrive just after six, when the doors open, making sure the right rooms are assigned, the coffee’s hot and everyone’s safe. “We have three guiding principles at the Shelter,” Mike explained during a lull in arrivals. “Safety, hospitality and respect.” I asked Mike why he volunteers here. “Satisfaction outweighs sacrifice,” he said as he left to check on a guest.

The volunteers welcomed every guest with a warm hello and a set of questions. “What’s your name? Have you had any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty-four hours? Do you have any cigarettes or lighters? Any weapons or prescription drugs?” The guests all knew the drill; some stood outside before the doors opened, guaranteeing they’d have a bed and a spot in front of the TV tonight. Over the next four hours, we helped the dozen or so men and a few women get settled. Ricky, “the King of the Streets,” made a bee line for the hospitality room while Felix asked about the bus schedule to Manchester, where a job awaits him in the morning. Abe took on one of the volunteers, Chip Rice, in a ruthless game of Cribbage, and Richard went to bed early, skipping the cot and setting up his mattress on the floor of his room.

Now, just before lights out, as the other guests sleep or watch TV, Erik’s still awake. Mark stands next to us as we sit on the bench outside Erik’s room. Erik tells us more about Canadian Mike, prompting Mark to say, “Erik, your buddy Mike just got send to jail for thirty days for contempt.” Erik looks disappointed but not surprised. They talk about their own upcoming court dates until Mark kneels down, whispering something to Erik, convincing him to head to bed.

A few minutes later, with the hall lights out and Erik asleep, Mark stands by door as the two overnight volunteers and I sit in the foyer. I ask Mark if he wants to stay tonight, but he declines, “I have a place to stay.” He lingers by the exit, telling us how he sees things. “What I did for Erik tonight, I’d do for any human being. It’s about how we all have goodness inside of us, no matter what I look like to anyone on the outside.”

Just before he leaves, Mark says softly, “God so loved the world,” and he walks off into the December night. I’m not so sure he does have a warm place to stay tonight.

I leave the church before midnight as the volunteers get ready to go to sleep. The lights are out, the TV’s turned low and the doors are locked.

Early the next morning, as I lie in my bed, my wife asleep next to me, my daughter down the hallway, stuffed animals and pillows covering her bed, I hear a blistering blast of wind outside, the walls of my bedroom shifting slightly against the gusts. The heat comes to life, the gas furnace pinging the radiators as I pull the blankets against me. I’m not sure how I feel about last night. One stint of volunteering doesn’t earn me much in the way of karma, but it does remind me. It reminds me about things I care about, those things that matter in my life, and those pieces I make important but probably shouldn’t. Guilt is not what I feel right now, as I embrace the warm security around me. I think the feeling’s closer to impatience. And maybe it’s time to find out why that is.

It's Electric!

2011-11-20T07:01:00.003-05:00

Trying to save the planet by driving a Chevy Volt is like trying to save a chicken by eating just the nuggets. So it’s a good thing I have no intention of coming to the earth’s rescue or ordering the three-bean salad – I’m here to drive an electric car.

I’m standing in the main entrance of Banks Chevrolet with Courtney Thomson, its recently-hired Marketing Coordinator. On a whim, I emailed the dealership a few days ago, and within minutes, Courtney called, inviting me to borrow a brand-new Chevy Volt for the weekend.

The Volt is the American car industry’s first major foray into the world of electric vehicles, joining the Nissan Leaf and the soon-to-come Toyota Prius Plug-In as the only widely available electric cars on the road today. The Volt isn’t purely electric, isn’t a hybrid and isn’t a traditional gas-fueled car. Where the Leaf only has a battery, and a hybrid uses gas, a battery that recharges itself and can’t be plugged in, the Volt has a 9.3 gallon fuel tank and a rechargeable, 430-pound, 300-volt battery that powers two 115 kilowatt motors, providing about 35 miles on a full charge. It’s safe to say that the Volt won’t stop global warming, but in a nation addicted to crude oil, you can’t argue with the gesture.

As I chat with Courtney, Mike Mercer arrives. Mike is Banks’ Service Manager and a self-confessed “electric car guy.” I can see in his eyes he loves the Volt. Mike takes pains to explain everything, from the Volt’s 112 mpg to its three speed options (Standard, Mountain and Sport – “The Sport mode will push you back into your seat!”), to its four-cylinder, 1.4 liter internal combustion engine to its stinger of a sticker price ($46,000 fully loaded) and the federal tax rebate (“You’ll get $7,500 back on your taxes,” Mike tells me).

My ride arrives, and it’s red, with grey and black interior, a huge “Volt” decal painted on the side. As Mike shows me the two dashboards, he reminds me to “Keep the green ball in the middle,” pointing to the meter on the screen, explaining that steady driving keeps the ball balanced in the middle as a reminder not to drive like a lunatic. “Aggressive driving will drain the battery pretty fast,” Mike tell me.

I’m still amazed that all it took was a simple email, and I’m sitting in a beautiful new car, ready to drive away for the weekend. Courtney and Mike must really trust in the kindness of strangers, or they know I won’t get far with a huge “Volt” decal in splashy writing on the side.

For the past few years, I’ve had a minor obsession with the idea of an electric car. Maybe it’s the fact that my older brother works in the industry, or that I never learned to drive a stick shift or that these cars seem like the first step towards flying cars and jet packs. Or it could be that my ‘03 Honda Accord has over 200,000 miles on it and drinks oil like pretend vegans drink soy lattes. Either way, I’ve been dying to drive one, and today’s my lucky day.

Mike gives me a few last pointers, and I’m off, zooming down Manchester Street, trying to keep the green ball in the happy zone. And as I turn on the radio, Edgar Winter sings, “Come on and take a free ride . . .” Don’t mind if I do, Edgar, don’t mind if I do.

I arrive home, giddy at the thought that I’m about to plug my car in! The battery shows only 9 miles remaining, so I get the big charger, pop open the fuel tank, and plug one end into the car and the other into the outlet in the garage. Mike told me I should see a stream of green lights on the power cord’s housing, but I only see red. I try it again but still no luck. I switch outlets in the garage, pulling our cars out on the street while I maneuver the Volt. Still nothing. I pull the Volt out of the garage and run the cord into the kitchen. I then realize the Volt has a keyless lock feature - when you’re about 20 feet away from the car with the key in your pocket, the car locks. This is swell, except if you unplug an electric car while the car is locked, the alarm sounds. I’ve now set this off four times, and I’m sure my neighbors are wondering what I’m up to.

I try another plug and another, resorting to a web search where I read about Volt owners who’ve had issues with their chargers. I even call Mike at home and ask him what to do – he tells me to come back tomorrow and they’ll swap out the chargers.

But I refuse to go quietly into the chargeless night and head to the only public electric charging stations in Concord – three silver kiosks outside the new Courtyard by Marriott on Hall Street. I drive up and notice that all three stations are blocked by non-electric cars. How dare these Luddite Neanderthals ruin my plans! I storm towards the front desk to register my complaint and then realize I’m not a hotel guest and quickly turn around and drive home. The battery is down to zero, I’m driving on gas and my first evening with the Volt lacks the spark I seek.

After a quick swap-out of the defective charger the next morning, I’m ready to roll. I’ve drained the battery and watch my overall gas mileage drop from over 200 to around 95 as the gas engine kicks in. I head to the dry cleaner and get my first comment of the weekend. “You get a new car? Looks pretty cool!” says the young woman behind the counter. I seize upon the moment to tell her all about the Volt. She loses interest when I start talking about dedicated charging lines, five-star crash ratings and the 110v versus 220v debate that rages in the electric car community. “Do you want medium or heavy starch on your shirts?” she asks. But it’s an electric car!

After a quiet morning of yard work and battery charging, I head up 93 North. With close to 15 miles on the battery, I take Mike’s advice and try the Sport mode. The car does pin my ears back and handles like a dream. Before I reach Canterbury, the battery’s drained, the engine switching seamlessly to gas.

“What’s ‘Volt’? You selling energy drinks?” a woman asks me. I begin my explanation, and she says, “Energy drinks or skis. I was wondering what you were selling,” not listening to a word I’m saying.

Later that night, a friend drives up to the house, asking, “Why is that car plugged into the garage?” And then on Sunday, as my daughter and I take the fully charged car out for a little aimless driving, I pull into the parking lot of a local ice cream stand. An older woman in matching sweatshirt and pants, balancing what appears to be an entire quart of ice cream on a cone in her hand, shakes her head in apparent disapproval. Someone else points and says something I can’t hear. I resist the urge to pull over and wax poetic on the virtues of clean cars and needing only one oil change per year, but the Lady in the ‘80’s track suit is lingering, and I don’t want a volley of Moose Tracks to spoil my day.

We arrive home, and I examine the tally on the dashboard. We started with a fully charged battery with 33 available miles. We went 28.9 miles, used no gas, burned 9.3 kilowatt hours of electricity and averaged 250 miles per gallon. If that’s not a new definition of “Sunday Driver,” I don’t know what is.

After another attempt at a public charging on Hall Street, which ended with a phone call to a service center somewhere south of Bangalore and a promise of a free charge card that’s yet to arrive, I realize there are no working charging stations anywhere near or within Concord. At least the Volt gives you a fighting chance with its gas engine. Driving a Nissan Leaf, with 100 total miles on the battery, means you best plan your driving routes or have one really long extension cord.

I’m sad to return my Volt on Monday morning. As I wait at a stop sign on the way to the dealership, a man on a bicycle passes in front of me. He wears a yellow safety bib with the words, “One Less Car” stenciled across the back as he rides in front of the Volt. I give him a knowing wave, hoping for the slightest recognition that this car could help make a difference. He never even turns to look as he churns the pedals around and around and around. “But this car is electric!” I say to myself, “This car is electric.”

2011-10-16T09:50:00.001-04:00

Does Concord bore you? Are you one of those young people we’ve been reading about who’s leaving Concord and other Granite state cities in droves, abandoning us old folks here with our rascal scooters, shuttered store fronts and memories of halcyon days of yore? Recent statistics warn that by 2025, Concord will be a city populated solely by pre-schoolers and grandparents, and there’ll be a diaper shortage to rival the Dionne Quintuplet Diaper Rationing Scare of 1934.

But I think Concord’s getting a bum rap. I’ve always wondered if there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. Armed with a modest amount of cash and a clear calendar, I set out to discover what a guy can do on a Saturday night in Concord, from dusk till dawn, taking in everything to do within the city limits. I start my journey where most journeys begin - at the movies.

Red River is Concord’s answer to big city independent movie theaters, a cinematic art house where the words, “blockbuster,” “Will Smith” and “family-sized Zagnut” aren’t used. Plush seats, adult beverages, gourmet snacks and the best popcorn in the city, Red River shows an eclectic mix of films ranging from Oscar winners (The King’s Speech, Black Swan) to brooding reflections on the human psyche (Moon, Blue Valentine) to the downright bizarre. I’m still recovering from the time I saw a subtitled animated Japanese film about a ham-eating talking fish-child named Ponyo.

Tonight’s fare is a dark comedy that takes place on the western coast of present-day Ireland. The Guard stars Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle as police officers partnering to quash a major drug deal; the film involves murder, bribery, snappy one-liners, criminal philosophers and lots of drinking. A perfect way to begin my exploration of Concord.

The movie lets out just after seven, and I head to Old Europe, one of Concord’s newer restaurants. Grabbing a seat outside on this beautiful fall evening, I watch people stroll along Main Street as the State House’s golden dome shines in the balmy night air. And then Carmine arrives, and things are about to change.

Carmine Tomas is a Concord resident and a man of many talents. He practices law in Boston, races cars on the weekends, plays the piano, cooks a mean chicken marsala and once grew a mustache for an office contest so real and so thick that he looked like Super Mario Brother incarnate. We plot our strategy over a plate of mussels and salted meats. This is the picture of civility – two grown men sharing a meal and wine at an open-air café, talking about how many bars they can visit until last call at 1 AM.

Our next destination is the Concord City Auditorium to see the Granite State Orchestra. We’re fifteen minutes late and wander upstairs to the balcony. It wasn’t our intent to sneak into the symphony, but with no one selling tickets, we just found seats and enjoyed the show.

Billed as “An Evening with Classical Overtones,” the Granite State Orchestra (aka, GSO), led by conductor Robert C. Babb, is great. I don’t know an oboe from Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice,” but I do know great live music when I hear it. Within minutes Carmine and I are transfixed by Larry Veal, tonight’s cello soloist, who’s mesmerizing the almost-full Audi with Boccherini’s Cello Concert #9 in B flat, major.

I’ve been to the Audi a few times before, here to witness my daughter and her dance pals perform syncopated donkey hop dance moves to such kid-friendly recital classics as “It’s Raining Men,” “My Humps” and “More than a Woman.” Tonight’s a nice change to that routine.

This isn’t the only highbrow event in town tonight, mind you. We could have gone to the Capital Center to catch Frederica von Stade sing opera standards, but I figured I’d be von snoring within minutes, so here we are.

The GSO ends the evening with Mozart’s Symphony #36. Conductor Babb leaves no gesture untried as his white hair bobs and weaves with his gesticulating shoulders, his hands frenetically waving up and down, his baton pointing out directions only he and his tuxedo-clad musicians understand. Who cares where the poco adagio transitions into the menuetto because it’s all a perfect cascade of string, French horns and kettle drums.

Carmine and I high-tail it out of there for what one might call the “less cultured” stops on this Concord sojourn.

Main Street and the surrounding blocks boast more than their fair share of restaurants and bars. Within walking distance of the State Capital, there are no fewer than ten drinking and victual establishments, and we plan on visiting them all in the next three hours.

We begin at the Barley House, a bar and restaurant that serves up great burgers and beers. I spy my wife’s nephew, Trevor, near the bar, who, after hearing about our quest, gives some advice. “Stay away from Tandy’s. The clientele can get a little, you know, rough,” Trevor says as he walks away smiling.

We do everything but run to Tandy’s Top Shelf, down the block from the Barley House. We pay our $5 cover and enter. The bar’s about half-full. There’s an odd energy down here, like we’re one plastic cup of watery keg beer away from an Anchorman-style brawl, complete with tritons, weighted nets and brickbats. It’s like the bar scene from Star Wars without the blue aardvark playing the space bassoon. Carmine and I keep to ourselves, wondering if eye contact will be frowned upon. A young lady approaches, a shot glass in her hand. “Hi, I’m Becky from Pretty Girl Promotions. We have one last shot of Jim Beam left – you guys wanna share it?” Going Dutch with a shot of whiskey in this place may be grounds for an instant full nelson, so I take a furtive sip and pass it along. Mouth and throat on fire, I move to the door and Carmine joins me.

Before heading towards more bars, we take a short interlude to True Brew Barista where the proprietors have invited us to a private, small gathering. Carmine and I use the secret knock, enter and share some laughs and double shots of espresso with Rob and Steph and their coterie of cohorts. This coffee should keep me going the rest of the night. I’m sure of it.

The clock’s approaching midnight, giving us about an hour remaining before the city’s last call.

We sidle up to the empty bar at Margarita’s and order. It’s always a bad sign when the bartender’s vacuuming – it lends an air of, “I need to leave and let my cat out” to the surroundings. We oblige by rushing though our drinks and heading to Penuche’s Ale House, around the corner. We barrel down the stairs into a world I’d not seen in a while. The dance floor is teeming, and the band is rocking! We grab a beer and join the fun.

The drummer sees me approach and gives me a friendly nod, perhaps thinking I’m the bass player’s dad here to drive them all home after the gig. They launch into Johnny Cash’s “Folsom County Blues,” and the patrons dance with gusto. I spot my neighbor DJ, in his knit cap, grooving with a well-dressed pride of cougars. The band reaches a fever pitch, Carmine and I do our best white man overbite moves, and DJ gives me a high five. But it’s getting late and there are other peaks to conquer. Besides, when you’re older than the cougars, it’s probably time to leave. And Carmine’s starting to get a slightly crazy look in his eyes.

It’s around 12:45, and there is no way we’ll make it everywhere on our list. We head to the Green Martini to assess the situation, and it’s here that my grand plan starts to disintegrate. I’m not sure if it was that last beer, the rapid change of venues or the fact that on most Saturday nights for the past decade, I’d be closer to a morning bowl of oatmeal than another late-night beer at this point.

I’d planned to spend the next four hours with a driver from Concord Cab, taking in the wee small hours from the passenger seat, but it’s time to leave. I beg the cabbie for a ride home, say good night to Carmine and collapse on a couch in my basement where I’ll sleep for a solid ten hours.

My Dusk to Dawn plan was a bust, but not completely. I found culture, live music, good food, a range of atmospheres - from festive to menacing - and Carmine and I learned that espresso, tequila and keg beer are not smart ingredients for rational planning. It’s not a bad idea – the “Concord after Dark” experience. I promise you’ll have a blast, and you may even be home before the sun rises. And your definition of boring just may change.

My So-Called Vegan Life

2011-08-28T07:14:00.001-04:00

Ponder a life without bacon cheeseburgers. An existence devoid of mashed potatoes, ice cream sundaes, beef jerky or tuna melts. Imagine a world where cows kept their milk, butter was a dirty word and the only things we hunted were bargains. Or a universe where the Monte Cristo was nothing more than a half a book title on a dusty shelf.

There are those among us who inhabit such a place, people who’d rather starve than snap into a Slim Jim. They’re called vegans, and they believe that any food derived from animals should never be eaten. Some are vegans for health reasons, others for ethics, and some choose this dietary journey because, well, their girlfriend suggested it (“You’re so right – meat is murder. Anyway, let’s check out my uncle’s hot tub!”).

The list of foods vegans won’t eat is long. No beef, pork, fowl, fish, reptile or insect, cooked or otherwise, may pass a vegan’s lips. And anything that comes from an animal – milk, butter, ice cream, eggs, or yogurt in any form is also forbidden. A vegan’s philosophy is simple – eat nothing with eyes or anything that came from a creature with eyes. Vegans avoid honey for the reason that bees suffer and die in its production, and hardcore vegans eschew processed sugar because it’s filtered through charcoal, often made from animal bones. I can’t speak to those who play the piano or collect scrimshaw, but I can only imagine the hassles they get at the vegan arts festivals.

But my ham salad-eating mama always told me you shouldn’t knock someone until you’ve walked a mile in his hemp and canvas sandals. I took the challenge and became a vegan, giving myself two weeks to forego eating meat, dairy and honey in all their forms.

I didn’t do much preparation other than find a paperback vegan cookbook, do some web research and brace myself for my first taste of soy milk. My wife suggested I not try to become a master vegan chef over the ensuing two weeks. So I avoided grand plans for millet and tempeh casseroles, legume-themed soups and fishless sushi party platters, sticking to the basics. I chose a few recipes, learned about what I couldn’t eat and jumped right in.

The first few days were rough. I found out black coffee is wretched, brown rice cakes are no substitute for Suzy-Q’s and salads without bacon bits, buffalo chicken strips and ladles of bleu cheese dressing are nothing more than piles of wimpy lettuce.

I scanned my pantry to discover most of what I normally ate was now verboten. Everything from wheat bread (honey) to energy bars (milk) to pesto (cheese) to eggs (eggs) was a no-no. But we vegans are creative, and between the extra fruit, unsweetened applesauce and cereal with almond “milk,” I managed.

I even tried my hand at two simple vegan recipes, the first a vegan waffle, which weighed about seven pounds and had the consistency of supple burlap, and the second a meal of soba noodles and broccoli in a soy, ginger and peanut sauce. It’s best to describe the meal as “Japanese spaghetti with peanut butter,” which sounds hideous, but when you’re subsisting on twigs and apricots, you’ll seek any safe harbor.

I ordered a black bean burger for lunch that first week and soon realized that ketchup and mustard are condiments, not miracle workers. And no amount of condiments could mask the vile bastardization of the all-American meal that black bean burger perpetrated on my palate.

Then things went horribly wrong. After a week of diligent vegan stoicism, I found myself in my kitchen, surrounded by friends and family, a dinner party in full swing. The aroma of pan-seared chicken breasts draped with prosciutto and pasta in a pancetta and ham-filled sauce assaulted my senses. I tried to stick to the cucumbers and bread but couldn’t stop myself, any shred of vegan decency cast aside as I crammed piece after piece of chicken and fancy paper-thin Italian pork into my dishonest mouth.

I then went from weak to pathetic as I arrived in New York City for business. Spending a few days in Manhattan as a vegan is like a teetotaler spending Spring Break in Cancun. All the willpower in the world faded away as my environment surrounded me. I’d like to tell you I was pure, the pinnacle of principled veganism, but after the bagel with cream cheese, the steak slathered in garlic butter, the turkey BLT with mayo, the bucket of beef brisket nachos and the three pieces of classic New York pizza, I’d only be fooling myself. Yet I dare any vegan among us who’s claimed to resist such temptation to cast the first fiddlehead.

The next morning, at home in Concord, I did my best to reclaim my vegan pride, but as I poured a dollop of non-dairy soy milk into my coffee, the swirls of pretend creaminess made a sad face in the java, its lactose-free eyes filled with disappointment.

“When does this end?” I asked myself. I began to hate potatoes, despised bananas and resented peanut butter. I think the serving of quinoa bean salad finally killed veganism for me. Quinoa (pronounced keen-wah) is a protein-laden grain from the foothills of the Andean mountains boasting all sorts of health-related benefits, none of which has anything to do with flavor. Sure, Peruvian highlanders live for centuries eating this stuff, but I’d rather die on my 63rd birthday, facedown in a suet-flavored ice cream cake than live 400 years with a belly full of keen-wah. Veganism is for the birds – at least the ones that don’t eat worms and grasshoppers.

My last day as a vegan was a mixture of remorse, anxiety and gastric distress. It started off just fine - fruit for breakfast, vegan chili for lunch, an apple and almonds for a snack. But as I arrived home after work, I began secretly wedging chunks of stale bread into a tub of cream cheese, and at the dinner table, I snuck a pad of butter while no one was watching. I was falling apart. Then, later that night, my wife asked me, “So do all vegans smell like garlic?” Once your spouse complains that your dietary life choices are adversely affecting your body odor, it’s time to return to the world of omnivores. No one ever told me to stop smelling like pork rinds.

My two-week vegan experience was a failure. I spent my days either dreaming of deli meat snacks as my hummus-filled stomach grumbled like low-rolling thunder, or I gorged myself on an anti-vegan menu in fits of delirious indiscretion, justifying my actions through a combination of deceit, rationalization and head fakes. It’s no way to live – this vegan life. I’ve leave the tofu and berries to them. Besides, that means more cheeseburgers for the rest of us.

Vanity on the Go

2011-07-31T12:40:00.001-04:00

Spend more than a few minutes on the roads of New Hampshire, and you’ll see them. They’re impossible to miss. Roll up to GOCARGO at the Bedford tolls, cruise onto Concord’s Main Street behind OOLALA or find a parking spot near the Weirs between SYCO, GOLIATH and GUIDO. Granite state drivers love their vanity license plates – in fact, we boast the second-highest vanity plate rate in the entire US, behind only Virginia (they have us beat, 16% to 14%). Over 170,000 fellow residents wear their hearts, minds, ids and egos on their cars, plunking down $40 a year for the privilege to let their freak flags fly.

It doesn’t stop with license plates. From hardcore conservatives (“Annoy a liberal – work hard and be happy”) to high-strung Democrats (“The road to hell is paved by Republicans”), from ardent believers (“Are you following Jesus this close?”) to impish atheists (“What would Scooby Do?”), and from supportive Red Sox fans (“Yooouk”) to dismissive Red Sox fans (“Yankees Suck!”), we also have our fair share of bumper sticker philosophers, including the clever and/or disturbing non-cat crowd (“I love cats – they taste just like chicken”).

I was never a fan of the bumper sticker, seeing one too many Trekkie slogans in my youth (“Beam me up Scottie. No sign of intelligent life here”), but moving to Concord changed all that. About five years ago, I put a sticker on my rear bumper. It’s the picture of a cowbell, because everyone knows we all could use a little more cowbell in our lives.

While a camp counselor of the shores of Winnipesaukee in the 1980’s, I watched my friend Lee, a Philadelphia native, take this idea to extremes. In the summer of 1985, Lee decorated his late-model white Datsun hatchback with enormous Flyers logos on the doors and hood, taking pains to paint the black wings and orange puck in perfect symmetry. Whenever Lee was feeling blue, he’d drive into South Philly nice and slow, taking in the cheers and hollers of support from his fellow Flyer fans, letting their near-Neanderthal praise wash over him like a warm, welcoming caveman hug. Even though he didn’t live here year-round, Lee embraced New Hampshire’s love of auto expression.

It can’t be easy to capture your life’s philosophy in fewer than eight characters. Seven letters to define your motto, your creed, your raison d’être? It’s a little intimidating. I’ve puzzled over the meaning of the plates I’ve seen. Is INKMAN a toner salesman, squingilli fan or tattoo artist? DOORS? Is that the Morrison, Huxley or Andersen type? GOAWAY? Travel agent or misanthrope? The possibilities are endless.

How about BELEIVE (in the power of spell check)? Or BRATBUS (harried mom, displaced Wisconsin sausage lover – or both!). Or SHREDIT – is she a corporate information security officer or a minivan-driving skate rat? Let’s not forget FREELP – either that guy never skips a record store vinyl giveaway event or he’s a huge supporter of Native American rights.

Many drivers choose the family angle, like 4RKIDS, CUZNJO, and the rather presumptuous BSTNANA while others go the straight fan route. CATZRUL, JC4EVER, O2BNAJP (Wrangler driver), JETS-FN, COWBOYS, USARULZ, SEWN2IT and COBAIN are a mere sampling of the thousands of citizens who want us to know what they love. We also have the downright creative, like N8DAGR8 (he gets my vote), 4CHIN8 and 59&HLDN competing with lovers of simplicity, like SVEN, GOLD, MAD, MILK, POKEMON and JIMMY (he’s the only one, apparently).

So as my birthday month rolled around, I contemplated choosing my own plate. One friend warned me I was nuts to get less-than-anonymous tags. “What if you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be?” I’d be taking a risk, but I don’t spend my free time frequenting rooster fighting dens, graffiti supply stores and lawn dart emporiums, so I decided to do it.

As I struggled with ideas, I asked my 11-year old daughter. She had a few super suggestions, like FUNGUY, FOXYPOP, NO1DAD and TOPDAD but soon veered off into questionable territory with such gems as DORKDAD, SHORTY, TUBBY, FARTZ and CRYBABY. Give that girl seven characters and she reduce anyone to tears. Undeterred I spent time on the state’s motor vehicle website, entering combination after combination, trying to land on the right seven characters that might sum me up.

This wasn’t easy. I carry a burden from my childhood that’s been hard to shake. I grew up with a Civil War fanatic as a dad who put a vanity plate on our maroon Chevy Malibu station wagon when no one else we knew ever did such a thing. My father skipped the obvious choices like, RELEE, STNEWAL or BULLRUN, choosing the name of a less known Confederate general, AP Hill, famous for starting the Battle of Gettysburg before both sides had finished their morning hardtack and coffee. If I’d earned a nickel for every time one of my friends asked, “What’s AP HILL?” I wouldn’t have inherited that Malibu, that’s for sure.

I needed to find a plate that would show what I care about, how I see the world. After much soul-searching, I landed on a choice - GAME686 - simple, direct, and cryptic enough to avoid harassment. GAME686 refers to a seminal event in the life of every New York Mets and Boston Red Sox fan, a moment when time stood still and the future mental well-being of millions hung in the balance. As a native New Yorker, I ended up on the winning side of that contest, but my love of the Red Sox couldn’t be cast aside. A common hatred of the Yankees makes for strange bedfellows.

GAME686 is a little bit like a Texan with Mexican uncles driving a pickup with ALAMO36 on the plate. For me, this plate sums up a life worth living, one of hope and despair, of pleasure and pain, a life of loss and gain. My life captured on a metal rectangle screwed to the back of a Japanese car with 200,000 miles on it. Poetry at twenty three miles per gallon if I’ve ever seen it.

After confirming its availability on the web, my next stop was the Green Street offices of the City Clerk. The very nice woman at the desk took my application and money, adding, “You’re a Mets fan.” So much for cryptic creativity. She then told me, “The state has to approve this. And they have lists of things you can’t use, like ‘H’ and ‘8’ together. If they are OK, your plates will show up in about ten days.”

After two weeks, my plates hadn’t arrived. Did the application end up in the hands of Bill Buckner’s cousin? Maybe she dropped it and it rolled between her legs under the copier. Does Oil Can Boyd work in that office? If Bob Stanley’s in the typing pool, my plate request had about as much chance as getting okayed as he did of beating Mookie Wilson to first base that night long ago in ‘86.

But just as I’d given up hope, resigned to another year with seven random numbers, signifying anonymous failure, my plates arrived. And on my car they went. It’s a big step, this license plate. So honk once for the Mets and twice for the Red Sox. Even a little vanity needs validation.

The Pampered Pop - A Father's Day Story in 4 Chapters

2011-06-19T16:06:00.002-04:00

Today is Father’s Day, and I hope it’s not too late. Those gifts you just opened? Wrap them back up and return them. The rototiller in the garage? The oddly shapen kiln-fired ashtray for you, the non-smoker? The Punky Brewster Complete Series DVD box set? Thank your family for the gesture and return everything. I’ve got something better for you.

My wife gave me an early Father’s Day gift this year, suggesting I spend time at a local salon. Days later I find myself in Lotions ‘n Potions on Main Street in Concord. Andrew Hatch greets me at the door, welcoming me into his well-lit, cozy yet expansive store. Andrew and his wife, Julie Cooke, have owned Lotions ‘n Potions for the past five years, in the spot that once housed Fickett Jewelers. Andrew speaks in a soft English accent as he shows me around the store, explaining what they’ve planned. Julie appears. “You’ll start with the ear candling and a pedicure, and then we’ll wax your chest and give you a facial,” she tells me. Before I can clarify what she means by the term, “wax your chest,” I’m introduced to Maria Richards, who leads me away.

Chapter 1: So a Guy Walks into a Salon with a Candle in his Ear . . .Maria ushers me into a treatment room. “You’re going to enjoy this,” Maria tells me. She pokes a hole in a paper plate, showing me a candle she’ll insert in my ear. I’m not sure what’s going on, but Maria’s warm smile and gentle nature make me forget that we’ve just met and that she’s planning on cramming a lit candle into the side of my head. She explains how ear candling’s been around for so long that no one culture lays claim to its origins. “People have been doing this for a very long time,” Maria tells me as I rest on my side. She carefully nudges the candle bottom in my left ear and lights it, the picnic plate resting between my face and the flame, catching the melting wax.

Ear candling, according to the pamphlet Maria hands me, sounds as complex as the launching of a weather satellite. “The vortex pattern occurring inside of the ear candle in conjunction with the warm air into a highly stressed nervous system initiates the flow of energy . . .” I know bupkis about vortex patterns, but the faint hum of the burning wick in my ear and Maria rubbing my scalp is enough to make me want to hole up here for the weekend, candle after candle burning away the stress in my life.

Maria finishes the second ear, and we’re done. I feel lighter, like my head is more compact – as if the candling’s stopped the marbles from rattling around in there. I like this. If a woman kneading my thinning hair while a controlled fire burns near my eardrum isn’t the essence of Father’s Day, then color me koo koo.

Chapter 2: The Wookie’s Wife Skips the Pedicure
“I’ve never given a pedicure to someone with such hairy legs,” Maria tells me as I slide my feet into warm, salty water. I take that as a compliment, or at least a comment on the grooming habits of Lotions ‘n Potions’ steady female customers. “First, you’ll soak your feet and then I’ll clean up those nails and cuticles,” Maria tells me. We’re upstairs now, the mid-day June sun shining through the windows as the hustle and bustle of Main Street flows silently on the sidewalk below. Time stands still as Maria moves effortlessly from drying my feet to taking an emery board to my toe nails.

By the time she finishes applying fancy cuticle cream to my toes, I’m beyond comfortable, the reclining chair swallowing me up. I barely notice the work she does on my feet with what looks like a lemon zester and don’t give a second thought to the fact that Maria’s spent more time with my feet than any other woman in my life. By the time she slathers on Shea butter, covers my feet in plastic and slips on warmed green elfin boots, I’m thinking that this may be the best Father’s Day gift ever.

Chapter 3: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
There are moments in a man’s life when he ponders the path he’s chosen, those fragments of reflection that give pause, making him question if he’s taken the right fork, rolled the right pair of dice, flipped the coin high enough. As Julie rips the hair from my chest, I wonder what the hell I ever did to end up here. Julie’s no amateur – she’s been named the Best Waxer in Boston magazine’s “Best of Boston” two years in a row – and she applies the hot wax to the paper strips and then to my upper body with lightning efficiency and precision. We try to chat as she works, but I’m in too much misery to add much to the conversation. Julie tells me about the virtues of waxing versus sugaring (she swears by waxing) but might as well be comparing Farsi to Romulon because the intense pain I feel as she tears the hair from my body in a rip, rip, ripping motion has rendered my comprehension of speech patterns to nil. She gives me no time to protest, knowing I might try to make a run for it, applying and tugging in such fluid motions that I dare not move.

“Most guys get their backs waxed. I don’t do many chests,” she says with a smile in her eyes. Earlier, before my day here started, Wynelle Staller, working the front desk, told me that she likes a man, “with a little hair on his chest.” I think of that now as Julie finishes up, my torso resembling a naked mole rat’s smooth, stark-white belly. So much for giving the ladies what they want because I’ve just been deforested like acres of Brazilian rain forest. I resist the urge to show off my pale, freckled, ghostly gut devoid of all vegetation. I’ll embrace the idea that sometimes the tease is better than the real thing.

Chapter 4: A Perfect Ending
Julie wastes no time transitioning from the horrors of waxing to my final treatment of the day, a Deep Cleansing Facial. I remain on my back as Julie begins coating my face in lotions, liniments and scrubs. She scans my face for problem areas. “You have nice skin,” she tells me as she attacks the trouble spots, pinching, squeezing and cleaning as she goes. Andrew told me earlier that, “Julie’s a picker. She really gets into it,” and I see what he means. She’s giving my entire face, neck and head a workout, and it feels so good. She coats my hands in lotion and puts them in warm gloves while she whips out a glass wand. “This is the High Frequency machine,” she says as she moves it across my nose, cheeks and chin. “It uses ozone gas, ultraviolet light and electric current to disinfect your skin.”

Julie then moves onto the aloe vera algae mask, encasing my entire face in a green clay she later peels off like inch-thick sour apple fruit roll up, never forgetting to massage my head, neck and temples. This is one of the best sensations I’ve ever felt, and I swear I’ll never go back to a Father’s Day of “Best Dad’ coffee mugs, cave-painting quality grade school art work and dress sock three-packs.

No, I reject those gifts and their ilk – instead I embrace the Father’s Day of the New Man, the Well-Groomed Dad, the Pampered Pop who’d rather spend four hours at the downtown salon than surrounded by well-meaning children who wouldn’t know pedicures from Parcheesi. Father’s Day should be about doing what makes you feel good, and I highly recommend a spa day. Although call me before you sign up for the waxing. We should probably talk about that.

"Who is Pit Bull?"

2011-03-24T07:25:00.001-04:00

“Are you ready to have some fun?” The woman with a bright smile and long braids asks me this as I stand in the lobby of the Racquet Club of Concord. I’m here to try my luck at a Zumba class. My New Year’s resolutions aren’t gonna resolve themselves, and this class could be a great way to get started. Her name is Rebekah Brigham, and her smile illuminates the entire room. She’s been teaching Zumba since September. “You’re going to love it. I promise!”

Rebekah’s joined by two other instructors. Heidi Cary, an 18-month Zumba veteran from Pembroke and Jessica Corr, today’s lead instructor. The three of them are decked in head-to-two Zumba gear - fit, full of energy and ready to go. This is not a run of the mill exercise class, I think. I’m not sure if it’s fear or excitement in my belly, but I follow them into the gym. Zumba’s slogan, “Ditch the workout, join the party!” is more than enough to pique my interest.

Zumba is the brain-child of Beto Perez, a Colombian fitness instructor, who, as legend has it, was running late to an aerobics class and forgot his regular music. Rather than send everyone home, Beto instead threw together a collection of merengue and salsa music for his class, and everyone loved it. The rest, as they say, is history.

Just before the class begins, Tracey Beaulieu, a leader in the New Hampshire Zumba community, bounds in, neon tassels twirling on her Zumba cargo pants. “Zumba is about relieving stress, having fun and burning calories,” Tracey tells me as we get ready to start. If there is a local expert in all things Zumba, Tracey’s got that title sewn up, with neon accents, of course. She’s been teaching Zumba in and around Concord for almost three years and is the only licensed choreography instructor in the state, teaching routines and moves and spreading the Zumba word.

Zumba’s hard to miss. Turn on the TV to see infomercials, watch the ads for its motion video games or check out the Zumba-themed merchandise for sale online. From neon cargo pants to “Wild Zumba Leggings” to earrings, necklaces, toning bars, racerback tops, DVDs, tee shirts and winter jackets, you can dress the Zumba lifestyle for every occasion except maybe a court date or a parole hearing.

Since its formal inception in 2001, Zumba has grown into a fitness juggernaut. More than ten million people in over one hundred countries take Zumba classes regularly, and it’s offered in over 90,000 locations worldwide. There are six types of classes, for everyone from baby boomers (“Zumba Gold”) to children (“Zumbatomic”) to people who love water sports (“Aqua Zumba”) to people like me, who like our Zumba on dry land.

Tracey tells me more about the growing Zumba culture in the greater Concord area. “There are about sixty instructors across the state, and you can find a class any day of the week,” she tells me. Later I do some research and discover that Tracey, Rebekah, Heidi, Jessica and others teach classes from Allenstown to Bow, from Concord to Contoocook, in Suncook, Weare, Pittsfield and Hopkinton and towns in between. In Concord alone, there are more than fifteen Zumba classes offered weekly, so it’s just a matter of time before you find yourself in a Zumba class whether you like it or not.

Before today, I knew very little about it. I’d heard that Zumba was a “Latin-inspired, calorie-burning dance fitness party.” I’ll admit some trepidation. The last Latin-inspired party I went to was the 10:30 Sunday church service my parents dragged me to as a nine-year old. I can assure you that Latin-themed event lacked dancing and salsa music, and I’m pretty sure the priest didn’t wear a fluorescent pink spaghetti string tank top and skin-tight leggings, at least as far as I could tell.

As Jessica and Tracey prep the music, it dawns on me that I am the only man here. I ask Jessica where the other men are. “Men are chicken!” and she laughs. The music starts, and I find a spot near the back.

I decide to dedicate my inaugural Zumba performance to all the men of the world who’ve ever run screaming from an organized exercise class dominated by women or who consider grilling sausage a calorie-burning event. This one’s for you, fellas.

As we gather, I meet a few of my classmates. One woman to my left says, “Don’t worry! I’m a nurse and she’s a physical therapist,” pointing to another to my right. “We’ve got you covered!” I’m tempted to ask if there’s a cardiologist or mortician in the house but think otherwise. Jessica’s standing in the front of the group, and she’s already moving to the music.

Without a word of instruction, Jessica’s off and moving! The music pulsates and everyone copies her – back and forth she moves, sometimes her feet, other times her hips and then her arms move in unison with her hips and feet. I almost stand still because I have no idea how to move like that. She syncopates her feet with her hands and torso, and I’m totally lost. But it really doesn’t matter. Everyone is smiling, laughing, hooting and hollering as Jessica moves in rhythm to the music.

A few songs in, I start to pick up on the patterns, getting the general gist of each routine. I can only imagine how pathetic I look, but the music’s loud, everyone’s doing their best, and no one’s keeping score. Heidi, then Rebekah leads us through high-energy routines, and once Tracey starts in again, I’ve given into Zumba completely and just move my rotund body to the music.

I’ve always thought I was a pretty good dancer, but all those skills abandon me. I try copying Tracey’s moves step for step but am not even close. When Tracey turns her back and shakes her rump, I find myself doing the same thing.

If twenty years ago you’d told me that when I was 43, I’d be gyrating to a song by a man named “Pit Bull,” surrounded by two dozen women doing the merengue in a public space in central New Hampshire, I would have said, “Who’s Pit Bull?”

Tracey leads the class in a wide circle, taking us through a series of choreographed moves that have our heart rates soaring. I follow along, running with my classmates into the middle and sprinting back out to the edge. I’ve lost all sense of self-consciousness – this is fun, and I’m sweating like crazy.

Looking to my left and right, everyone’s moving to the beat- some of us are a bit off-kilter and some are spot on, matching the instructors move for move, but everyone is happy. I’m not sure I can even accurately describe what Zumba is – it’s not quite aerobics, and it’s not really a dance class – it’s almost like a personal pep rally where everyone cheers for themselves. And we all need our own cheering section now and then. And Zumba’s just the ticket.

Diswasher Follies

2011-02-26T19:42:00.002-05:00

Are you tired of the same dinner routine? In a suppertime stupor you can’t snap out of? Yearn for a world where every meal is magnificent? A magical universe that combines cooking and cleaning at the same time? Well, friend, I know of such a place, one where, with a push of a button, you can prepare a three-course meal and wash your pots and pans in one easy step. I’ve been to this world, and it’s glorious, a marvel of modern technology!

I call it “Dishwasher Cooking,” and everybody’s doing it. No other culinary method combines the raw power of soapy, steam heat with the elegance of poaching. Think of the time you’ll save! No more waiting, no more idle time, no more wondering when to ring that dinner bell.

Try my new “Dishwasher Cooking” method for two nights, and you’ll go from zero to hero in no time! Instead of angry chants of “We want food! We want food!” you’ll bask in choruses of “Mom/Dad/Legal Guardian is the best! Mom/Dad/Legal Guardian is the best!” This revolutionary approach to meal preparation and kitchen clean-up is so amazing that you’ll wonder where I’ve been your whole life!

You may remember that 1970’s movement where car owners, like you and me, learned how to cook dinner while driving their cars! A baked potato, a small rump roast, even glazed carrots and blueberry buckle - tucked next to the engine block - roasting all the way to Aunt Flo’s house in Terra Haute.

But in these days of spiraling gas prices, who wants to leave home to cook a meal? Dishwasher cooking solves that pesky problem. You can stay right in your own kitchen and make supper! Still have doubts? Check out the phrase, “dishwasher cooking” online. With only a few keystrokes you can learn about these simple methods and great recipes from around America, where scores of people have discovered the joys of blending nutritious meals with the ease of running the dishwasher. Satisfied? I knew you would be.

Here we go! The first night’s menu is both simple and complex, a unique blend of fresh ingredients cooked to perfection in any standard dishwasher. We start with a salmon fillet, smothered in lemon juice with a whisper of olive oil, wrapped air-tight in aluminum foil. Then we take a handful of Brussels sprouts, mix them with oil, salt and pepper, wrapping them up snuggly in foil. For dessert, Fuji apple slices, lemon and brown sugar, bundled in foil, nice and tight. Find a spot on the top rack, load the day’s dirty dishes into the bottom, add soap and run the normal cycle. Choose the optional Hi-Temp Wash to give that salmon the extra care it deserves. Then sit back and relax while your dinner cooks and your dishes clean! Play a game of Parcheesi, knit a sweater or catch up on your Matlock episodes. These two hours are yours!

What’s that? A hint of fish smell seems to be filling up the kitchen? No worries! That’s the salmon on its way to poached perfection! The odor’s getting stronger? “Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness,” I always say. Maybe choose that big candle, the one that smells like cinnamon. That should help. The Brussels sprouts? No, they won’t taste like lemon soap, silly! Those sprouts are wrapped tighter than two coats of paint. Now have another glass of wine and relax. Dinner will be ready in no more than one hundred minutes.

And we’re done! It’s time to eat. Let’s try some of this delicious salmon. Excuse me? Dry? No, I said “poached,” not “parched.” Well, don’t eat if you don’t like it. “To each his own,” that’s my motto. But these Brussels sprouts are to die for, I’m sure. Let’s take a bite and enjoy their leafy goodness. Where are you going? Nauseous? Don’t be foolish. These vegetables would never make anyone sick – I hear there’s a touch of the flu going around, anyway. The apples? Crunchy wet apples are the European way of preparing them. No need to be rude. Fine, I’ll discard these apples, and we’ll focus on tomorrow evening’s meal.

Ah yes! You’re back again! How very wise of you. No sense holding a grudge about going to bed hungry last night, is there? And yes, I apologize for the Brussels sprouts. What did you call them? The “stunted offspring of cabbage and misery?” I’m not sure that makes sense, but you’ve made it clear you did not approve, and we don’t need to dwell on the past.

Let’s get started, shall we? We’ll combine a dishwasher full of dirty plates, cups, knives and bowls with a tablespoon of Cascade detergent, a dash of Jet Dry and my famous “Dishwasher Lasagna Florentine.” You’ll be the hit of the house with this crowd-pleaser.

Take your no-boil lasagna sheets and lay them flat on aluminum foil, coat them with tomato sauce, spoon on a hearty serving of ricotta cheese and fresh spinach, and sprinkle mozzarella cheese on the top. Add another layer, top it off with more lasagna sheets, toss in a handful of mozzarella and seal up this wonderful casserole tight, making sure there are no holes in the foil. Place this bundle of culinary joy on the bottom rack, hit the button, and relish these moments of true relaxation.

Do we have to discuss the Brussels sprouts again? Accept my apology, and let’s move on. Besides, think of how delicious this spinach lasagna will taste in no more than two hours. Well, now you’re just being petty. Sure, I overcooked the salmon and you made me re-run the dishes to get rid of the fish odor – for what it’s worth, that stink was in your mind. I thought the cutlery smelled fine.

Dinner is served! My stars! See how delicious that lasagna looks! Ooh, watch how the creamy ricotta oozes over the sides, mixing with the tomato sauce. This will be wonderful, I have no doubt. Gummy? Did you say, “gummy?” I’m not sure that’s an apt description of this casserole. Granted, perhaps the steam heat creates a less traditional texture for the lasagna, but it’s still delicious. Isn’t it? Yes, there is a difference between “edible” and “delicious.” Like my mother always says, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride!” And no, we can’t put it back in the dishwasher, not unless you want to wait another two hours. Why, yes, I would love a bowl of Lucky Charms. No sense going to bed hungry again. Thanks for asking.

Maybe my “Dishwasher Cooking” isn’t for you. It takes an adventurous soul to try something new, and perhaps you’re too stuck in your ways. I’m happy to discuss this in more detail, but let’s finish off this box of cereal. I can’t think clearly on an empty stomach.

Open Letter to the Squirrel at 13 Mooreland Avenue

2011-01-30T08:21:00.002-05:00

I saw your footprints. I saw them in the snow, and I know what you’re doing. Please don’t deny it. You make us both look silly. Where are you going? Come back here. Do you think this is a joke, some kind of funny dance that ends with us in a warm embrace? Well, we’re not dance partners, I’m not laughing, and the only punch line is me in tears, like always. This charade’s gone on long enough, and I’m tired. Tired of the sneaking around, the lurking in the shadows, the furtive glances and the scurrying away from confrontation.

We were happy here once, weren’t we? Content to be ourselves – you running and climbing and me trying to keep this house in order. But then something changed. I tried to ignore the noises late at night, pretending they were in my head. How could anyone with such zest for life be anything but wonderful? I was wrong, the first of many mistakes I made in this relationship. But no longer.

Fine. I admit it. I tried to trap you – the steel cage and peanut butter were a bad idea – I know that now. No, I wasn’t really going to hurt you – just scare you a little. Remember how we talked about that farm way upstate? We’d take a drive – me in the driver’s seat and you in the trunk under a blanket. We’d go up there to check things out – you wouldn’t have to stay. It was just a chance for a break – the two of us deserved it. But you ruined it, eating all the peanut butter and making a mockery of my plan. The trap sits discarded and useless. I can still see the outline of your tiny paw prints in the Skippy you left behind. And they make me sad.

This isn’t just me and you. My daughter sleeps upstairs, and I can't imagine what she thinks when she hears you rummaging around, doing whatever it is you do up there in the dark. If we don’t fix this, she’ll hold a grudge against you forever. Because I know – I lived this at her age. My dad, the window, the pellet gun and the cursing, crying and frustration – kids don’t forget that stuff.

And now you do this? Your daily backyard spectacle? For everyone in the neighborhood to see? My god, what happened to you?

I take the time to try to make this place look better, to invite some bird friends over to enjoy a meal, and you go and ruin it like you always do. So I guess I’m the fool. I thought the birds were hungry – that they really liked the seeds. But no. I came home and saw you embarrassing yourself on the feeder, stuffing your little nose into its holes, cramming every morsel into your inflated cheeks. I bet you’d climb inside that feeder and roll around like a kid in a McDonaldland Ball Pit if you had the chance. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You warm-blooded, diurnal rodent sicko. I don’t even know you anymore.

See? There I go. Calling you names. You make me so angry I can’t help myself – it used to be so different. I was the one defending you. “Critter!” they’d call you, but I wouldn’t listen. “Varmint!” they’d howl, but I’d tell a funny story about you and that acorn. I don’t have the energy anymore. Not after this.

Can’t you even appreciate the money I spent on that Baffler for the feeder? I saw you staring at me from the bushes that day, those dark, soulless eyes filled with betrayal. For a few days I was happy – friendly birds stopped by for a snack, and you were off frolicking with your pals, or so I thought. You were waiting, weren’t you?

Am I impressed that you can jump from the tree to the feeder, that your tiny fingers and toes can grip the tube as it sways back and forth? Well, maybe. You always were a great jumper. Stop! I won’t get pulled into this again. Sometimes I wonder if you even care if you hurt yourself. What’s next? Power lines? Busy intersections? When does it end?

I already told you. I don’t want you as my pet – I don’t want to control you, tell you where to spend your nights, or who you can cavort with. Shack up with the moles next door for all I care – but leave my house and yard alone. Decent birds stopped coming by weeks ago. Now only the crows visit. Nobody deserves crows.

I could buy a BB gun. I’m a pretty good shot, for the record. Your little behind-the-tree circling move wouldn’t be so clever anymore. Just try to jump from branch to branch in a cast and crutches. I’ll be the one letting out a high-pitched chattering screech, and you’ll be the one in misery.

I’m giving you a choice. Leave my feeder alone and find another home to wreck or continue on this destructive path. Don’t force me to take extreme measures. Maybe that peanut butter won’t be filled with wholesome peanutty goodness the next time. Maybe the tree trunk will be lined with axle grease. Or maybe my dad’ll come up for a long weekend. He’ll bring along a friend this time, a friend named Mr. 1981 Pellet Gun. And then you’ll be sorry.

It hurts me to write this. I’ll give you one week to decide. My patience, like the wild bird seed, has been pillaged and left on the ground for scavengers. For the sake of the community, for me, my family, and for your well-being, I hope you’ll make the right choice.

Dick Clark and the Season of Shame

2010-12-24T07:30:00.003-05:00

You’re running out of time. It’s almost December 31st, and everyone needs a New Year’s Resolution. What’s it gonna be this year? Finally grow out those mutton chops? Learn to speak Klingon? Arm wrestle Justin Beiber? Do some sit-ups, climb a mountain, gut a deer, paint a fence?

It’s always the same for me. “This is the year I lose weight.” Dick Clark’s been my diet coach for a long time. New Year’s Eve meant confronting all the soda, Suzie Q’s, Bits O’Honey and bowls of Count Chocula I’d eaten in the previous 364 days while rockin’ to the televised hits of Toto, Billy Squire and Juice Newton as Dick narrated the ball’s descent. Just a snippet of “Auld Lang Syne” still makes me spit out whatever I’m trying to swallow whole before everyone screams, “Happy New Year!” While my siblings or friends tooted paper horns, counting down the seconds, I rehearsed my resolution - that this year, 1978, 1985, 1996 or 2009 – pick a year, any year – would be the year I finally shed unwanted tonnage.

This Friday night won’t be any different. I’ll huddle in front of the TV, cursing Dick’s persistence, wishing I could say 2011 would be the year I instead kickbox an angry kangaroo, spend a night in Delaware or vote Libertarian. But no. 2011 is THE year I lose weight.

I’ve decided to embrace the root of my lifelong strife and go out in blaze of cheesy greasy glory, targeting five fast food creations that defy nature, their very existence calling into question the molecular order of things. From the DoubleDown chicken sandwich to the McRib, from the Cheesy Bites Pizza to the Grilled Stuft Burrito, with a handful of Sausage Pancake Mini Maple-flavored bites thrown in for good measure, I aim to earn this year’s resolution with every fat-saturated caloric chew. I’ve convinced Maisie, my 11-year old daughter to join me. Kids today need to know there are consequences for the actions their parents force them to do.

Maybe these artery-obstructing choices are, “The Five Foods You’ll Eat in Hell,” but I’m not so sure. Everyone’s always smiling on the commercials, and who doesn’t love extra cheese slathered in imitation garlic butter? People without New Year’s resolutions, that’s who.

KFC’s our first stop, and my daughter’s having second thoughts. “Will I feel gross after I eat it?” she asks, not entirely serious but worked up enough to make me wonder if she’ll hyperventilate herself out of this trip.

We split two of the Colonel’s latest creations – the Double Down and the Doublelicious, the former having gained notoriety by substituting two boneless fried chicken pieces for the bun, holding together a generous helping of bacon, cheese and mystery sauce. We split them and share our booty. “This is a swirling vortex of yumminess,” Maisie says, but less than an hour later, she’s filled with remorse. “I feel sick. Why did you make me do this?” I’d answer but can’t, the salt from the sandwiches rendering my tongue useless.

The next day we tackle the newest menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts – Sausage Pancake Mini Bites –udder-sized meat-type sausages wrapped in a thin, maple-flavored pancake. It takes a leap of faith every time you bite into mass-produced sausage, and this effort requires something more like a catapult. As the mini bite reaches my lips, the pancake gives a little, like a soggy eggroll, but I continue, eating the fleshy tube in two bites. Maisie takes one nibble and announces she’s done.

“That tasted really gross. Why are we doing this again?” I don’t answer, gobbling down the remaining bites. The hint of artificial maple lingers in my throat like the syrupy perfume of an IHOP assistant night manager who knows her way around a waffle iron.

I spend the next week trying to figure out when I’ll fit in the rest. It’s not easy finding time for fast food.

Pizza Hut’s Cheesy Bites pizza is like the Ishtar of pizzas. “A pull-apart crust with 28 cheese-filled bites!” brags the Pizza Hut website. Sadly, just as Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty couldn’t save a lousy movie, Pizza Hut’s inability to execute on its vision leaves us bereft. This pizza resembles a giant circular Sasquatch plaster casting with mozzarella-filled toes. This yeti needs a manicure. I keep the large man-beast comments to myself so we can dig in, and we eat most of the pizza before giving up. “That was not worth it,” Maisie says. That doesn’t stop me from eating a dozen bites and four slices, reminding myself 2011 is my year.

Two days later I enter McDonald’s, scanning the menu for the McRib. It’s not there! McDonald’s has been playing cat and mouse with McRib lovers for years, selling it at random times in out-of-the-way locations, creating a semi-myth about the ground pork, pickle and onion sandwich to the point where you had a greater chance of sharing a McDLT with Whitey Bulger than finding a McRib in your neighborhood. The woman behind the counter asks for my order, and I say, “So you guys don’t have the McRib.”

“Yes we do,” she says as she points to a small sign pasted to the register. “Get one before they’re all gone – the famous McRib!”

I buy a McRib Large Extra Value Meal and head home. Maisie’s waiting (she’s no quitter), and I split the sandwich in two. It looks nothing like its photo – the sauce thin, the pickles sad and the few errant white onion shards bunched in the corner in what looks like fear. As for the rib aspect of the sandwich, I wonder what tiny creature was deboned for my lunch – McRabbit? McBadger? Hamburgler? But this sandwich isn’t gonna eat itself so we dig in.

“This has a weird taste,” Maisie complains, swiping my fries and leaving the kitchen. She’s given up on this quest, resigned to the idea that New Year’s resolutions are for processed pork lovers. I finish hers and mine in a few gulps.

I’m left alone for the final challenge – a visit to Taco Bell where I’ll dine solo on a Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.

One might assume that any food using intentionally poor spelling is hiding something, but after one bite, the only thing this Stuft masterpiece is hiding is its fabulousness, and I don’t care how it’s spelt. The burrito sits warm in my hands, its top grilled brown, bite after bite revealing pockets of rice, cheese, beans and just enough chicken to explain away the misspelling.

I’ll miss you the most, Grilled Stuft friend. You’ve warmed my belly, caressed my heart and made me wish I didn’t own a calendar. That way, every day would be carefree, just like the playful way you tease me with each tickle of my taste buds. I love you, Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.

But this is serious. In only a few days I must declare my intentions for 2011, and this burrito’s thrown me off. Maybe I could sneak away to Taco Bell once in a while – I mean, it’s kind of like a church, right? I could claim sanctuary and declare 2011 as the Year of “Tim and the Yo Yo” or “Tim Learns Jazzercise!” No. I’ve been down this road - 1986’s cheese fries are today’s chicken burritos and 2016’s frosted apple fritters, so it’s time to man up. No more stuft burritos, no more mini maple corn dogs for breakfast and no more Spam-flavored hype hoagies – just me and my muesli and maybe a scoop of yogurt if I’m feeling dangerous.

I say goodbye to you, my five cheesy fried meat-laced friends. But if we do run into each other, let’s pretend we never met. Dick doesn’t need to know. It’s easier that way.

A Reason to be Thankful

2010-11-28T12:05:00.001-05:00

He was a nine year old boy, and he needed my help. I didn’t know his name, where he lived, where he went to school or if he had brothers or sisters. I didn’t know his parents, the color of his bike or what posters hung on his walls. I knew only that he was sick and that somehow we were linked. Something in our blood, a chemical signature, like a fingerprint far below the surface, matched up perfectly, and the boy would die unless I helped him.

The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.

I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.

I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.

The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.

The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.

By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.

My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.

I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.

My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.

In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”

I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.

A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.

I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.

I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.

Halloween is Hell

2010-10-31T08:42:00.002-04:00

Halloween is here again, and I pray for a swarm of locusts to keep us indoors. I dread this day, remembering the evils Halloween visited upon me as a child. Once I became an adult, I thought I could ignore it, but as a parent, I realize Halloween is relentless, spreading its misery around like a sugar-crazed trick-or-treater flinging razor-filled apples into the crowd.

I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.

My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.

My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.

My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.

So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.

Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.

As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.

But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.

"In Treatment - Holding his nose, Tim tours Concord's Waste Water Treatment Facility"

2010-09-23T18:34:00.005-04:00

I need a favor. Today’s topic concerns things not meant for polite conversation, so can we agree to a simple word swap? In the place of terms and phrases that refer to unavoidable biological processes, I’ll insert different words, like “sunshine,” “joy,” “roses,” and “happiness.” Your cooperation is appreciated.

I arrive at Concord’s Waste Water Treatment Facility (aka, WWTF) at 7 AM, ready to delve into Concord’s happiness, to find out how we handle this happiness, and what it takes to receive, clean, test, treat and dispense of the city’s happiness, in all its forms.

Since moving here six years ago, I’ve noticed that smell, usually while driving on the highway just south of the city’s center. This odor’s become a steady feature on all O’Shea family road trips. “Yuck! What’s that smell?” one of us would remark, earning the standard response, “It’s the waste water treatment plant!” followed by a chorus of approving nods. I’ll note that using the same excuse while sitting in traffic outside Boston is not met with the same approval. Medford’s a long way from Exit 13, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.

Mike Hanscomb, WWTF’s Superintendant, greets me at the door and introduces me to Mark Fuller, the facility’s Operations Supervisor. Mark wastes no time sharing terms like “Activated Sludge Plant,” “Sequence Batch Reactor,” and “rapid dewatering process.” When he says this last phrase, he adds, “We’ll save that part for last,” and chuckles a bit. What goes on upstairs, I wonder. I don’t know sunshine from shinola.

This facility opened in 1981, processes five million gallons a day and is staffed by fifteen employees, many with long tenures here. I meet Roy Tobin, a twenty-five year veteran of the WWTF and my host at our first stop on today’s Tournament of Roses Parade.

“We’re going to the Influent building,” Roy says as we drive, a light misty rain falling on the windshield. “This is where everything starts.” I open the truck door and can smell it, an odor that crawls up my nose, over my eyes and rests like swamp gas on my brain. Roy, and his co-worker, Burt Richards, he too a long-time veteran of the business, don’t seem to notice a thing.

The Influent building is where the roses arrive, sent from pump stations across the city, and travel up three huge inclined pipes, each filled with enormous 60-foot screws, like something out of Journey to the Center of the Earth. The liquid roses churn upward into giant rectangle structures with tightly packed steel combs that remove sticks, leaves, gravel, and what Roy refers to as “rags.” Today’s the one day of the week that Roy and Burt haul everything’s that been combed out of the millions of gallons of rose-filled water for burning, leaving it devoid of anything that can’t be broken down by biology.

Back at the main building Tom Neforas, the Lab Manager, greets me. “We provide analysis to meet state and federal guidelines,” Tom says, adding details about reducing solids, bio-oxygen demands, and water quality until he’s interrupted by Kristen Noel, the Lab Technician and resident microbiologist. “We’re bug farmers,” Kristen says with a confident look. “We do what nature does, only faster,” she says as she leads us outside.

Kristen explains how their role is to foster processes to break down the happiness naturally, rather than bombard it with chemicals, with the goal of returning clean water to the river and giving clean fertilizer to local farms. Kristen speaks at a rapid clip, knowledgeable and direct. She knows a lot about Concord’s happiness, that’s for sure.

We walk towards the Bio Towers, climb the steps and peer into the tops of these two huge two-story roofless concrete boxes. Kristen explains, “These towers are like giant Petri dishes.” Countless giant sprinkler heads spew grey-brown water that cascades down over rows and rows of cedar and plastic racks. “The water makes a biofilm over the planks – and the more it builds up, the more the slime helps break down the waste.” It’s noisy as the warm water casts a humid haze around us. “Once the water leaves here, it’s one step closer to being clean enough for the river.”

Then to the Aeration Basin, which looks like a massive Jacuzzi. The water is a frothy color of charcoal and slate, a dingy milkshake coated with a covering of fist-sized bubbles. “This is the Happy Tank for microorganisms,” Kristen yells over the bubbling brew, explaining how air promotes the growth of good critters, like nematodes, but I’m too distracted by the idea that air, water and bubbles create mist and maybe that’s not the rain I’m feeling against my skin.

In a hut near the river, Kristen samples the water, measuring its chlorine levels. She explains that this entire waste water process started after the Clean Water Act of 1972. “Before that law passed, waste water went right into the river,” she says, a look of puzzled defiance in her eyes.

Mark meets up with us, and we head to the two secondary clarifying pools to take core samples of their bottom “blankets.” While the huge rotating arm makes its slow sweep across the murky water, Mark tutors me in lagoon systems, parts per million and refers to himself as a “Used Food Engineer.” He mentions upstairs again, and he and Kristen laugh.

We’re standing on a gangplank over the water, only a metal guardrail separating me from years of therapy. Mark hoists a long plastic tube down into the water, hits bottom, raises the pole and empties the contents into a jug. We need a sample from the second pool, and Mark hands me the pole. I do what he did, feel for the pole to reach bottom and bring it up, but before I can empty it, the pole wavers. I look like a mime with an imaginary fish on my hook. I brace myself against the railing, gain control, and empty the cloudy water into the bucket. I try ignoring the drops of water that land on my face and neck.

After we test the pools’ contents back in the lab, Mark asks, “Are you ready to head upstairs?” Tom chimes in, “We’ll give you an honorary degree if you survive the Sludge Room!” Ok, now I’m worried about upstairs.

We’re outside again, and Mark reaches down towards a giant steel plate in the ground, behind the main building. “This is the Sludge Holding Tank.” I look down and take a massive whiff. Whatever hideous odors I’ve experienced in my life were like the sweet smell of a baby’s blanket compared to what I just inhaled. But on we walk. Mark’s determined to show me what upstairs is all about. I’m not sharing his enthusiasm.

“This is the Sludge Dewatering Process. We take the solids left in the tanks, send them here and turn them into Class A biosolids.” Mark opens the door and I’m hit with a stench most foul, my mind filling with words like putrid, fetid, rank, disgusting, and this was a huge mistake. He shows me how solids are mixed with polymers, squeezed dry, doused with lime, heated, pasteurized and dumped into a waiting truck. I move my head from side to side, seeking an air pocket of relief, but agitating the air only makes it worse. Mark points to the presses where the solids are churned and kneaded before they head to the ovens, and I want my mommy and nose plugs. Mark continues, but all I can think of is about the odors assaulting my soul. I’ve smelled joy before but never like this – this is serious joy, like a joy-filled laser penetrating my skull, embossing a permanent olfactory impression no amount of Febreze can ever erase.

We move down to the loading bay as a truck drives off with a load of freshly pasteurized biosolids, headed for a farm in Gilford. “Farmers use the biosolids on cornfields, but only for cattle corn. We could use it on corn that we eat, but the ‘ick’ factor is still too much for us to do that,” Mark explains. Right now my entire world is ick to the factor of 100. And the idea that cows eat biosolid-laced corn to make milk, and that we drink the milk from these cows is both repulsive and sensible to me. I’ll never think of cheese the same way again.

It’s good to know about places like this, and an occasional whiff of what goes on here is a nice reminder that there are people who take care of things we’d rather not talk about, and we’re lucky they do. And if there’s one thing I learned after spending a day with my new friends on Hall Street, it’s that everyone’s sunshine stinks, no matter what we think about ourselves.

FSP- Round Two!

2010-09-23T17:15:00.001-04:00

I'm happy to report that the Favorite Song Project is a success. Three weeks ago I shared my quest for that perfect list of my favorite songs and asked readers to share their favorites. The response, both locally and from far away, has been impressive. From Seattle to Sun Valley, from Vermont to Virginia, and from New York to North Carolina, with lots of places in between, you shared your favorite songs.

Some wrote of inner turmoil. Carmine, from Concord, wrote, "Not happy with this list. Painful, and yet therapeutic." Big Star's "Back of a Car" made his list. Don, my long-time friend and true music snob, wrote, "This is the 'Schindler's List' of songs - it's a 'good' list but many other good songs got left off, and that hurts me." Don included gems from Elvis Costello, Luna and the Velvet Underground, after first sharing a list of '80's hair bands that would not appear on his list.

Tom from Connecticut wrote, "To describe this task as difficult is an understatement," then provided a list with detailed descriptions, like, "La "Villa Strangiato" by Rush. "Geek rock as good as it gets. Put this on in your car and you'll be doing 90 before you realize it."

People chose songs like "Netherlands" by Dan Fogelberg, "We're All Alone," by Rita Coolidge, and Sonny Rollins' "St. Thomas." Lists included Etta James, The Stooges, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Prince, The Pogues and The Beatles, to name a fraction. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" made the most lists, and kudos to the young woman from Seattle who included "Video Killed the Radio Star," by The Buggles.

Many joined the Favorite Song Project on Facebook (103 members and counting), where they post lists, share lyrics, video clips and comments on each other's song choices.

The best response came from William Rogers, "81 years young," from Allenstown, New Hampshire. William wrote me an eight-page letter about his favorite songs. "I read your article and I found it extremely interesting, but narrowly centered on young people." He wrote eloquently about his love of Big Band Music, like Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," "Let's Dance," by Benny Goodman and "Green Eyes" by Jimmy Dorsey. His letter is an education in Jitterbugging, classic singers and the local Big Band hot spots back in the day. So you to, Mr. Rogers and to everyone else who shared your favorite songs, thank you and keep those lists coming!

Favorite Song Project

2010-09-02T21:42:00.000-04:00

Got a favorite song? Better yet, got fifteen? It’s been more than thirty years, but I think I finally have my list. Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve tried to create my list of favorite songs. For a long time, I searched for the definitive song – that one song I could claim as my favorite - the one that played in my head in a constant loop of self-reassurance, the soundtrack for my life. This song, I would tell myself – this song is me!

I mulled it over incessantly – in my room listening to records, riding the bus to school, while my friends and I debated Lennon versus McCartney, whether Jim Morrison was alive and selling burritos from the trunk of his car at Dead shows, or how Run DMC sold out the day they let Steven Tyler into the recording studio. I first chose a Beatles song (“I Feel Fine”), then the Doors (“The Soft Parade”), then moved to “The Lemon Song,” by Led Zeppelin until, while listening to the record in my friend’s bedroom, his mom walked in, heard the lyrics, turned the record player off and sent me home in shame. Her concern was that Robert Plant, while exhorting the baby in the song to squeeze his lemon, was apparently referring neither to an infant nor citrus fruit.

Then I discovered The Clash, The Ramones, Joe Jackson and The Jam. It’s tough to pick a favorite when they’re all less than two minutes long. On I searched, spending much of my formative years listening in vain for my favorite song. Flirtations with Foreigner, Frank Sinatra, Linda Ronstadt, Talking Heads, Devo, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Hank Williams yielded no success. Even month-long obsessions with Patsy Cline, Stevie Nicks and Joni Mitchell left me no closer.

I now know choosing just one song is a fool’s errand. I’ve dedicated a better part of my life trying to craft that one perfect collection of my favorite songs – the mix partygoers would hear next to the keg, nodding subtle approvals to each other over the din of the bass and drums, or the collection my friends would play at my funeral, or as the soundtrack for the video tribute charities would commission in my honor for all the nice stuff I did for sea birds and trees. Cue the video of me nursing diseased conifers back to health as Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police” fades into Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” while I scrub oil off a pelican’s soiled beak. And just before the screen fades to black, I shed my hazmat coveralls and look off across the calm sea while Hall and Oates’ “Your Kiss Is On My List” plays softly in the background.

The truth is I made those mixes with the hope others would hear them and judge me – that somehow an O’Shea Original Mix would show up backstage in the hands of ZZ Top or the surviving members of The Who. They’d hear it and send forth their roadie minions to locate the true genius who captured the perfect combination of songs, showering me with praise, front row seats and a black concert tee shirt for free. Alas, roadies don’t ring my house, and my music snob friend Don still reminds me of the mix I shared with him ten summers ago that had the temerity to include Skid Row, Journey and Ratt songs. Our friendship’s never been the same since he learned I knew all the words to “I Remember You.”

Once I dismissed the idea of happiness through others’ approval, I found the path to success in this life-long quest. The songs I’ll choose will be my favorites, and they’ll tell a story about me and no one else. I’m not alone in this idea, and to prove it, I’ve asked dozens of friends to share their favorite songs with me. What an education! I have lists upon lists - everything from U2’s “One” to Jerry Vale’s “Old Cape Cod,” to “Paradise City” by Guns N Roses to “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton to the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen.”

I’ve learned that an ex-Marine named Rufus loves “I Like My Women on the Trashy Side,” that Roberta Flack still has one big fan in Vermont, and that the Rolling Stones make most lists but the Beatles make almost none! I found out that my buddy Ed - the guy who once swore Kiss was the greatest band of all time - has refined tastes that run from John Prine to Graham Parsons and Tom Waits, but “Love Gun” is nowhere to be seen. And I know my pal Don won’t accept the idea that .38 Special’s “Hold on Loosely” could be on anyone’s favorite list. “There’s something wrong with you if you put it on your list,” he warned me, a look of crazy lurking behind his music-snob eyes.

“Asking to pick a favorite song is like asking to pick a favorite brother,” wrote my second favorite brother Mike. He had some trouble with this assignment because, “You can really only pick your final list if you stop listening to music or just before you croak.” He then shared his top fifteen and did a nice job of combining Bach, The Bogmen, Radiohead and The Ventures into an eclectic sonic stew.

So today I launch the Favorite Song Project, an effort to share our favorite songs, to remember why we love them, and to tell each other what makes them our favorites. The Favorite Song Project, or FSP, is simple. Write down your favorite songs, narrow them to fifteen and share them – you can share with me, your buddies, your family, your co-workers, or complete strangers. Nothing says, “Understand me for who I really am” by baring your soul through fifteen song titles that help define you. Sure, your mother-in-law may not know a crunk cup from a sitz bath, but that’s OK – if Lil’ John’s opus “Get Low” is on your list, then pass the crunk juice and write it down!

We don’t judge in the FSP. If your top songs include the chorale version of Psalm 87 as sung by the Gelding, Indiana Men’s Choir, go ahead and write it down, even if the next guy’s favorite song is “Jesus Christ Pose” by Soundgarden. There are no bad songs or bad choices in the FSP – except for a cappella Billy Joel songs. The FSP draws the line at “For the Longest Time.”

So join the FSP and share your favorites with others. You can email them to the project’s mailbox (favoritesongproject@gmail.com) or you can join the new Favorite Song Project group on Facebook.

So what’s a favorite? It’s a song that makes you smile, cry or remember a time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. A favorite song is one that reminds you to call a friend from grade school, hoist another beer or brew a second cup of tea, the ones that have you wondering what happened to that girlfriend from eleventh grade, the one who dumped you because you loved the Stray Cats more than her. My favorite songs are the ones that make me feel alive. They set a groove, move me, ease my mind and remind me how much love, hate, pleasure and pain there is in the world. My favorite songs help me make sense of my life, in all its good and bad.

So give it some thought – post your fifteen favorite songs on Facebook (search on “Favorite Song Project”), or send an email to favoritesongproject@gmail.com, or just write them down and listen to them. It’s a good thing to feel alive. Cue the music.

Tim’s Favorite Songs, in no particular order

Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright – Mike Ness
Blank Generation – Richard Hell and the Voidoids
Rosalita – Bruce Springsteen
Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose – Dwight Yoakam
Let It Bleed – The Rolling Stones
The Pretender – Jackson Browne
English Civil War – The Clash
Buick City Complex – The Old 97’s
Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who
The Seed 2.0 – The Roots
Custard Pie – Led Zeppelin
Me and Bobby McGee – Janis Joplin
Fly Me to the Moon – Frank Sinatra
I Call Your Name – The Beatles
What’s So Funny ‘bout Peace, Love and Understanding – Elvis Costello

Fire House Rules

2010-07-15T14:23:00.001-04:00

“Are you ready?” the Battalion Chief asks me as I lurch towards the smoke-filled room. I’m dressed in firefighter’s gear, the helmet strapped on my head, the oxygen tank’s harness pinching my shoulders, the air mask covering my face. I must look like somebody’s fifth grader on “Take your Child to your Dangerous Job” day – my boots are three sizes too big, the helmet slides back and forth, and I’ve resisted the urge to ask for a pair of pants with cuffs so I won’t trip on the bottoms. I don’t know if I’m sweating from nerves or from the 95 degree heat, aided by the twenty pounds of gear I’m wearing. Firefighter outfits don’t necessarily “breathe.”

We’re in downtown Concord just off Main Street, outside one of the Sanel Block buildings, slated for demolition in the coming days. The owner’s given the Concord Fire Department permission to use the buildings for training until they’re torn down. With no money in the budget for a new training facility, the Fire Department takes every opportunity it finds to practice its skills, and tonight it’s Engine 4 and its five firefighters’ turn.

Jim Freitas, Engine 4’s knob guy (he controls the flow of water from the truck), gives me advice as I wait my turn. “Remember – it’s all about the couplings,” Jim tells me. Jim’s been with the Department for a little more than five years. He found me my gear when I arrived, showed me the fire station’s layout and was the assistant chef who served dinner a few hours ago. That dinner’s about to make a special, one-time only reverse appearance if I’m not careful, so I listen to Jim explain. “It’s all about the male and female couplings. The female end will always lead you back to the truck – the male end heads towards the fire,” Jim explains as he shows me the difference in the male and female hose ends. “Feel for those metal bumps and then the hose, and you’ve found it.”

“Bumps to the pump,” Chief Ken Folsom reminds me, “Once you find the hose, don’t let go of it. Follow it like a clothes line until you get out.” I try to say something funny like, “Hey, ‘Female Coupling’ would be a great name for an all-woman heavy metal band,” but Ken and Jim are focused on the tasks at hand, and I probably should be too – besides, with the air mask covering my face and the nascent signs of heat stroke gnawing at my brain, it would’ve sounded like, “Tell my wife to remember me fondly.”

This drill’s designed to test firefighters’ ability to evacuate a smoke-filled, pitch-black burning room while flames rage nearby – the key is to find the female coupling and follow the right hose to safety. I have an advantage over Engine 4 – I watched the first few go through the drill earlier, standing in the corner with a thermal imaging camera, seeing them fumble in the rubble-strewn darkness for the exit. The room was completely dark, any chance for the twilight to make it through the one window erased by the smoke pouring from the machine on the floor. Taking my eyes off the camera meant instant midnight, so I kept my eyes fixed on the ghostly image on the tiny screen.

“Your air is on,” Chief Folsom tells me as he hits a button on the side of my mask, the cool air bathing my sweaty face. He leads me to the room, and I begin. I’m seconds into the exercise, and any appreciation I’d had for the work firefighters do has increased tenfold. I can’t see a thing, my gear is heavy, and I’m crawling on my hands and knees searching for the metal sections of the hose. Add a screaming citizen and actual fire into the mix, and I’d be the last person you’d want to see coming to your rescue.

Lieutenant Alan Robidas, and firefighter Dan Bickers, from Central, are running the exercise and coach me as I go. “So what are you looking for?” “What will you do once you find it?” “Where’s the wall? Have you found it yet?” I find the couplings underneath broken ceiling tiles, heed the Chief’s advice and grasp onto the hose, following it to the end.

Outside, the Chief and the men from Central debrief Engine 4, reminding them not to be fooled by the overlapping hoses. Moments later, I’m in the fire engine, Jim sitting next to me as we drive back to the station. Chief Ken treats us all to ice cream for a training exercise well done. It may be the first time in my life I actually earned a bowl of ice cream. It was delicious.

I’d arrived at the station hours earlier, right at the start of the thirteen-hour night shift. Lieutenant Merle DeWitt greeted me at the door and introduced me to Paul Sirois. Paul’s been a firefighter in Concord for almost eight years and will be riding in the ambulance tonight. This team of five firefighters works four days in a row with four days off – two day shifts of eleven hours and two night shifts of thirteen. Scott Marcotte, a third-generation Concord firefighter, on the job since 1987, provides a primer in the city’s firefighting footprint. “We have three stations plus the ladder truck on duty all the time. Each station has five firefighters, an engine and an ambulance, and Central has the ladder truck. One of the five firefighters in each fire house is also a paramedic, so we’re usually pretty busy.”

Merle then explains the bell system. “One’s for a medical call, two’s for a box alarm, and three bells probably means a building’s on fire.” I’m dizzy with anticipation, and as we sit down for supper, I wonder how fast these guys will bolt from the table at the first sound of bells. Dinner passes with no bells but with a lovely chicken dish and a Swiss chard salad from the station’s garden. “It’s been unusually slow - very quiet this summer so far,” Scott mentions to me after dinner. “Don’t be surprised if we don’t get many calls.” Scott’s an expert as a member of Engine 4, the busiest by far in the city, outpacing the other stations by hundreds of calls each year.

A firefighter waiting for a call is a lot like an ice fisherman waiting for a fish – you sit, you wait, you eat, you chat, and you clean your gear until a fish arrives or the bell rings, and then it’s time to move. About five hours into the shift, as we sit watching TV, Paul and Jim share stories of things they’ve seen on the job and how “Murphy’s Law prevails at a fire.” Paul emphasizes that trust is the key to a firefighter’s success. “We have to have each other’s back – always,” he says to me. It’s a calm scene until a bell rings, and Paul is out of his recliner like he’s been shot out of a water cannon.

Before I realize what’s happening, Scott asks me if I want to join Paul on the “bus,” (what they call the ambulance). I agree and Scott runs down the hallway to catch them. I follow him and make it before the ambulance pulls out, grabbing a seat in the back. Paul’s driving the bus tonight and Keith Richardson, the fifth of tonight’s crew, the team’s paramedic and lead chef, scans his laptop in the front to see where we’re going.

We arrive at a high-rise just off Main Street, and Alan and Dan from Central greet us at the door, their ladder truck parked in the lot next to the building. We move to the elevator, Paul pushing the stretcher and Keith lugging the portable EKG machine. Moments later we’re in a woman’s apartment - she’d called 911, complaining of chest pains, and Keith jumps into action, asking about her ailments and checking her vital signs. Minutes later we’re in the hallway with the woman on the stretcher. Dan asks her if she wants us to shut off her TV, still blaring in her bedroom. “Leave it on for my cat,” she instructs, and we head downstairs. She’s lucid and talks with Keith, who’s a combination of professional, precise and very friendly, asking her, “On a scale of one to ten, where’s your pain now? What did you have to eat tonight? Have you been taking your medication?”

We arrive at the hospital, Paul and Keith wheel the woman inside, and after a brief exchange with the nurse on duty, and we leave and drive to the station. “Calls like that are about seventy percent of what we do,” Paul tells me as he readies the stretcher for the next call. Not quite a scene from ER, but lack of drama at a time like this is a good thing.

Back at the station, it’s well past midnight and the place is quiet. Keith does his paperwork and Paul restocks the ambulance. The others are resting, waiting for those bells to ring. I find a comfortable spot and drift off to sleep, content in the conviction that Concord’s in good hands with people like this down the hallway, ready at a moment’s notice to set things right.

Six Reasons to Love the World Cup! (or at least watch a few games)

2010-06-10T20:49:00.002-04:00

I was once like you - sick of people telling me to love soccer. I grew weary of pundits extolling the virtues of “the beautiful game,” how we Americans must embrace it like the rest of the world. Scoldings about soccer were like dental hygienists begging us to floss or our mothers reminding us to eat our kale. For many years, I was a man who swore that a prescription for a joyous sporting life was one part baseball, one part football, one part Indy 500 and no parts soccer. Until I started watching.

When you first start watching soccer, it’s like peering through a keyhole of the door to an alternate universe. Fans sing lusty fight songs, blow plastic horns and set off smoke bombs. Commentators say things in refined English accents like, “His opportunistic venture into the mouth of the stalwart defense yields a stroke of brilliance!” When national pride is at stake, like it is with this month’s World Cup, everything gets kicked up a notch. The game are more intense, the fans more rabid and the rewards greater. And for the next thirty days, we can feast upon the dozens of games at our fingertips. If there was ever a time to contract a rare, month-long, non-debilitating yet highly contagious tropical disease, it would be now. Excused absences and World Cup soccer are ideal bedfellows.

So, from one former non-soccer fan to you, the ardent American sports lover who’d rather watch adults play poker in a windowless room or think watching left turns on an oval track constitutes excitement (are we really rooting for tires?), I’m here to tell you what’s to love about the World Cup. Give it some thought and drop me a line if you want to watch a few games together. I’ll be at home, in front of my TV for the next month, flossing the kale out of my teeth.

Reason #1: The US is Good (No, really, I’m serious)
We probably won’t win it all and may not make it very far, but we’re no Faroe Islands, that’s for sure. It wasn’t long ago that the rest of the world told jokes about the US team like, “An armadillo, a three-legged goat and eleven Americans walk onto a soccer field.” I don’t know how the rest of the joke goes, but the punch line is, “And the goat uses the armadillo as a crutch to score a hat trick to beat the US!” Uncle Sam’s Army is highly ranked, is led by a handful of players who excel in the best leagues in the world, and has a legitimate chance to advance well past the first round. Then again, we were considered a contender four years ago and were embarrassed worse than that time your buddy “pantsed” you at the bus stop in eighth grade, the lesson being, “Don’t believe the hype and always wear a belt.” But seriously, we’re pretty good.

Reason #2: North Korea – Santa’s Little Helpers
Rooting against North Korea’s soccer team is like rooting against Santa’s elves, if Santa referred to himself as “Dear Leader,” wore crazy person sunglasses and was the worst boss ever! The team had to hire Chinese cheerleaders because no one has enough money for bus fare, much less for a plane ticket to South Africa. Kim Jong-Il, nuttier than an outhouse rat, refuses to televise the games, fearing a loss would shame the nation (as opposed to abject poverty and chronic malnutrition). Its government made this statement after a loss in the qualifying rounds: “The game has turned into a theater of plot-breeding and swindling.” Just imagine if they win! We’d hear things like, “The heroes of the Fatherland have quenched their thirst with the blood of the foe, mocking the spiteful conspiracy to rob our sons of their birthright.” To top it off, there’s a distant, remote, improbable chance that North Korea would face South Korea, two nations technically still at war. The mind races with the plot-breeding possibilities.

Reason #3: USA versus England
If you watch just one game, watch this one. The last time the US beat England was in 1950, and we haven’t come close since. England’s team is loaded with some of the best players in the world, including Wayne Rooney, a temperamental goal-scorer with a face like a pork chop and the quickness of a pit viper. England takes credit for inventing soccer, and it hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966. Many expect them to go all the way, but they have to tussle with us first. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what they did to the White House in the War of 1812.

Reason #4: What’s in a Name?
Every team has a nickname, with African teams sporting the best - “Super Eagles,” “Indomitable Lions,” “Bafana Bafana.” The worst? Australia’s “Socceroos” – sounds like a lukewarm yogurt and Vegemite nutrition shake. Slovenia’s a close second with its “Little Dragons.” Nothing instills fear like a miniature version of a pretend creature. Was the name “Bitty Unicorns” already claimed by the team from Narnia?

Reason #5: Saving the Drama for your Mama
Would you rather watch reruns of Ryan’s Hope than see a minute of soccer? If so, have I got the story lines for you! Consider Argentina’s coach, Diego Maradona, who many consider the greatest player of all time. After a brilliant career, a slide into drugs and a chance for redemption, Maradona’s vowed to run naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if his team wins. He’s like Roger Clemens, Britney Spears and Frank the Tank rolled into one person. Or how about England’s John Terry? He’s won countless league titles and awards and was expected to lead England to World Cup victory as its captain. Until he slept with a teammate’s wife. That player left the national team and Terry’s no longer the captain. Whoops. And then there’s France. With moments remaining in its do-or-die qualifying match against Ireland, down by a goal, France was desperate, needing a tie to advance to the World Cup. Enter its most famous player – Thierry Henry – who palmed the ball, not once but twice, and handed it (literally) to his teammate who scored the equalizer. No justice, no peace, writes the man of Irish heritage.

Reason #6: No 7th Inning Stretch Necessary
At some point, even the most jaded baseball fan has to admit that another 9-4 Red Sox victory over Kansas City on a muggy June night is just plain boring. The seventh inning stretch? Seriously? Do you really need to stop the action to remind baseball fans there’s a game going on? Soccer doesn’t need a Slim Goodbody exercise routine to a Wayne Newton tune to reenergize its fans – the game provides all the energy and excitement you could ever need, and then some.

You Gotta Watch These Games!

USA vs England – Saturday, June 12@ 2:30 PM on ABC (“Give me liberty or a two-goal victory!”)

Brazil vs North Korea – Tuesday, June 15 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN (Samba music and bikini-clad fans or paranoid recluses with god complexes? You choose!)

France vs Mexico – Thursday, June 17 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN2 (France is lucky to be here, and Mexico hasn’t forgiven Napoleon III for his misguided dreams of conquest)

Greece vs Argentina – Tuesday, June 22 @2:30 PM on ESPN (Ninety spirited minutes of soccer followed by symposium titled, “Learning from our Mistakes - Debt, Currency Devaluation and Civil Unrest”)

Portugal vs Brazil – Friday, June 25 @ 10 AM on ESPN (Colonist and Colonizer meet on the last day of pool play – only Portuguese spoken here)

Free to be Wii

2010-04-29T21:04:00.003-04:00

If I ever needed proof I’m no athlete, I think I’ve found it. My shoulders ache, my neck feels like it’s wrapped in cement, and there’s a tingling burn stretching from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. My ailments come not from half-nelsons, dodgeball or co-ed karate – they come from a video game. I’ve discovered Wii Tennis, and I don’t care how sore it makes me.

You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.

It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.

My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.

After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.

Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.

This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.

I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.

Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.

The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.

I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.

I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.

I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.

Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.

It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.

But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.

Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.

Tolling for Dollars

2010-03-25T19:34:00.003-04:00

Among the handful of constants in this life – death, taxes, overcooked asparagus – one such constant bears investigating. I speak of tolls, that unavoidable fact drivers in America face day after day after day. But what’s inside that booth? Who’s collecting our money, and why do we thank them for taking our cash? These and many more questions await me as I spend a day in Hooksett as a toll operator.

I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.

I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”

Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.

From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.

Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.

Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”

I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.

There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.

“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.

Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.

Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.

A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.

A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.

One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.

My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”

“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.

“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.

This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.

One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”

This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.

Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.

One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.

Hot Mess

2010-02-26T17:31:00.000-05:00

I’ve always tried to ignore certain friendly notions, like, “Let’s go winter camping” and “You should wax your chest,” and until I tried it, I’d have added, “Hot yoga is something you must do!” to that set of suggestions. But after last week’s experience, I’m rethinking everything. Hot yoga, or “Bikram” yoga, is different than your standard yoga. It’s essentially volunteering to exercise inside a large terrarium, akin to spending ninety minutes doing slow-motion jumping jacks in Nana’s attic apartment in early August, except Nana’s wearing next to nothing and sweat’s flying off her like loose change off a Tilt-a-Whirl rider. I guess we’ve run out of fitness ideas because exercising like you’re doing yard work in the Gobi Desert seems crazy.

My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.

I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.

I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.

Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.

It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”

Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.

I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.

Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.

“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.

It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.

Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.

My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.

My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.

I How I Learned to Survive the Apocalypse

2010-01-21T19:18:00.003-05:00

The end is near. Okay, maybe not next week but it’s coming at some point. And we all have a theory how it’ll go down. Adherents to the world’s faiths - from Catholics to Druids, from Zoroastrians to Methodists, from Jews to Muslims - everyone has a theory, and none paints a rosy picture. If it isn’t fire, then it’s brimstone. If it isn’t forty days of rain then it’s a plague of frogs. And if it isn’t Elvis on Ed Sullivan, it’s definitely Snookie on the Jersey Shore. Between bangs and whimpers, it’s tough to know what to expect. But I’m less interested in how it’ll happen – I need to know how to survive once the dust settles.

If it’s true what Steve Martin once said, that “All of life’s questions are answered in the movies,” then it’s time to turn there for some answers.

I’ve spent the last week immersed in a series of post-apocalyptic movies, learning what to expect once the end arrives, and what to eat, wear and avoid if I make it through. And based on what I’ve seen, the future’s a bummer. Expect it to be filled with desperation, danger and death as well as violence, hunger and Kevin Costner, in either a mailman outfit or with gills behind his ears.

The catalyst for this assignment was last week’s premier of the latest post-apocalypse movie – The Book of Eli. In it, Denzel Washington stares down the forces of evil and illiteracy as he does his part to save civilization.

So as you prep for surviving the end of the world and get ready to embrace whatever the future may hold, give the following some thought. And just remember no matter how bad the future may be, it’ll be lots better than Waterworld.

Revenge of the Bookworms
Film: The Book of Eli (2010)
The Gist: It’s been 30 years since nuclear war destroyed most of civilization; in the war’s aftermath, all books were burned, blamed as the source of discord; no Bibles remain except the one in Eli’s backpack, and he’s walking to the West Coast with it, on instruction from a voice from above. Eli runs into trouble along the way. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Eli, aka, “The Walker,” (Denzel Washington) interrupts his daily Bible reading to dish out doses of righteous justice against those who block his way; handy with a machete, a scatter gun and his fists.
Who to Avoid: Carnegie, a small-town boss with big dreams; he’s one of the few who can read, wants that Bible and will do whatever it takes to get it; sounds like Regis Philbin when agitated.
What We’ll Eat: Cat meat and roasted vulture
What We’ll Wear: Sunglasses and comfortable shoes
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Say goodbye to library late fees and summer reading assignments.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Gun-toting elderly cannibals can be quite hospitable.
Quote to Memorize: “You will be held to account for the things you’ve done.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tips: Bring plenty of cat oil lip balm, sunscreen and a bicycle, because it’s a long way to San Francisco Bay on foot.

Last Gas for a Thousand Miles
Film: The Road Warrior (1981)
The Gist: The world runs out of oil, leading to nuclear war. Bands of roving thugs rule the roads, looking for gasoline. One community with its own refinery is besieged by the bad guys and plans an escape to “paradise” on the coast; all they need is a big truck and a savvy driver with nothing to live for. Max, the Road Warrior, arrives to lend a hand. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Max (Mel Gibson), a former cop, drives a V8 Interceptor, carries an unloaded shotgun, loves his dog and doesn’t want any trouble unless it comes looking for him; when trouble does arrive, Max handles it with stoic aplomb and defensive driving.
Who to Avoid: The Lord Humungous, aka, “The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla,” a muscled Austrian goon who wears an iron mask and studded leather suspenders; gives lengthy speeches over a makeshift sound system while his minions pop wheelies, fornicate, pillage and destroy. Any reference to current governors of western states is purely coincidental.
What We’ll Eat: Canned dog food and snake meat
What We’ll Wear: Street hockey equipment, leather chaps and knitted scarves
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Zero peer pressure to brush our teeth
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Children will have limited verbal skills, hair like the bassist from Motley Crue and can throw boomerangs with amazing accuracy.
Quote to Memorize: “You want to get out of here, you talk to me.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Tuck your hybrid car away until the nuclear fallout subsides; you’ll be the envy of all marauding gangs of murderers until they catch up to you and kill you.

Water, Water Everywhere . . .
Film: Waterworld (1995)
The Gist: Global warming melts the polar ice caps, covering civilization in water. Hundreds of years later, a hearty band of civilized folk is attacked by the Smokers, a rampaging pack of morons who seek the secret map tattooed on a girl’s back that leads to dry land. A mysterious loner, the “Mariner,” wants to be left alone but is forced to save the child and her guardian from certain death. Chaos, bad dialogue and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: The Mariner (Kevin Costner) sails the oceans alone on a super-cool catamaran, minding his own business, until he agrees to help save the girl and her map. He can hold his breath underwater for hours on account of his gilled ears and webbed feet.
Who to Avoid: The Smokers, led by Dennis Hopper in one of the worst displays of over-acting ever captured on film. They row across the ocean in the Exxon Valdez, smoke cigarettes and look for people to kill while firing guns from their jet skis.
What We’ll Eat: Barbequed sea beast blubber, Spam and Jack Daniels
What We’ll Wear: Garbage-accented smocks and form-fitting swim trousers
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Recycling urine into drinking water
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Jet skis are finally cool.
Quote to Memorize: “I’ve sailed farther than most have dreamed.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: First learn how to swim; the gills and webbed feet come later.

Not Without That Baby!
Film: Children of Men (2008)
The Gist: It’s 2027, and not a single child’s been born for almost two decades. Between pandemics, terrorists, concentration camps and the slow but unavoidable demise of the human race, the near future is a miserable place. Theo, the protagonist, gets dragged into the middle of a plan to help the only pregnant woman in the world deliver her baby while avoiding both opportunistic and murderous home-grown terrorists and the anti-immigrant British police state. Chaos, mayhem and anxiety ensue.
The Hero: Theo (Clive Owen) works in the Ministry of Energy, living a dead-end existence, avoiding terrorist bombs and rock-throwing gangs of kids (and that’s just in the first five minutes) until he agrees to help a pregnant girl and her unborn baby escape to safety. His plan to do it for the money falls apart, and Theo finds himself in a world of trouble, armed only with flip flops and a trench coat.
Who to Avoid: You can’t trust anyone in the near future, except for Michael Caine and his catatonic wife. The government offers out at-home suicide kits (“Quietus - You’ll know when the moment is right”) while terrorists fight pitch battles in the streets. But you can still listen to rock and roll and drink wine, so it isn’t all bad.
What We’ll Eat: No one has any time to eat – too busy escaping, fighting or hiding.
What We’ll Wear: Same as today except a lot more wrinkled.
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: With no kids around, we can use foul language all the time.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: The “Pull my finger” trick still gets a laugh.
Quote to Memorize: “The last one to die, please turn out the lights.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Maintain friendship with eccentric older pal who helps you escape once the double-crossing terrorists come for you – and they will come for you.

It’s Mail Time!
Film: The Postman (1997)
The Gist: It’s 2013, about 20 years since nuclear war ravaged America. A loner with a working knowledge of Shakespeare escapes the clutches of a ruthless army and is saved by the skeleton of a postal carrier and his mail truck. The loner becomes the Postman, redeeming American society from the brink of collapse through the regular delivery of the US Mail until the menacing army arrives to exact rough justice. Chaos, mayhem and tearful goodbyes ensue.
The Hero: The Postman (Kevin Costner) has no intention of helping anyone but himself as he tries to survive in the wilderness. But he becomes the center of a popular movement to throw off the yoke of tyranny. Somehow he gets all the credit when his second-in-command does all the work.
Who to Avoid: The Holnist Army with its Law of Eight, led by General Bethlehem, a former copy machine salesman turned megalomaniac, who leads his horse-riding soldiers through the northwest, taking conscripts, housewares and women while hunting down the Postman for stirring up trouble and making fun of his artistic ability.
What We’ll Eat: Vegetables, horse meat and mule stew
What We’ll Wear: What can only be described as “Distressed Comfort Chic”
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Line dancing, bodyfathers and Tom Petty
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Despite the lack of shampoo and conditioner, everyone will have great hair.
Quote to Memorize: “How much mail can a dead postman deliver?” (asked in a rhetorical manner)
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Decline any civil service job offer unless it comes with a life insurance policy and a really fast horse.

Gingerbread Dreams

2009-12-17T20:12:00.003-05:00

It Begins
“This is the opposite of a merry Christmas,” my wife says to me as I eat another spoonful of green frosting in anger. I’m trying to build a gingerbread house, and it’s not going well.

“Yeah, dad. You’re like the Grinch,” Maisie, my 10-year old daughter adds from across the kitchen. Me? Anti-Christmas? Grinch-like? Wait a second - I’m the one who decided to make this gingerbread house from scratch in the first place – the guy who found the recipe, bought the ingredients, baked the gingerbread, made the icing, designed the scene and even agreed to listen to Christmas carols while I worked. I should get a congratulatory phone call from Pater Noel himself for this effort, but the two women in my life make it clear I’m no St. Nick. My whiny petulance isn’t helping.

“This whole this is stupid,” I mutter as I eat more frosting, my teeth now an unnatural shade of green.

It began so innocently. I accepted the challenge to build an elaborate gingerbread house as a way to embrace the holiday season- to breathe in the coconut dust, cream of tartar and ground ginger like they were gentle whispers from the North Pole, but instead I’ve got Canada mints in my teeth, red licorice in my hair and a structure in front of me that looks like it’s been sitting on the San Andreas Fault. To top it off, I’ll be judged on this effort by non-family members.

I may have made a mistake a week or so back, taking my wife’s suggestion to ask the Fru-Gals, those witty, talented recipe mavens from the Monitor’s Wednesday pages, to join forces with me in a gingerbread house building circle of columnists holiday celebration. But it quickly became a winner-take-all contest to see who could build the better gingerbread house. What started out as a “Laverne and Shirley drink milk and Pepsi with Fonzie” kind of thing devolved into a Battle of the Network Stars showdown, and I’m Gabe Kaplan running for my life from Robert Conrad because I made fun of the battery on his shoulder.

A nice, heartwarming tale of friendship and learning morphed into a ruthless competition of May the Best House Win, and I fear things won’t end well for me. But I refuse to quit. I can do this. I can build a winning gingerbread house.

The Design
For starters, I head online to find that one perfect design, perusing plans for everything from wee cottages to entire villages, from luxury homes with names like “The Winchester” and “Kensington Manor,” to rustic bird houses of more humble origins. I first settle on “Barn with Silo Gingerbread House” – an understated yet traditional plan. But I dig a little deeper and search for “gingerbread outhouse,” just for kicks. And there it is - detailed instruction for an outhouse, or what’s officially known as a “1939 US Forest Service One Hole Leaching Pit Privy.” And any set of instructions that includes the phrase, “Warm and soften one stick of gum by carrying it your pocket, or if you’re female, by placing it in your brassier” is a keeper. I’m making an outhouse.

Man vs. Mixer
My friend Kim loans me her industrial-sized mixer, and after the first of three trips to the market, I get to work on making the gingerbread dough. I choose a recipe for “construction-grade” building materials and refer often to a list of tips a local gingerbread guru shares with me (name to be revealed when I win). Sure, it’ll be edible once I’m done, but road kill is edible too, but I’m not sure I’d take a bite.

I’m learning that industrial mixers don’t care if your hand’s in the bowl – they will continue to rotate regardless. The dough isn’t cooperating, and the more I try to time the rotations and jab in a spatula to coax the dough into behaving, the more I wish I’d chosen poinsettia farming for this month’s column, my knuckles rapped in regular intervals and my blood pressure rising.
“Are you sweating?” my wife asks as she walks into the kitchen. She doesn’t wait for an answer as I mop my flour-covered brow. I finish the dough, two huge bricks of it, and put it in the fridge for a few days as I work out my design. By this point, the smell of gingerbread is vaguely nauseating, like the morning after an elfin frat house bender.

Measure Once, Cut Twice
I’ve decided to make matching his and hers outhouses, in homage to a simpler time when men were men and industrial mixers were something you wore your dancing shoes to. I’m reminded of what I’ve gotten myself into when I see my friend Steve at the gas station. He’s dressed in full camouflage, filling red gas cans for his four-wheeler. He’s spending the day in the woods building tree stands for deer hunting. “So what are you up to today?” Steve asks me.

“Um, uh, building a gingerbread house,” I respond. Steve doesn’t guffaw or slap me in the head with a deer hoof, but as he drives away, I’m sure he’s thinking, “That guy’s got rocks in his head.”

Maybe a few rocks, but definitely not much patience. Back at home I cut out patterns and bake them for my matching privy huts, learning that uneven dough, dull knives and hyperventilation are a recipe for misshapen results.

Decoration Day
It’s Decoration Day, and I’m up early, determined to start and finish planning, constructing and decorating my design. My daughter’s agreed to help. The two of us are two peas in an impatient pod, so this should be entertaining for anyone within earshot. “Maisie, wait – we’ll do the icing in a second.” “Stop – put that knife down – wait for me.” “If you keep eating the licorice, you’ll feel sick.” This one-way discussion lasts for a good hour before Maisie announces she needs a break. I’ve been getting everything ready all morning, and between making the royal icing to rolling out the fondant to debating whether marshmallows or coconut makes better snow, I haven’t figured out how to make the most of Maisie’s talents. We settle on Christmas trees – upside-down ice cream cones covered with green icing flowers. After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the decorating tip and a bag filled with half a pound of green frosting, I can feel the frustration rising. “Dad, are you done yet? I want to get started,” Maisie asks. I hand her the sugar-filled plastic bag, and she gets to work. My wife just shakes her head.

Meanwhile, the royal icing’s leaking all over the floor behind me as the walls of the first outhouse dry, cans of Spam and kidney beans holding them in place. But slowly, as Maisie makes her forest, the outhouses take shape, complete with white toilet seats and rolls of cottony-looking toilet paper. Maisie adds mini stars to the trees and a snowman, and our scene comes together. As the doors go up (star for the man’s outhouse and half-moon for the woman’s), I’m starting to think I’m getting the hang of this. I add a fondant pond dyed a swirling shade of blue with a “Thin Ice” sign for good measure, surrounded by shoveled coconut snow. The ventilation pipes on the outhouse roofs add a nice touch, and Maisie’s snowman wears a Smarties fez atop his fondant head.

Drafty Dreams
But there’s still so much to do. Maisie’s wandered off, the icing continues to drip and stick to everything, and my second outhouse looks like it’s one snowman stink eye away from crashing down into a barely edible heap. And if I hear George Michael sing one more verse of “Last Christmas,” I may escape by downing the remaining pint of royal icing and lapsing into a sugar coma.

As the afternoon lingers, I try an ambitious design approach. I’ve covered one of the outhouses entirely in white fondant, that smooth, elastic coating you see on fancy cakes. I wanted to glue red licorice in a candy cane pattern to the fondant, but gravity works against me. So I use red frosting, but that looks even worse. I then paint red lines with concentrated red food dye, but my lines are less than parallel. I finally just coat the entire outhouse blood red, like something out of The Shining. I cover the rest of the scene in coconut and icing, adding a sprinkle of glittery dust for that just snowed-upon look.

It’s close to 9 PM, and I’m out of supplies, time and interest. I’ve spent more than twelve hours on this project and plan on never eating gingerbread again. My back’s killing me, and my fingers are stained blue, red and green and covered in glitter. It’s time put the icing down and go to bed where visions of drafty outhouses will dance in my head. Next year, I’m going deer hunting with Steve.

I Survived Black Friday . . .

2009-11-28T09:42:00.001-05:00

Black Friday, America’s de facto shopping holiday, falls every year on the day after Thanksgiving. I’d thought about participating but never did, held back by pride and the lack of both patience and money. But this year I couldn’t resist the lure of great deals any longer. So I joined in a strict observance of Black Friday. This is my story.

Thursday

10 AM – The morning paper arrives with thirty-plus store flyers crammed with Black Friday deals – from Bon Ton’s ruffled handbag collection to brand-name laptops at Best Buy to $49.99 quilting sets at Jo-Ann Fabric to dirt-cheap sweaters at Old Navy’s “Gobble Palooza” event. The Burlington Coat Factory offers reasonably priced “bubble jackets” for the whole family – the photo depicts a nuclear family smiling like Chinese factory workers during a party official’s visit, except for the dog, who wears a bubble jacket and a distracted frown. His jacket may say, “Black Friday savings!” but his smile says, “Looking forward to biting the animal wrangler who stapled me into this coat.”

11:30 AM – I reread the flyers, working out my strategy. I notice the fine print and see phrases like, “Five per store,” and “No rain checks.” Rain checks are for baseball games – what does this all mean?

5:30 PM – The week’s news stories are filled with warnings about Black Friday. “How to Survive Black Friday” is a popular headline (stop, drop and roll, I suspect) as is “Black Friday’s Dirty Secrets.” The unfortunate word choice of “Door Busters,” used to describe the best deals imaginable, isn’t lost on me. A Long Island Wal-Mart worker was killed on Black Friday 2008 when a crowd couldn’t wait any longer, burst past the doors and trampled the young man to death. I might pin my home address and blood type to my own bubble jacket in case things go awry.

6:00 PM - My 14-year old son Sam agrees to join me. He’s faster and stronger and pines openly for a new video game, assuming it’ll be his reward for joining me. “We’ll get it at Best Buy on sale,” he announces. We agree to start the night at the Tanger Outlet mall in Tilton, twenty minutes north and end our excursion at Best Buy in Concord.

11:20 PM – A lone spotlight scans the night sky over Tilton as we park and head towards the mall. There are so many people here that it’s unnerving. The mood isn’t what I’d call “festive,” despite the quartet playing Christmas carols on their flutes and horns. Scores of people walk the concourse, some standing in lines dozens deep, waiting for stores to open. I meet my sister and her friend, and we part ways immediately. There’s no time for family on Black Friday, unless a loan is necessary.

11:35 PM – Standing in the middle of the Nike outlet, we try on jackets, pullovers and shirts. Sam grabs a bag of socks with the word,”Irregular” on it. Pirates would have loved this place.

11:50 PM – Lines outside stores like J Crew, Ralph Lauren and The Gap are growing. The sidewalks teem with shoppers, none of whom seems to want to be here, especially the two toddlers in a dual stroller whose mom wedges them through the crowd. I’ve seen better parenting choices but keep it to myself and run to find Sam, who’s in Banana Republic, looking for a jacket for his mom. The store’s a whirlwind of frenzied shopping. Everything in the store is 50% off tonight, and you’d think a lifetime of free healthcare’s included with every flat-front khaki trouser sold because people are giddy, their arms filled. We learn the jacket (“with toggle buttons”) was gone weeks ago and leave empty-handed. Besides, how many cowl-neck safari picnic jackets with matching print scarves can one person buy in a night?

Friday

12:09 AM – Sale prices at Brooks Brothers are like cute girls at Sci Fi conventions – they exist only in rumor. You always end up alone with a $70 pink seersucker bathing suit on sale for $65.60, just like the last time. “Can we please leave this place?” Sam begs. We watch shoppers file into the Yankee Candle store. Every elementary school teacher from Meredith to Hollis must be getting one this year – people caress huge candle buckets as they lurch outside, no hint of a smile or a sense of relief on their faces. A teenage girl in her pajamas and slippers shuffles past holding her boyfriend’s hand, heading for the monster line outside Starbucks.

12:40 AM – The mood on the sidewalk isn’t improving. An angry woman cuts us off as she runs into Casual Male XL. I’d be grumpy too if my casually extra-large spouse sent me to Tilton in the middle of the night to find him a new formal muumuu and matching compression stockings.

12:48 AM - People look anxious, almost panicked, like when Gamera appeared in the night sky over Tokyo. I’d welcome an enormous prehistoric sea turtle rising up in the sky over J Crew, scattering the waiting crowds with a shriek and a blast from his fire-breathing snout. “This is kinda scary,” Sam says, and we head for the car.

12:53 AM – We reject the idea of sleep tonight and instead sit down for a hot meal. Over plates of eggs, corned beef hash, vanilla cokes and waffles, we sort the store flyers into three piles- YES (Best Buy, Dick’s, Bon Ton), NO (Kohl’s, JC Penney,) and MAYBE (Wal-Mart, Toys R Us, Sears and Michael’s Crafts). It’s barely past 1 AM, and as the diner fills to capacity, we decide to head to Concord and whatever awaits us.

1:40 AM – After midnight, the line between Wanting and Needing gets blurry. “You want a nice TV, and the sales are so good, so you really need it,” Sam suggests. “And I need Call of Duty, definitely.” A few days earlier, when I told my wife about Target’s Doorbuster Special – a flat screen TV for less than $300, her response was similar. “I want that TV – no, I NEED that TV.” Wanting and needing have always meant the same thing to me late in the night’s wee small hours. Tonight must be no different.

2:10 AM – The line inside Toys R Us is either free market capitalism at its best or its abject worst. It ends at the registers and snakes back and forth, down every aisle along one wall to the back, across the back wall and begins somewhere along the opposite side, heading back down towards the registers. At least 600 people stand next to shopping carts filled with games, clothes, action figures, horses and books, their eyes a mixture of despondency and gloom. One man has ten board games in his cart - on the top rests game, “Would You Rather,” as in, “Would you rather feed your pancreas to angry hamsters than be in this line much longer.” I bet a few people wish they had a Strangle Me Elmo so they could end it before reaching the checkout line.

2:35 AM – We enter Wal-Mart and wonder if this is like what Woodstock was like before the bands arrived. Groups of people sit on the ground, playing cards or reading books, closed off behind yellow rope, waiting for the 5 AM clarion call to take advantage of sale prices. I wait a half-hour to buy a camera, and we watch the crowds grow and grow. The poor woman waiting on us is in a full sweat, knows very little about these cameras, fending off line cutters and people looking for ammo and candied yams.

2:50 AM – Sam tries to ask me a question but it sounds like he’s talking in his sleep. Two women pass by, and one of them says, “You looking for Wii games? They’re in the Dairy section,” as the other woman accepts this truth without hesitation. Black Friday – a day when everyone should expect $60 video games to be sold next to unsalted butter and strawberry Go-Gurt squeeze tubes.

3:05 AM – Near the Wal-Mart exit, a woman exhales cigarette smoke in my face while yelling into her cell phone, “Seriously? She needs another microwave? That’s wicked stupid.” We keep walking. In the car, we need a moment. Wal-Mart just sucked the life from us. Sam crawls into the back and fashions a bed for himself among the coupons.

3:09 AM – Corned beef hash is never a smart choice.

3:10 AM – Our plans to shop at Best Buy need to change. Doors don’t open for almost two hours, and the line is hundreds of people long. Two tents are pitched near the entrance, and police officers chat with future customers. “I’m not waiting in that,” Sam says, his hopes for a low-priced video game dimming. I ask people how long they’ve been waiting. “Since midnight,” someone yells. “Ten o’clock tonight!” a father and son shout. “I’ve been here since two yesterday afternoon,” one guy tells me as he heads to the port-o-potty. I can’t tell if he’s proud or embarrassed.

3:55 AM – “So if Best Buy won’t work and there are only five TVs at Target - what are you gonna do?” Sam asks. He knows I want a TV – the ones I saw in the flyers – and he won’t let it go. We’re parked near Bon Ton and Sears, and they both open in five minutes. I find the Sears flyer and clarify the want versus need argument, circling the $379 32” LCD TV (only six per store – no rain checks). “Then let’s get in line,” he says, and we do.

4:01 AM – I’m trying not to run, and the woman in front of me is doing me no favors, shuffling along at a non-competitive pace. Where is Sam? I’ll never get there in time – only six per store! Would you please hurry, I want to yell. I find the line but am too far back. Want and Need have converged into “I can’t imagine life without that TV.” Just then, Sam’s head pops out of the line near the front. “We’re all set,” he smiles. He’s right. We get the TV I wanted and needed and head for the door.

4:50 AM – I’m trying to do the math, calculating the savings from my Bon Ton coupons and the offers on the down comforters I’ve been instructed to find. If I did it correctly, Bon Ton owes me $37. But on second thought, I’ve been awake for almost twenty four hours, and math’s never been my strong suit. Put them down and walk away.

5:25 AM – The traffic is so thick that we have to fight to get across the road to Dick’s Sporting Goods. The sales are mediocre at best here, unless I want cold weather hunting bib overalls. Sam’s wandering aimlessly, the energy leaving his body. I’m lost in women’s sportswear, seeking a new top for my wife. I grab one and feel it with my fingers and as I look up, a woman stares at me and walks away. Even on Black Friday, pawing women’s sportswear in public is frowned upon.

5:35 AM – One last attempt at Best Buy, but the line is even longer, and they’re managing the door like bouncers at a discotheque - two come out, two go in. Before we can park, a mom and daughter pair in matching sweat suits and perms cuts us off. They look like they power-walked from the Epsom traffic circle. I don’t have the strength to even honk.

5:45 AM – Target is complete chaos. The line stretches from the cashiers to the absolute back of the store, and we walk the length of it just to see how bad it is. The aisles are crowded, and I bet if I shouted that plastic forks were now on sale in Aisle 16, we’d have a full-scale riot. We leave and head home. We’ve had enough.

5:50 AM – The rain starts to fall. We’ve lost the ability to converse, now communicating in a series of grunts and chirps on the ride home.

5:59 AM – I pull into the driveway. Sam walks upstairs without a word. I follow and fall into a restless sleep, my mind filled with extra microwaves, the Sears 50-yard dash, and dreams of a line at Toys R Us that stretches from here to infinity and beyond.

Llama Time!

2009-11-05T19:24:00.002-05:00

Of all the things I’d hoped to accomplish by the time I turned 42, placing my hands on the buttocks of a stubborn llama and trying to push it across a babbling brook wasn’t high on the list. But until today, I’d no idea what I was missing. Hamilton, the recalcitrant llama, is no fan of water, and this is the second stream he’s refused to cross. We changed direction about an hour ago at the lip of a shallow pool of marshy grass, and Deanna, my guide, isn’t happy. “This is the only way home, Hamilton,” Deanna says, gesturing me towards Hamilton’s hind quarters and taking my own llama’s lead from me. Dizzy, my llama, is too busy eating to worry about wet feet. He’s like a chubby kid in an éclair factory – the Augustus Gloop of the even-toed ungulate family – wolfing down everything he sees – oak leaves, wet grass, and pine needles. Dizzy’s also kept up a steady hum the entire hike, and it’s either nerves at my novice llama leading skills, or he’s just naturally musical. Either way, his humming gets louder as Hamilton digs his hooves into the mud.

My pushing gets us nowhere, so Deanna switches places. I’m now tugging on the halter while Deanna pushes. I’m half-expecting Rex Harrison to emerge from the brush and break into song about the Push Me Pull Me, but the only sounds are Dizzy’s humming and Deanna’s gentle chiding. For a large beast getting shoved and yanked in a direction he has no interest in heading, Hamilton’s silent, save for his heavy breathing.

Just as Deanna’s about to give up and return the way we came, Hamilton’s hoof slips in the mud, and in an instant, he’s airborne, all four legs a foot off the ground as he leaps past me onto the trail. I almost drop the lead at the shock of it but hold on as Hamilton stops. We keep moving along the trail, Dizzy humming a tune only he knows.

Deanna Morrison is my guide and host today at Cicely Farm, tucked in the northeast corner of Concord on the Canterbury line. Deanna and her husband have lived at Cicely Farm since the mid ‘90s, and Deanna’s llama habit didn’t start until a few years later. “My husband bought me two in ’99, and I’ve just kept going,” she tells me as we stand in her barn. The farm’s a sprawling expanse of pasture, hay fields, thick woods, white farm house, stables and this barn that’s more than 150 years old. What I notice most are the llamas. There are lots of them. They stopped and stared from the fields as I drove in, and now as I walk into Deanna’s barn, the llamas approach from behind the gate. At least a dozen fill the stalls - big brown ones, multi-colored ones and a spotted, light gray one with droopy, hairy ears that make him look like Cyndi Lauper, if she were a large ruminant who spits at strangers.

Since starting with two, Deanna’s grown her collection to twenty five llamas and three alpacas. The alpacas stick out, smaller with different ears and cream-colored coats that look recently shorn. Deanna talks while she works, a whirlwind of activity and enthusiasm. I learn that llamas can live to be twenty-five years old, are pregnant for almost twelve months, have sharp “fighting teeth,” and are originally from South America. “It’s time to feed these fellas,” she tells me, directing me to the bucket of pellets. Deanna herds in Hamilton, Dizzy, Spotty, Tatonka and Woody, to name a few. Notorious, aka, “Tory,” sees me, pins his ears back, wags his tail and clucks at me with his tongue. Just before I can say something stupid like, “He likes me! He really likes me!” Deanna scolds Tory to back away and warns me to keep my distance. “He’s clucking because he’s threatened, and llamas only wag their tails when they’re not happy.” So much for first impressions.

“Where’s your bucket?” Deanna holds the cup of pellets out near the feed bucket and repeats, “Where’s your bucket?” The llamas dip their noses down to the bucket, and she pours in the food. She lets them finish, shuttling them out and the others in, her and their movements a gentle, silent dance, the only noise the clanging of the gates and the steady munching of food.

After an hour or so of watching, listening and learning, I have to ask. “Why llamas?” Based on what I’ve seen, you can’t ride, hug or eat them, so why own a llama farm? Deanna explains the many reasons to own llamas but doesn’t do it for any of the ones she mentions. She doesn’t breed her llamas or enter them into performance or “beauty events.” She doesn’t train them as guards for sheep farmers, and she thinks shearing and selling the fiber is a waste of time (“I’ve got plenty of it tucked away and if you want some, you’re welcome to it.”) “My llamas are pet-quality llamas. I have my llamas for the llamas,” she explains as we spread hay out for llama lunchtime. Some llama owners grow bored or tired of the routine, and they seek Deanna out to take the creatures off their hands. “Most of my llamas are rescue llamas – I took them because their owners were done with them.” Based on the attention and care she gives them, these llamas have “llucked” out, you might say.

But Deanna’s explanation begs another question. Why would anyone breed llamas? There can’t be many llama obstacle courses in the world, and ESPN has yet to broadcast the Miss Llama Universe competition. I wonder if somewhere the Bernie Madoff of the Camelid class sits in his llama-fiber and jewel-encrusted Snuggie, counting his loot while the market collapses, exposing the llama breeding industry for the Ponzi scheme it just might be.

But I’ve got manure to shovel and hay to spread, and as Deanna leads me down towards the females’ enclosure, it’s easy to see why she loves this so much. The eight females surround me, quiet and calm as they nibble at the hay bale I’m carting. Deanna shoos them away as we make our way across the field, but as we stop, one llama stands in my way. Every step I take she takes one to block me. “That’s Fiona,” Deanna says. “She does not play well with people.”

As Deanna tells me this, Fiona approaches from behind, smelling my hair and breathing in my ears from her massive nostrils, walking around me, her hot breath covering my face. Now, my experience with the ladies has been that whispers of sweet nothings from a whiskered muzzle in my ear usually means good times ahead, but Deanna’s seen enough, and she pens off Fiona until I can finish spreading hay, filling water and shoveling manure. Fiona stands behind the gate, staring at me with her deep, dark glassy eyes. “She’s trying to assert her dominance over you,” Deanna explains. Considering she’s watching me shovel her poop into a large bucket, I’d say Fiona’s won this round.

I bid goodbye to Fiona and her friends as Deanna and I prepare for our walk with Dizzy and Hamilton. Deanna runs a small business here - “Cicely Farm Llama Adventures,” where you can “Hike with the llamas on our wooded trails.” Deanna’s chosen Dizzy for me because he’s one of the original two llamas and is comfortable on the trails. Hamilton’s a wild card, as we later realize, but Deanna’s the kind of farmer who’s willing to give every llama the benefit of the doubt.

The walk in the woods is worth it – we cover acres and acres of winding trails across Cicely Farm’s property, and the llamas, except for the water hazard hesitations, were exemplary. There’s something very relaxing about taking a hike with a llama, and I’m going back for seconds. But if you get there before me, tell Fiona I said hi.

(Learn more about Cicely Farm by emailing cicely.farmer@comcast.net.)

Cider House Fool

2009-09-24T18:15:00.003-04:00

“You got a pair of boots?” the farmer asks me as I shake his hand. It’s early on the last day of summer, and we’re standing next to overflowing bins of apples in the brisk morning air.

“Uh, nope,” I respond.

“Go find a pair and come back. Get ready for some hard work,” he says with a hint of a smile in his eyes.

I’d always wondered if I came from a long line of stout Irish farmers, despite the milky, callus-free hands of a toddler beauty queen and the work ethic of a tree sloth with a trust fund. But getting sent home for real-man footwear pretty much ends that debate. I’m no farmer, at least not yet.

I’m spending the day with Rob Larocque, the owner and boss of Carter Hill Orchard on the outskirts of Concord. I’ve picked my fair share of apples and swilled a lot of cider in my day, so I decide it’s time to go on the other side – to live the day as worker on Rob’s farm – to see apples from the inside out.

I arrive (again), this time wearing boots; Rob’s driving a forklift, moving bins of apples in a line out front of the huge barn. He shuts the engine off and comes over. “Follow me.” We snake past a conveyor belt, a team of people grabbing, bagging, weighing and boxing apples. I follow Rob into a back room. The noise is overwhelming, and he hands me a pair of airport luggage worker headphones, muffling the sound. Rob leads me to a window in the wall where apples tumble down a steel chute, through a washer, into a hopper and up a rubber-spiked conveyor belt. Rob’s pantomiming what he needs me to do, which I’m hoping is not lose my thumbs. He wants me to keep the loose twigs, stems and leaves out of the hopper while controlling the ebb and flow of apples from behind the wall. There are men to my left, but I’m too scared I’ll miss a stick to see what they’re doing. Between the dull roar of the machines, the slippery floor and my fear these apples will never stop, I’m finding it hard to settle into a groove, and asking for a comfy bar stool seems risky. But twenty minutes later the apples stop, the twigs are clean, and I finally figure out what’s going on.

Two men are setting the presses to make cider. My cleaned apples have been pulverized into a foamy, tan-colored goo that one man hoses onto 3x3 slats while the other lays down giants cloths, covering them with wooden pallets. I watch them stack at least ten of these combinations on top of each other while cider drips down. They shift the entire tower underneath an enormous press, and the steel arm spirals downward as the cider flows into a white drum below.
After they finish pressing the cider, I meet Rick Duame. Rick co-owns the cider outfit with Rob, and he gives me a tour of the operation, explaining everything from apple types (“Macs, Galas and Elstars in today’s batch”), to the pasteurization process, and the length of the cider-making season (“twice a week from early September until late March – when the apples run out”). Rick pours me a pint of cider before it’s cooled and pasteurized. “It’s a little tart – you’re tasting the Elstar apples – that was the last kind we used. It’ll change once we blend it.” Now we wait for the 800 or so gallons to finish pasteurizing so we can bottle.

It’s then I learn the second important rule of farming – never stand around like you’re waiting for a bus because there’s always work to be done. Rob sees me loitering and yells, “Make boxes!” He grabs the guy from the cider press. “Paul’s from Jamaica. Paul, this is Tim. He works for you. Tell him to make boxes.”

“OK, mon,” Paul says, handing me a tape gun and a stack of cardboard. I work like a man possessed, determined to show these guys I can do something right. I make at least sixty boxes, Paul stacking them as I finish each one. Just as I near the end, Rob walks over, looks at the boxes and says to all within earshot, “He made them upside down!” Everyone pauses to have a nice laugh as Paul shakes his head. “It’s OK. Don’t worry about it, mon,” he says to me.
Rob stops Rick and points to me, “Upside-down boxes! And what kind of idiot comes to a farm without boots!” Another big laugh. I deserve it all and set my sights on earning back some credit as the cider bottles start rolling.

My job is to take the filled bottles - pints, quarts, half and whole gallon jugs – and pack them into my upside-down boxes. Rob tells me I’ll need to slam the caps onto the bottles, using his open palm to demonstrate. Five minutes into the parade of pints and my hand swells from slapping bottle tops. Fifteen minutes later I’m developing a case of cider shoulder from grabbing and packing, and if I don’t slip on the juice under my feet, I might throw my spine out of line by lifting the gallon jugs onto the pallet. But I keep up.

Rick and Rob yell a non-stop steady stream of menacing encouragement (“Keep it up and you’ll be picking golden delicious all afternoon!”) and selected phrases not suitable for sharing in a community-oriented newspaper. I’m holding my own, and after two straight hours of controlled chaos, we’ve bottled, packed and stored all the cider, and I’m still alive. Rick has me test the finished product, and I taste the blended cider, delicious and smoother than the Elstar-dominated gulp I’d had before.

We eat a quick lunch before Rob introduces me to Laura, another of his employees, for a tutorial in bucket wearing and apple picking. Laura grabs my bucket and shows me the right way to wear it. “Make an X with the straps, pull them over your head and across your shoulders – keep them wide or your back will hurt,” she tells me, showing me how to fold the cloth bottom across the front and fix the straps to the hooks along the sides. Minutes later we’re next to a tree of Mutsu apples – big yellow ones the size of small melons, and Laura tells me how to pick. “Don’t twist – it hurts the tree and the apple. Grab it and turn the apple up from the bottom towards the branch,” she explains.

Laura drops me off in a row of Macintosh trees, and I find Paul and two other men. Paul shows me what to pick and what to avoid. “Take only the red ones, mon,” he says. Desmond, an older man with weathered hands and a woolen cap, watches me pick a few, offering, “This is called spot picking – choose the right ones.” I’m desperate to show them I can do this as I reach up high for a few apples. Desmond adds, “Don’t stretch. This is hard work, mon.” As I fill my bucket, I drop an apple on the ground and lean down to retrieve it. “Leave it where it falls. Don’t pick it up. OK, mon?” Desmond tells me as he returns to his bucket.

I’m slow at the start, trying to remember I’m spot picking and not grabbing everything I see. But as I keep picking and moving in and out of the trees, I find my rhythm. The third man in the group, Winston, is talking in a language that sounds like English but isn’t. I give up trying to figure out what he’s saying. He’s not conversing with anyone and talking so fast it’s like background music as we work. Every once in a while, Desmond or Paul nods, but no one talks except Winston, so we keep picking.

These Jamaicans, I learn between buckets, come to Concord for four months every year. Winston’s been coming to Carter Hill for eight years, Paul for five. Some of them have farmed tobacco outside Hartford, vegetables north of Boston and sugar cane back home in Jamaica. These guys are the pros, and that realization makes me work faster.

The apples never stop - it’s like these trees sprout new fruit the second I turn my back to empty the bucket. We’re still in the same long row of Mac apple trees, our group grown by two more men, one picking and the other moving the bins back and forth with the tractor as we fill them with bucket after bucket.

It’s now after 3 PM, and I’ve been picking for almost four hours, filling and refilling my half-bushel bucket dozens of times. My shoulders and feet ache, and I ask about quitting time. Paul responds, “Six o’clock, mon.” He smiles as my eyes go wide in disbelief. Another three hours of this and I’ll need a super-sized Aleve smoothie with an ibuprofen flavor shot to recover.

On cue, Rob arrives to check on the guys and to take me away. “It looks like you’ve had enough,” he says, my sweat-drenched shirt and punchy gait undermining my confidence in my new-found farming abilities. The truth is I haven’t had enough, and apples will never taste the same to me again.

Zen and the Art of the Mini Golf Marathon

2009-08-27T21:23:00.001-04:00

It’s time to say goodbye to summer, and I’m tired of the traditional send-offs. Enough with the melancholy moments on the beach as the late August sun sets, or wistful memories of the “last barbeque” at the neighbor’s house, wondering where all the time went, or even the persistent crawl of my kids’ summer reading tasks meandering towards a Labor Day deadline like a slow-burning fuse. I want to end it with a bang, something I’ll never forget, so I’ll say all my summer goodbyes in a single day.

To do this I devise an ambitious plan – an entire day devoted to miniature golf. My nine year-old daughter joins me on this farewell tour – a 200-mile odyssey taking us from the Lakes Regions to the White Mountains, from Funspot to Chichester, home of “the world’s longest mini golf hole,” to points in between.

Our day starts in Moultonborough, an hour’s drive north from Concord, at the Paradise Falls course. We’re greeted by a warm breeze, tropical music and an empty parking lot. Other than the young woman painting her nails at the counter, we’re the only signs of life here. We pay our $12 and begin.

The holes, with names like Cozumel, Aruba and Antigua, are challenging, and we weave through the course, over blue-dyed streams and gentle waterfalls. My daughter, Maisie, plays the course with concentrated fury. I fall apart at Bermuda, landing twice in the water. Maisie snags a two for par while I struggle for an eight. “Dad, that was like the Bermuda Triangle for you,” she says with a grin. We keep going. Maisie struggles a bit on the 17th, and after watching her fish her ball from the water and retaking a few putts, I ask, “So what’d you shoot?”

“How about you give me a five?” I counted at least twelve, but we’ll never make it if we let a few mulligans come between us. We compromise on a seven, finish the round and leave.

Next is the White Mountain Speedway in Tamworth. No steel drums or soft breeze here - just the relentless whine of go-carts and whirr of traffic speeding by the chain link fence. The course has real sand, real pin flags and a real attitude on a pre-teen in a muscle tee shirt with the word “Saugus” across the front. “Come ON!” he screams to his family, nudging his little brother as he yells. He’s part of a big group – I count eleven total, and we sneak in front of them on the first tee.

“I don’t like this course so far,” Maisie says under her breath, but you’d never tell by the way she’s playing. She avoids the sand, plays the curves just right, and nails birdie after birdie. The Saugus Eleven is right behind us, a mixture of boredom, competition and mediocre parenting. “Slow Down NOW!” the dad yells as the two brothers finish just behind us. Between my lousy scores, the go-carts and the threat of the Saugus Eleven inviting us home for Thanksgiving, my anxiety level’s rising. But Maisie could care less, and we zip along, finishing in a tie. Then everything falls apart. The two brothers swing golf clubs at each other’s heads while a wounded dog in a cast deposits his business in the picnic area. “This place is kind of sketchy,” my partner comments, and we run to the car as it starts raining.

Pirate’s Cove in North Conway beckons. Nestled in the parking lot of a Comfort Inn on Route 16, Pirate’s Cove boasts two eighteen-hole courses, both of them creative and impressive. We opt for the 36 Hole Challenge (a $23 bargain) and start at the Captain Kidd course. Maisie’s on fire – three holes-in-one in the first nine, and at the turn, she exclaims, “This is the best day of my summer,” ignoring the rain coming down. We finish (Maisie wins by a stroke) and move on to Blackbeard’s Challenge. The course is really something – knife-wielding life-sized pirates lurk in the lagoon as we snake through a cave hidden under the waterfall. “This is real sea water, Dad!” Maisie explains.

We spot a family ahead of us, four daughters and their parents. The dad tries to calm the youngest, who has as much interest in mini golf as she does in molecular biology. The mom has quite a tan, in stark contrast to her husband’s cubicle-white glow. She’s a walking convection oven, her salmon skin exuding a Mars-like hue, and I’m waiting for her to burst into flames. Her children are miserable, but she continues on, her carrot complexion a shining beacon for the cranky mini golf pirate in all of us. The dad works his ghostly magic, and the youngest finishes smiling, waving to her golf ball as it disappears down the 18th hole.

We’ve played four rounds, so we take a quick lunch break followed by a stop at Banana Village, North Conway’s hidden mini golf gem. We’re alone on the jungle tree house course as the rain falls in sheets. It’s fitting we’ve chosen to say goodbye to the wettest summer in recent memory during a total downpour. There’s nowhere to hide, and we keep playing, finishing all eighteen holes in minutes.

We have three courses remaining. I had five more on the list but miscalculated the drive to North Conway, and we’ll be lucky to get these in before the day’s over. Funspot’s next, the Granddaddy of them all. And by “Granddaddy,” I mean chipped paint, weathered obstacles and tattered greens. I remember this course from my childhood, and it’s sad to see it’s been frozen in time, not a drop of fresh paint or a stitch of new Astroturf since Bruce Jenner won gold in short shorts. Funspot’s scorecard still warns, “Please do not slow up game for succeeding players by foolery,” but we’re the only foolery out here in the rain. We ignore the deferred maintenance, hit holes-in-one at Waldo the Whale and both finish with a water-aided six under par!

We dry off by playing a round on Funspot’s indoor nine-hole course. Maisie, like one of Fagin’s minions, finds a free game token at the self-service kiosk, and she wins another free game at the 9th hole. I suggest maybe she leave the token for someone else, in an arcade “pay it forward” kind of way. She stares at me and just shakes her head, pocketing the token.

We drive to another Pirate’s Cove down the road by the Meredith town line, tackling the ups and downs of the course with vigor, finishing the round in record time. “I’m having so much fun today,” she says, bounding down the pirate ship planks from hole to hole.

Now south to Chichester and Chuckster’s, our last stop of the day. It’s dark outside when we arrive, and the course is soaked. A worker pushes a broom while his sidekick lugs a leaf blower, the pair doing its best to clear the standing water off the course. Nothing says “Relaxing Mini Golf Family Fun” like the eardrum-splitting sounds of a teenager cramming a leaf blower nozzle into the cup on the 11th hole as water flies skyward.

Maisie misses an ace on the mega-long hole by a quarter inch, and she grabs her ball and runs back up the hill to try it again, smiling and out of breath. Chuckster’s is crowded for a Sunday night, but we zoom along, nailing par after par.

It’s late, and we’ve been at it for almost twelve hours. Nine rounds of golf – over 300 holes at seven different locations. We can almost feel a chill in the late summer air as we turn in our putters and say goodbye. Summer’s over, and it’s time to hustle home. Besides, Maisie’s got some reading to do.

Road Trippin'

2009-07-23T23:03:00.002-04:00

There’s no better cure for the summertime blues than a road trip - hitting the highways with a destination in mind, plenty of snacks at the ready and many, many miles between where you are and where you want to be. My summertime road trip, like any good story, has a beginning, middle, and an end.

The Beginning
It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday night in Concord. My traveling companion is Sam, my fourteen-year old son, and our destination is Charleston, West Virginia. Sam’s soccer team qualified for a three-day tournament in the Mountaineer state, a good enough reason for a road trip as any, I guess. We need to cover close to 900 miles by Thursday, but true to road trip form, we start with a detour. Tonight’s goal is Baltimore, where the Red Sox play the Orioles tomorrow afternoon. Charm City and the Camden Yards bleachers here we come!

The sun starts to set as we leave our driveway for the six-plus hour drive south. Sam’s under strict orders from his mom to engage in lively conversation to prevent me from dozing off. We chat well into southern Connecticut, covering such topics as “Hidden High School Dangers” (girls, study habits, girls) and “Celtics – Better with Rondo?” We stop for a quick stretch and a snack, and as we return to our car, a man stands by my door, clutching a cellphone, a wallet, a pen and paper. He launches into a breathless explanation about needing $38 for a fan belt, and if I’d just give him the cash, he’d take my address and mail me the money the next day! So simple! I smell a scam and slam the car door with nothing more than, “Sorry pal. Can’t help you.”

Time trickles by, and after five hours, we stop for ice cream in southern Jersey, and I eat a Nutty Buddy while running wind sprints in the parking lot to stay awake. It’s past midnight, and as we cross into Delaware, Sam is asleep. The rain is falling, and I really should stop, but Baltimore beckons. We arrive after 2 AM and head to our room. We walk in, half-asleep and behold not a hotel room, but a magnificent, sprawling suite – living room, dining room, full kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms and what appears to be a room dedicated to a hot tub. We’re too tired to ask questions, and we sleep. Road trips are full of surprises, including getting the entire twenty-first floor for $87 a night! Thank you Baltimore!

Wednesday arrives, and after a lengthy exploration of our digs, we watch the Red Sox rally to tie the game in the ninth and beat the O’s in extra innings, the stands packed with vocal Boston fans. We return to our high-rise palace after dinner, resting up for more road tripping tomorrow.

The Middle
It’s Thursday morning, and we drive towards West Virginia. We listen to the radio, the Christian Ministry of Family on one channel and an expletive-filled rap song on another. We pass a reminder to, “Stay Alert for Maryland’s Wildlife,” and moments later see a five-man crew cleaning up a large dead mammal of some sort. “I think I just saw a dead mountain lion,” Sam says. Road trip irony, for sure.

We’re on Interstate 68 West, past towns like Flintstone, Wolfe Mill, and Friendsville, the landscape filled with sharp vistas and forests that stretch forever. We see a replica of Noah’s Ark (under construction) and sets of immense crosses in clearings. If this isn’t God’s country, the locals are doing their best to make a case for it, that’s for sure.

As we head south on Interstate 79 into West Virginia, Sam is engrossed in a movie, and I listen to music. I pass a rusty pickup truck carrying a dozen old washing machines, and as I speed ahead, one of the washers falls into the road and bounds down the highway, cars swerving to avoid it. Sam doesn’t see a thing and my retelling gets a tepid, “Wow, cool.” It’s sad when runaway lethal appliances elicit no emotion from teenagers.

Billboards now line the highway. We see signs for casinos and gambling addictions; we see advertisements extolling the merits of cash for gold, litigation, coal mining and Tudor’s Biscuit World, and we see lots and lots of billboards for virtuous and not-so virtuous living, the church billboards locked in a one-to-one battle with signs for adult entertainment establishments.

We fly past Morgantown, Big Chimney, Big Otter, and Mink Shoals, the highway cutting right through mountainside after mountainside, until we arrive in Charleston. From here, we’ll spend the next four days shuttling between the soccer fields and the hotel, passing towns with riveting names like Hurricane and Nitro. Imagine having the confidence to name a town after an American Gladiator from the ‘80s? Kudos, West Virginia!

During these hour-long drives to and from the fields, I conclude that for every church-related sign and cross cluster I see, I spy another for a strip club, my favorite a Barboursville establishment enticing drivers to stop in for “Amature Night.” Something tells me they’re looking for dancers when they really need someone who can spell.

We celebrate the 4th of July, our fifth day on the road, at a minor league baseball park in downtown Charleston. The game’s rained out, but we’re the lucky recipients of a Senator Robert Byrd statuette, his enlarged head casting an august visage on the soaked field. Back at the hotel, I find myself alone, outside in the pouring rain, watching a soggy fireworks show in the skies above Charleston. I’m ready to go home, taking Sam and Senator Byrd with me.

The End
My wish is granted, and the steady downpour cancels Sunday’s games, so we leave for Concord, driving straight home. Before we leave West Virginia for good, we stop for gas and snacks. I also snag a case of Yuengling beer, not sold in New England (for reasons I cannot fathom), and as we stand in line, the young man behind the counter says, “Sir? Sir! It’s not 1:00 PM yet. Sir, it’s not 1:00 PM!” I nod, thinking maybe the fella’s bragging about his newfound skill at clock reading, but it turns out no one, no matter how condescending, can purchase alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. I return the beer to the cooler, and Sam gives me a look that says, “Where’s my ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt when I really need it?”

Our route home takes us through Maryland, up Pennsylvania to New Jersey, then through the Bronx, into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and home to Concord. I think we’ve run out of things to talk about, having covered O’Shea family history, the sinking of the Lusitania and why Plankton is funnier than SpongeBob before we even make it to the outskirts of Harrisburg.

It’s now been almost twelve hours, and we’re punchy. We cram fistfuls of Doritos and Cheetos into our mouths, our fingers and faces stained with the sheen of pretend cheese as we imagine sleeping in our own beds. We barely speak for the last hour, the both of us staring at the road ahead, content in the silence.
We arrive home exhausted, this last leg more than thirteen hours of steady driving. We’ve covered over 2,000 miles, visited nine states, ate more fast food than recommended, snagged a mini senator, and tried to break local Blue Laws. It’s been worth it, but we’re more than happy to be back in Concord. Road tripping is fun, but there’s no place like home.

I Scream for Ice Cream

2009-06-25T21:23:00.002-04:00

Everybody smiles for the Ice Cream Lady. After spending an early summer day riding with Concord’s Ice Cream Lady, I can attest that everyone’s happy to see her – grandparents, babysitters, moms, dads, construction workers, guys in sports cars and on Harleys, cops, crossing guards, and of course kids – lots and lots of kids of every stripe. Gap-toothed, shirtless, wild-eyed, well-dressed, sprinkler-dashing, whiffle ball-playing, timid, bold, polite, rude, skinny, portly and even a little nutty – all of them love the Ice Cream Lady.

Susan Prowell drives a white 1973 Chevy truck outfitted with an enormous freezer, a tinny speaker mounted on the front and, I soon realize, minimal rear suspension. This last part I learn as we pull away from the front of Concord High School to begin our route. This is Susan’s fourth season selling ice cream. “I spent the last three seasons in Londonderry, but this summer, I’m here in Concord,” she explains as we head to White’s Park for our first stop. “We start when the weather gets warm, and we close up around Columbus Day,” Susan tells me, adding, “And I’m out in the truck every day it’s sunny. When the sun shines, I’m selling ice cream.”

After a quick peek in the massive silver freezer – two rows of four hatches each – I figure Susan must sell lots of ice cream. There’s every kind you’d ever want - ice cream sandwiches, bomb pops and bomb pop juniors, chocolate éclairs, strawberry shortcake (bar or sandwich), chipwiches, toasted almond treats, sundaes on a stick, snow cones, ice cream cones and a wide variety of misshapen non-dairy treats vaguely representing cartoon characters if their heads were on sticks and they had bulbous gumballs for eyes.

Ice cream trucks are heard before they’re seen, and as we roll into the new lot at White’s Park, a handful of customers heads towards us, the steady refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” drawing them to the truck like a sugary siren’s seductive song. Susan can play four songs on her speaker, but she’s partial to “The Entertainer.” “‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ drives me crazy!” she tells me as we park the truck.

A teenager in a Weezer tee shirt buys a chocolate éclair for himself and a Tearjerker Bomb Pop for his date. A little boy in a green striped shirt and an intense look in his eyes runs up with his mom. He looks like he’s been waiting since mid October for this moment. Susan asks, “What do you want?” “I want Batman.” Susan explains that it’s the only one she’s out of. “OK, what other one do you want instead of the Batman?” “I want Batman,” he repeats, and he’s staring so hard at the picture menu on the side of the truck that I’m wondering if he’s trying to use his X-ray vision to scan the freezer’s contents for himself. His mom intervenes, and he settles for Spongebob Squarepants for him and his toddler sister.

An older woman – maybe a grandma – approaches with a young girl. The grandma asks for something Susan doesn’t have, and they walk away empty-handed. The little girl looks back over her shoulder, either ready to cry or to find a new, better grandma who knows that a chipwich is just as good as Grammy’s frozen bread pudding any day.

We make a left turn into a cul de sac, and two grown men approach. They’ve covered in sweat, and we can see the building materials in the background, a new home awaiting its finishing touches. The older man – the foreman, I think, saunters up and in a wide grin asks for more details about the Cherry Chill. “Can I drink it? Do I need a spoon? How long will it take to melt?” he wants to know. He buys it and three sodas and heads back to work. You’re really never too old to enjoy a Cherry Chill. Which reminds me - it’s been over an hour and I’ve yet to sample the goods.

Susan motions to the freezer – “Take what you want,” she tells me. I choose a Blue Bunny Vanilla Big Dipper, a pre-scooped ice cream cone lined with chocolate, stuffed with creamy vanilla ice cream and topped with nuts. Every bite is Heaven, pure Heaven. I’m lost in the moment, and when I come around, we’re in a new neighborhood, parked at the corner with a line five people deep. A little boy brandishes a plastic sword and yells “Hi!” to Susan. “He’s not buying any today,” she says, the boy motionless on his lawn, the sword dangling at his side. I watch him as others approach, some with their moms or big sisters, but Susan’s right – no ice cream for the South End Gladiator today. A young mom approaches with her toddler son on her hip. “This is his first time getting ice cream from an ice cream truck,” the mom announces with pride. The boy points to a foot-long ice pop, but his mom selects something more manageable, pays a dollar, and we head off. “Some days I don’t want it to end,” Susan says, and I believe her.

Susan is part saleswoman (“For an extra quarter, you can get two.”), part flavor consultant (“Well, the Two Ball Screwball’s gonna have sort of a sour taste.”) and part debt counselor (“OK, you can pay me what you have there, but next time, ask your mom for another fifty cents, alright?”).

On we go, now towards Fisherville Road. We pull into a side neighborhood and as we slow down, a pack of children and moms approaches, a six year-old boy leading the way. He’s shouting at Susan, pointing down the street. We can’t hear anything, Scott Joplin drowning out the boy’s voice. But Susan follows him in the truck. The boy keeps turning around, pointing at us and then in front of him. We finally catch up at the corner where the boy’s mom tells us he wants us to follow him to his house, so across Fisherville Road we go. This Pint-Sized Moses has led his people to the Promised Land, and others emerge to partake in the fruitful bounty that he’s delivered to their doorsteps, his driveway now the land of frozen milk and honey. Mini Moses bounces back and forth as others choose their ice cream. “Be patient,” his mom says, but he’s full of questions. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Can we still get the Batman? Do you have any Batmans left?” The boy points to another choice. “What’s that taste like? What’s it like?” He settles on a Spiderman, walks away, reemerging a minute later. “Are these Spiderman eyes gum? Are the eyes gum?” Susan assures him they are, and he takes a lick, looks over the dissipating crowd and yells to us, “We’re here every day! Come back!” Susan makes a note of it, and we drive on. As I look through the back window, I see my Pint-sized Ice Cream Prophet wedging the left side of Spiderman’s frozen head into his mouth, doing a little jig of honest joy.

It’s been over four hours since Susan began her shift, and we’re somewhere near Shaker Road in a neighborhood packed with kids and parents. It’s past dinner time and everyone’s outside enjoying the early summer air, this one of the few nights it hasn’t rained in weeks. Kids approach on every corner. “Give me a drumstick with the chocolate chips!” “Yeah! I got a Sour Wower!” “I’ll have two Bomb Pops and a Tongue Splasher!”

A dad, his two kids feasting their eyes on the exhaustive menu, proclaims, “We’re just looking tonight,” and asks Susan a series of questions about the ingredients and whether the ice creams are individually wrapped. I’m tempted to tell him that window shopping at an ice cream truck is like eating a meatless hot dog at Fenway Park. What in God’s name is the point? But Susan is the model of customer service, answering all his inane queries with grace, ending with a smile and a promise to stop here again tomorrow.

I’ve been in the truck for almost five hours and am getting a little punchy. Susan lets me take over the sales pitch, and as a group of kids approaches, I announce, “We just ran out of ice cream, but we have lots of broccoli and yams.” Not a single smile. Susan jumps in and reassures the kids we’re flush with treats, and as they reach the front of the line, each kid gives me the stink eye. Ice cream is no joking matter. Just before we hit the highway to head back home, I reflect on what I’ve seen - dozens and dozens of smiling, happy kids and parents, every one of them thrilled the Ice Cream Lady stopped by for a visit. So next time you hear “The Entertainer,” keep an eye out for Susan and her white Chevy. Have your money ready because it’s worth every penny. Just remember to smile.

Final Vinyl

2009-05-28T20:37:00.002-04:00

This is the last place I’d ever expected to be. I’m standing at the counter of Pitchfork Records, a music store in downtown Concord, with a stack of record albums in my arms. The owner, Michael Cohen, motions for me to set them down, and he starts flipping through my collection. He’s chatting with another customer as he examines each one, tilting the album and sliding it out just so, keeping his hand on the sleeve and off the record’s surface.

It’s taken a lot for me to get here. I’m selling my records for the simple reason that I almost never listen to them anymore. I’ve been carting them around for over twenty five years, and even though my collection’s been thinned over the past two decades through loaning, poaching and subtle family pressure, I still own enough to make me wonder why I cling to stacks of unused vinyl as they gather dust. If someone else will listen, then why not sell what I can?

Still, these records have been a big part of my life, and as I watch Michael scrutinize each one, I feel like the pig farmer taking his beloved pet hogs to the bacon factory. “Be gentle,” I almost whisper, but I remind myself that my thirty-year-old copy of a mediocre Doors album can withstand a scan of its vitals, so I take a deep breath and let the man do his job.

I don’t have to do this – I could hide the records somewhere, stash them away in a trunk or maybe even use one of those services that turns them into bowls and ashtrays. But watching greasy-fingered guests scoop store-bought bean dip from the vinyl grooves of London Calling is like laying down pages from the Book of Psalms in a hamster cage. No – the right thing to do is sell them.

I start by dragging all my albums into the living room. I once had close to 400 records but own less than half that number, all of them now spread out on the rug, couch and table. My plan is simple – keep no more than twenty records and sell the rest. To do this, I start making two piles –Sell and Save.

Immediately, I take my eight Doors albums and place them in the Sell pile. This will be painful, but it needs to be done. Three Grateful Dead records join the Doors. Next is Joe Cocker, with his pugnacious mug screaming out from the album cover. Scream for someone else, Joe - into the Sell pile you go. A moment later, I realize this may get harder as I find Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits collection from the ‘60s and early ‘70s. My middle school friends and I would sit for hours listening to this record, and I can’t say goodbye just yet. Hot Rocks is the first record in my Save pile.

I spot Surrealistic Pillow, my lone Jefferson Airplane album. Grace Slick’s friendly smile from the cover makes me pause and consider saving this record from the Sell pile, but I’m quickly reminded of her future complicity in such ghastly efforts as “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Sara.” It’s like looking at the Unabomber’s high school graduation photo (cue the narration: “No one knew the terror Slick and her musical goons would inflict on American society years later . . .”). For this reason, Jefferson Airplane goes into the Sell pile. Granted, one fan’s “White Rabbit” is another’s “We Built this City on Rock and Roll,” but not in my record collection.

This is easier than I thought. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Into the Sell pile. Cat Stevens, early U2 and Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell? Sell. I’m now putting handfuls at a time in the Sell stack, and my Save pile is still just one record high. Stevie Wonder? Sell. The Byrds and Steppenwolf? Sell. My three Pretenders albums – sell, sell and sell.

Then I find Billy Joel. Growing up near Billy’s hometown and having an older brother who played the piano meant we listened to a lot of Billy Joel, and, technically, these are my brother’s records, but when Billy married Christy Brinkley and released “Uptown Girl,” my brother’s interest evaporated, and the records stayed with me. Billy goes into the Sell pile. Besides, there’s room for only one marginally talented short guy from Long Island in my house, so he really had to leave.

I make a run through my soul and R&B records – they all go into the Sell pile. Even the promise of James Brown’s “Hot Pants” and “Sex Machine” doesn’t sway me. James joins Jackie Wilson, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, the Four Tops and Sam and Dave. We had a nice run, but it’s time to move on.

But then I stop. I find my Clash albums, and even though I own multiple copies in all other formats (including cassette!), there’s no reason to be rash. Does a ferry boat captain leave extra life preservers on shore because they take up too much space? Never. The Clash goes into the Save pile, joined quickly by the Ramones, Elvis Costello and one of my four Joe Jackson records. And then I hit the mother lode – the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Who and Led Zeppelin. That’s more than twenty five albums right there. Without hesitation, I put them all into the Save pile. And with that gesture, I’m done. Sell outdoes Save by about three to one, and I get ready for tomorrow.

For old time’s sake, I give a few records one last spin, grabbing a George Thorogood record from 1978 to start. By the time “Move it Over” slides into “Who Do You Love” I realize I’ve been too hasty. When George rips into his cover of the Chuck Berry tune, “It Wasn’t Me,” I move George and his Delaware Destroyers into the Save pile. For kicks I put on some Wilson Pickett – ooh, that’s good. “Mustang Sally” is too groovy to sell, and after two songs from the Pretenders, I take all three of their albums and move them, with Wilson Pickett, into the Save pile. That leads me to the Bob Seger album I bought in 1981 at Record World in the Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. As Bob sings about feeling like a number (“I’m not a number – dammit I’m a man!”), I’m almost in tears. When he hits the chorus in “Fire Lake,” I want the charade to end – this hurts too much. Bob Seger is rescued from Sell to Save. The Animals, Bob Marley, Traffic and James Brown are saved as well, and the piles are now even.

But I need to finish this task, and as the morning arrives, just before I head out to Pitchfork to see this through, I take one last record from the Sell pile and put it on. It’s the Best of the Doors. I know every word on this entire album – from “Moonlight Ride” to “Soul Kitchen,” and “Break On Through” to “People are Strange,” and when “Light My Fire” starts, I’m sad – sad about saying goodbye, but to what I’m not sure. I can replace every song with the click of a mouse, but getting rid of these feels like I’m tossing old family photos in the trash. I sit in silence for a few minutes as the song ends, pack up the records and head downtown to Main Street.

About a third of the way through my Sell pile, Michael stops examining the records and looks up at me, oblivious to the somersaults my belly’s turning. “So what do you want for them?” he asks. I have no answer, half-expecting him to scold me with The Byrds Greatest Hits or smack me over the head with the Sam Cooke LP for my careless hocking of quality music, so I just stare back at him.

“How about $18 cash or $22 in store credit?” he says. I take the credit and spend these guilt-laden gains right here at Pitchfork, taking the next fifteen minutes looking for the right addition to my CD collection. I find it and leave, never looking back.

What’s left of my record collection now fits into a single crate, and I’ve accomplished the task of purging myself of things that sat unused. But something’s changed. Just today I pulled out an old Bob Dylan record and listened to it all the way through. If I can find the time, I’m gonna dive into the Beatles albums over the weekend. Who knows? I hear Pitchfork just got a great set of used records – maybe I’ll take a quick trip down there just to check it out – you never know when you might run into old friends.

What to Do with Your Records

1. Sell – Pitchfork Records will give you a dime or two per record, depending on the condition; but leave the Milli Vanilli records at home - reselling lousy music is the definition of bad karma.

2. Burn – options abound to transfer your vinyl collection to digital formats; check out www.teac.com for a host of turntable-to-digital audio possibilities.

3. Scratch – mix your old LPs, two turntables, a microphone and a nickname (“DJ Short Stack”), and you’re an instant DJ! Your old school cuttin’ and scratchin’ will impress family and friends. You might also win a date with Lindsey Lohan.

4. Frame –visit www.albumframes.com and learn how to frame those Journey albums for posterity. Don’t stop believin’ your spouse won’t care when you hang them on the living room wall.

5. Toss – put your old records on the side of the road and hope that lady in the blue minivan will drive by on trash day before the garbage men arrive. If you’re lucky, she may even take the Milli Vanilli box set.

Say Goodbye to Baseball

2009-04-30T22:23:00.003-04:00

I’ve said goodbye to baseball, and it’s not been easy. I calculate I’ve spent every second of almost two years’ worth of my life watching, listening, reading and talking baseball. Since I was ten years old, I’ve watched at least 125 games each season, and at four hours per game for thirty two years, the baseball-filled minutes on my cosmic cab driver’s meter tumble down at a frenzied clip.

And it’s only grown more intense in the last five years. With the addition of ways to watch, read and listen, I’ve increased my baseball commitment exponentially. How can I resist the Red Sox on TV, the Mets online and whoever’s trying to beat the Yankees on ESPN’s “Gamecast?” For those who don’t know, Gamecast is the single most important invention of the new millennium, followed closely by stuffed crust pizza and the ShamWow! With it, you can follow any major league baseball game silently online for free, tracking every pitch, hit and run, presented in a clinical, telegraph-like style that feeds a fan’s need to never miss a thing. At this rate, the next thirty two years of my life may not leave much time for anything other than baseball. So it’s time to reflect.

I’ve decided to go cold turkey for a spell to find other pursuits to occupy my time. Maybe I’ll learn a new language or my kids’ middle names or take up camping or Frisbee golf. The options are endless.

I commit to two full weeks of a baseball-free life in all its forms. No longer can I start my day with box scores and summaries in the paper, quick reviews of video highlights online, and a scan of the night’s pitching match-ups. And once game time rolls around, I can’t find myself in front of the TV or offer to drive to Laconia for milk just to catch a few innings on satellite radio. Of course, falling asleep to the nightly cable roundups must cease. I need to jump off this non-stop loop of baseball or I’ll never know what life is like outside it.

My wife and kids agree but doubt I can do it. “You tried this before and failed,” my son, Sam, reminds me. He’s right. I attempted a season-long ban last year, but survived a mere five days in January, undone by salacious trade rumors in the paper. I email friends, asking them to hold off sharing anything baseball-related for fourteen days; most agree, probably thinking this moment of insanity will pass. One friend, Bozo from Chicago, is hostile. “Stop this. Stop it immediately,” he yells into the phone. “You did this a while back. You know what happened – it’s all YOUR FAULT!” He’s referring to the role I may have played in the Mets’ infamous late-season collapse of 2007. I’d tried to stop watching earlier that summer, lasting only two days during the All-Star break. “They blew it because you lost your faith. Doing it again makes NO SENSE!”

I know that two weeks without baseball in April may seem like no big deal and that perhaps saying no in October would be a greater test, but that’s crazy talk. Besides, a baseball-free October would make me like a 2008 Yankee fan, and I hate the Yankees.

Day One begins poorly. The first words I hear from my clock radio are, “And Tim Wakefield took a no-hitter into the eighth”- I shut it off. This is going to take some effort. I manage to avoid the morning paper by closing my eyes and putting the sports section where I can’t see it, and I resist the urge not to visit ESPN.com. At night, I read an entire issue of National Geographic, learning more about frozen baby woolly mammoths and arctic sea ice than most Norwegians.

The first few days are awkward, like I’m in a fight with someone, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I can’t read the sports pages, won’t follow news online and almost break my ankle at the gym trying not to watch TV. It hasn’t been even three days, and I really miss it. With spite, I pray for rain. If I can’t watch baseball, then no one can. But I’m reminded of that Jimmy Buffet song about it always being time for a drink somewhere – it must be baseball weather somewhere, right? Good lord. I’m starting to make Jimmy Buffet references. I need help.

This might mean I’m experiencing the Joe Pepitone Five Stages of Baseball-Related Grief – annoyance, anxiety, loss, corruption and incarceration. Let’s hope I pull it together before those last two stages kick in. I don’t want to end up like Joe.

Friday night is rough. My wife’s out and my kids are occupied, and I have the TV, PC and XM Radio to myself. But I remain pure, instead reading newspaper stories about feral parrots in Brooklyn and wooden water pipes in Washington, then reorganizing my sock drawer before bed. Somebody shoot me.

Saturday is almost impossible. Sam reads non-baseball headlines from the paper in a mocking tone. “Dad, did you know that the Celtics are ready to play the Bulls in the playoffs?” He saunters out of the kitchen with a giggle, offering me no nourishment in this self-imposed barren exile. “Do you want to hear what happened in the Yankee game?” he announces at dinner that night. “Sure!” my wife shouts. Sam whispers in her ear. “Wow! That’s actually kind of shocking,” she chuckles. This isn’t fair. Whisper and Chuckles may drive me insane.

Sunday arrives. It’s Day Four, and I’m learning to live without baseball. Instead of flipping between screens, pages and stations all day, I paint my mailbox, watch my daughter do the hula hoop to Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” (I can explain), and go for a long bike ride. A few days later, my wife tells me, “This has been the best six days of my life,” and I’m not sure how to take the news.

But the resentment lingers. Driving to work as Week Two in the Wasteland begins, I see reminders everywhere. Cars with license plates like SOXCHIK, SOXRUL and FENWAY mock my pain as they speed along, their drivers listening to a recap of last night’s game or chatting with pals about Jacoby Ellsbury’s healthy head of hair. But I soldier on. With less than a week to go, the end is in sight.

Then things start to fall apart. We’re on a quick vacation in the White Mountains, and I make the mistake of wandering into the bar on Friday night at game time to learn it’s a Red Sox-Yankees weekend. It’s wall-to-wall Red Sox Nation, and I stare everywhere but the TV. A guy behind me, a real mouthbreather, starts crowing about the Sox. I’m now standing in the middle of a crowded bar plugging my ears like a first grader avoiding a scary story, humming to myself to drown out the voices. I escape before the first pitch is thrown, at least I think I do. My eyes are shut as I run away.

I think this confirms what had been my biggest fear – everyone talking about baseball all the time, but as I escape, I realize this is the only spontaneous discussion of baseball I’ve heard in almost two weeks. I’d thought it’d be common to hear strangers discuss Varitek’s batting swoon or how poor run support crippled Santana’s chances to win twenty games. But I now know it’s not. It’s me! I’m the only one who brings it up. I’m that guy who interrupts normal conversations about property taxes, deer ticks and buffalo chicken wraps with statements like, “Big Papi’s wrist injury hurt him from turning on the inside heat, that’s for sure.” I guess everyone around is not always talking baseball – they’re just waiting for me to take a breath so they can change the subject.

Then, Sunday night, I reach the breaking point. From Sam’s furtive channel surfing, I learn the Sox-Yankees game is on Sunday Night Baseball, but I won’t give in. I turn in early, hoping to dream about the lessons I’ve learned from such a bold experiment. I wake up around midnight and can’t fall back asleep, my mind consumed with what I’ve missed tonight, this weekend and over the past eleven days. I creep downstairs to turn on the TV but stop myself. I’m so close to surviving this banishment, and I must remain strong. I’m awake for another three hours tortured by the unknown. Skipping the Sox-Yankees series has upset my circadian rhythms for good, and I may never sleep well again.

As my fortnight hardball prohibition ends, I’m wondering what will change. Will I skip a game now and then? Will I stop blurting out meaningless statistics? Will I go spelunking instead of watching a twi-night doubleheader? Maybe I should ease myself back – start with a few Fisher Cats games, but I’m kidding myself. Double A baseball is a gateway drug. By Memorial Day I’ll be watching tape-delayed Mariners – Blue Jays games in reverse, looking for hidden clues in the signs from the third base coach. No – it’s all or nothing for me. Moderation is for fools. Let’s play ball.

Makin' the Sausage

2009-03-26T20:37:00.002-04:00

“These seats are saved,” the big guy says to me, his jowly neck jiggling as he motions with his head to the two empty chairs beside him. The room is packed with lobbyists, concerned voters, state legislators and me, and all I want is a seat. But he’s not budging. He stares forward, unwilling to make eye contact, breaking the unwritten rule that the only people who’re allowed to save seats are mean girls in middle school and dads at dance recitals.

I lean against the wall to the back, the room filling up with more and more people. Two high school kids with funky sneakers and studded bracelets stand to my right, with what looks like their teacher hovering near them, flipping through a packet of papers. Two women whisper to each other about how much money they really need for their programs, and a young woman from Governor Lynch’s office intently texts on her fancy phone. Everyone is waiting to begin.

I’m here in the Legislative Office Building in downtown Concord, spending a day with the state legislature, listening and learning, watching the sausage get made up close. When I learned that New Hampshire’s state representatives earn only $100 a year, I decided that any job that pays less than what an apprentice carny makes is worth experiencing for a day.

My guide is Democrat Jessie Osborn, who’s in the first year of her fourth term. Jessie’s been in the news of late, but I don’t know much about her. I met her a few days before Election Day, and what struck me was not Jessie so much, but her opponent. Jessie ran and beat a college student, Garret Ean, whose campaign flyer caught my eye. In it Garret smiles into the camera, an American flag behind him; atop his head rests a fabulous mound of well-groomed curly hair – like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons. Garret’s libertarian stances and hairdo didn’t win him the election, so I’m spending the day with Jessie instead.

I’ve accepted the fact that the big guy isn’t changing his mind, so I stand. We’re in a House Ways and Means Committee session, its seventeen members seated around a giant U-shaped table. Jessie takes a seat front and center at the table facing the representatives. She’s here to present House Bill (HB) 166, a proposal to raise the tax on every gallon of beer sold in the state by ten cents. Just before Jessie begins, my seat-saving nemesis is joined by two others, the three of them wearing bright orange name tags with the words, “Lobbyist” in white letters. At this point, I’ve walked the hallways of the Legislature for almost three hours, long enough to know you don’t need orange name tags to spot the lobbyists. Just look for the eager people huddling in corners, whispering into cell phones, furtive and focused. Almost to a person, the lobbyists are younger, walk faster and wear expensive shoes.

As Jessie starts, I notice my lobbyist pal and his buddies represent the Beer Lobby, holding documents with titles like, “The Real Truth about Drunk Driving” and “Raising Beer Taxes will not Reduce Abuse!” and they pass around committee seating charts and legislator bios, getting their bearings before the discussion starts. The group to my right is prepping as well, the teacher whispering to the two teenagers and pouring over notes. This is shaping up to be a fight!

Jessie presents her bill, and when she says things like, “epidemic” and “racketeering,” the beer lobbyists scribble things down and shift in their chairs. Fellow supporters now speak, and committee members ask questions. Just when I think it’s time to see the real debate, Jessie stands and heads to the door, motioning for me to follow her. Even though she’s started this elaborate conversation, she’s not sticking around to see what happens; she has other state business to attend to, so we leave. She mentions to me more than once, “This is not a typical day for me.”

When it comes to governing ourselves, Granite staters have no equal. We boast the world’s third largest legislative body, rivaled in size only by the US Congress and the British Parliament. What we lack in people, square miles, tax revenue and night life we make up for in legislative representation. We have a state rep for every 3,200 citizens while states like Texas (150 reps, or one per 160,000 residents) and California (80 reps, or one per 460,000) have fewer legislators than they have enormous stuffed jackrabbits and ancient tar pits, respectively.

We began this day with members of Concord’s delegation and the city’s School Board. I’m expecting something light, like maybe a second grade class presenting its petition to make the raccoon the state varmint. Instead, within minutes, we’re up to our necks in doom and gloom scenarios about empty coffers, unshoveled sidewalks and uncut cemetery grass. Concord’s mayor, Jim Bouley, enters and launches an impassioned plea for money. “Even if I close the library, eliminate the recreation budget, lay off eighty city workers, and don’t open any pools this summer, we still won’t have enough money!” he says. He adds, “This is absolute desperation. I’m pleading for your help.” A School Board member ends the discussion, saying, “Let’s pick a number and work to get there.” The Mayor thanks the group and dashes off to vanquish anti-Concord sentiments wherever they linger.

Jessie’s a member of the Municipal and County Government committee, and after the mayor’s departure, her fellow committee members file in to start tackling more Concord School board business, and I’m struck by the committee’s average age. Let’s just say that this is an experienced group, one that may enjoy leaf peeping, posing for daguerreotypes and mid-morning water aerobics. Considering the job’s volunteer wage and flexible schedule requirements, I see why our retired citizens make up a sizeable portion of our state’s 400 representatives, or at least of this committee.

The chairman bangs his gavel to bring the session to order, and we begin. Everyone is engaged, even when statements like, “The tax cap belongs to the entity on the ballot,” and “A charter commission needs to be voted on by the constituents,” fly about the room. I’m doing my best to follow along, but for the hour I sit, probably fifteen minutes is real substantive conversation - the rest is clarifications on rules, laws and procedures. I suspect many of the members haven’t done their homework, and most of the discussion is dedicated to making sure everyone clarifies what they’re trying to discuss. We finally start hearing the pros and cons from the crowd, but Jessie and I leave to head off to present the beer tax bill across the hallway.

Later in the day, we’re sitting on a bench outside the committee room when I ask Jessie about the emphasis on formal structure and rules. She tells me, “The rules prevent really bad bills with serious consequences from becoming law, and that’s a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, “she adds, “There’ve been a lot of bills I haven’t liked, but they’re properly vetted.” Just then a slender woman approaches in knee-high leather boots, her face holding the remnants of a tan. She gives Jessie a warm welcome, and then she’s gone. “A lobbyist,” Jessie says, stating the obvious.

It’s after lunch, and Jessie’s again in front of the Ways and Means Committee, this time to reintroduce HB 642, designed to create a state-wide income tax tied to property values. The room buzzes with anticipation. The committee pays close attention, except for the one rep whose eyes are closed and the other who’s combing his hair and dusting dandruff off his lapels while supporters quote numbers and revenue gaps. It’s time for questions, and one member does his best to mask his distaste for income taxes, his smirk leaking out from behind his Abe Lincoln beard as he peppers Jessie’s co-sponsors with questions. Another legislator then asks what appears to be an 8th grade math word problem involving a retired couple, tax rebates, property values and a train leaving Minsk headed for Paris. The question stumps everyone, and all the committee members, speakers, opponents, supporters and lobbyists flip through their notes to find corrections to fiscal notes and figures. I’d be lying if it’s inspiring confidence. Again, it seems like everyone’s waited until just now to get informed.

Then one state rep, the only one I’ve seen the entire day younger than fifty five, saunters in late and takes his seat. He pretends to pay attention, taking notes and nodding at the right time, but he isn’t. He waits a few minutes, takes a deep breath, then slowly gathers his things, pauses, and hightails it out of there.
In another hour I do the same. The discussion is getting heated, the passion on both sides palpable, but it’s time to go. I’ve seen enough to know that the life of a state representative is a busy one. With so many members, so many bills and so many issues facing the state, it’s amazing anything gets accomplished. And as I head outside and make my way home, I spot the legislator who snuck out before me. He’s standing across the street with a group of young people, shaking hands and posing for photos rather than listening to dry tax discussions back inside. He’s no dummy - he’s up for reelection in less than eighteen months, and every minute counts.

Caching In

2009-02-19T22:29:00.003-05:00

It’s just after eight on a frigid Sunday morning, and I’m standing in an empty stretch of woods on the outskirts of Concord. A man I’ve met only once before is digging in the snow with a small shovel. He shovels in bursts, moving across a huge outcropping of rocks buried in snow, pushing it away from the cracks in the rock pile. I’d offer to help, but this man is focused, and I don’t want to distract him. Besides, there’s only one shovel.

I’m here because I made fun of golfers. It was a few months ago, during a holiday party, and I said something about how there’s nothing worse than golfers yammering about fades, fat shots and handicapped dog legs. Just as I reached the crescendo about what golfers and geldings have in common, a stranger tapped me on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t make fun of people’s passions,” he said. Before I could respond, he pulled out what looked like a cell phone and turned it on. “Like me. I have a passion. Ever heard of geocaching? This is my new GPS, and I use it to find caches. Here,” he said as he handed me the device. “See those things there? Those are caches, and we find them.”

The man from the party and the one now on all fours, elbow-deep in snow, is Mark Myers, a 49-year old pediatrician from Bedford and a rising star on the New Hampshire geocaching scene. “Let’s keep looking,” Mark says, in between furious attacks at the icy snow, “but I might have to call Gavin.” Gavin is another geocacher, a mentor of sorts to Mark. Mark pauses and then calls his friend. Gavin provides advice. “It’s right where you’d expect it,” he tells Mark. Mark says goodbye and starts digging again. Moments later he finds what we came for – our first cache of the day.

Geocaching is an outdoor sport that combines the use of a hand-held global positioning satellite receiver (GPS), a website that supplies coordinates, hints, tips and rules (www.geocaching.com), and a passion to find and hide caches all across the planet. The goal is to use your GPS and specific coordinates to find a cache, logging the find in a small notebook once you’ve located it. It’s a real-life, high-tech treasure hunt, except the treasure is finding the cache’s hidden spot, not necessarily in what you actually find. There are almost 800,000 caches logged worldwide with countless people like Mark dedicating their free time to hunting them down. Mark has found over 1,100 caches, and he plans on adding more today.

Every cache has a name, like “Turnabout is Fair Play,” and “A Cache Called Wanda,” and cachers download coordinates along with helpful tips, stats, and the degrees of the location’s difficulty and terrain. This one is called, “Power to the Cachers,” and we’re the eighty-second group of cachers to find and log it since it was hidden almost three years ago. Mark explains there’s a notation language cachers use. “TFTC” – Thanks For The Cache, and “TLNLSL” – Took Nothing, Left Nothing, Signed Log. BTW, I think, my friends would be ROTFL, OMG, if they could see me now out here. LOL!

As I watch Mark leave our names in the tiny notebook, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m a small man of Irish descent in the middle of nowhere looking for a box of lucky charms. I keep that reflection for myself because Mark is up and we’re ready to go. Before we move, I sneak a peak inside Mark’s backpack. He has a small shovel, doctor pliers, maps, pens, batteries, a flashlight, matches, a knife and who knows what else – everything but a tuna sandwich and today’s Racing Forum. To say that Mark is prepared would be an understatement. He’s even wearing gloves with his fingertips exposed so he can touch the GPS screen with ease.

Mark hands me his GPS. “Let’s go find the next one,” and he hustles past me, his cocoa brown dog, Sailor, running out ahead. Mark’s done his homework, explaining that there are four caches in and around these trails. We’re now looking for “My Fine Feathered Friends,” about half a mile away.

We walk along a trail towards a stone wall. Mark pulls up the clue on his GPS - “Behind the tree with a face – in a cavity in a wall of stone. Remember – you do NOT have to move any rocks!” I watch the distance drop from 500 feet to 200 feet as we snow shoe across the trail, and we spot the “face” - a gnarled knot on the tree that looks like one of those shrunken apple faces from third grade. Mark finds the cache right behind the tree, a camouflage-colored container crammed with a notebook, action figures, buttons, cards, pins and birds. He encourages me to take something, and I choose a parrot on a perch. Mark leaves something from his bag of tricks (“swag,” he calls it), he signs the log, we pack it all back up, hide the cache in its spot, and we’re off to the next one.

Geocachers are competitive. Mark mentions with pride the number of caches he’s found, and he speaks in reverent tones about some of New Hampshire’s leading geocachers, names like HockeyPuck, Chicken Lady, Me and My Dogs, Much Ado and Kayak Kouple. This Mount Rushmore of granite state geocachers has probably logged more than 15,000 caches in New Hampshire and elsewhere. Geocaching extends across the globe, from Switzerland to South Africa, from Hollis to Henniker - tens of thousands of people using hand-held GPS devices, a comfortable pair of shoes, competitive juices and a basic sense of direction. We’re an hour into the morning, and I lack all four of those requirements, but I’m having fun.

Mark, aka “Ponil,” explains the types of caches – regular ones, like the two we’ve found, puzzle caches that take some unraveling to decipher, virtual caches that require you to prove that you’ve seen something that can’t be moved, and multi-caches - a series of caches hidden in what can stretch for miles. There are nano-caches – small, magnetic capsules often hidden along street signs and guard rails - and bison tubes, small metal tubes hidden in trees and walls.

We press on, finding two more caches in these woods, one with the warning, “Please rehide well so the cache is not muggled.” Apparently there’s some sort of connection between Harry Potter, non-wizards and Tupperware containers hidden in the woods, but I don’t ask. For my money, anyone hoping to steal a well-hidden box of plastic monkeys and rubber rats should be called something other than muggle.

We reach the next spot, in the shadow of Sewalls Falls Bridge, and we find four more caches, including a virtual one. As we walk back from the final find, I start to wonder how this kind of thing could be marketed for the masses. We could make crazy tee shirts with slogans like, “Cache Me if You Can,” and “Cache but Don’t Carry!” Or maybe a TV reality show, “Dash for Cache,” where geocachers and muggles race against each other and the elements to find the true meaning of treasure and friendship.

I’m ready to call it a day, but Mark wants more. “It can be an obsession for some people, but not me,” he says, moments after describing his kayak trip on the Merrimack river two weeks ago (yes, in mid February) to find a middle leg of a multi-cache hidden by his caching cohorts. Paddling in a defenseless fiberglass watercraft in the middle of a swift, ice-strewn river may rank up there with what some consider obsessive behavior, but there’s no time to think because Mark’s got his GPS out and we’re heading to Penacook for more.

After ten minutes of driving, we find a nano-cache on the inside a traffic sign, the tiny scroll no wider than a baby’s finger, rolled up inside the capsule’s tip. We find another on the way back into town, causing a minor traffic jam in a cemetery on Fisherville Road. Mark tells me that police will often stop geocachers, which reminds me of Mark’s most important rule of geocaching. “Never geocache near a school during the school day.” I can imagine that conversation. “No, officer, really, I was just hunting for a small bucket of action figures. I didn’t even see the kids on the playground. Honest!”

We have one last cache to go – it’s now been more than four hours since we started, and I’m ready for a nap. But Mark keeps going, and now we’re on Commercial Street in Concord, staring at an enormous wall. “There’s a bison tube in the wall,” Mark tells me as he clears away snow with his feet and shovel. We try this for about ten minutes before giving up, the snow too deep to make much progress. I’m starting to slur my words I’m so tired, but Mark isn’t done. There are thousands more caches in New Hampshire for Mark to find, and hundreds of thousands across the globe waiting for him and his fellow treasure hunters. We shake hands, and as I drive off, I see Mark heading in the opposite direction, looking for just one more cache. I can’t do it – I’m all cached out. I’m strapped for cache. I’m cache-poor. Or maybe I’m just a muggle.

2008-12-26T08:25:00.000-05:00

“Mr. O’Shea is the only person allowed to fail,” Lieutenant Scott Sweet of the New Hampshire State Police announces from the front of the room. Twenty-five of us sit on hard plastic chairs in a drafty lecture hall on a cold Saturday morning waiting for instruction. We’re here to start the process to become New Hampshire State Police officers. I have no real desire to be a state trooper, but I don’t want to fail today, despite my free pass to do just that. The physical agility test starts this morning, and things have already gotten interesting.

More than a dozen people haven’t even lasted to 9 AM. One guy doesn’t even make it to the registration table, stopped by a tattoo on his bicep. I’d read that all visible tattoos – on heads, faces, necks or hands, or low enough on biceps, are instant disqualifiers. As two others are rejected for their body ink, I’m grateful I decided against that butterfly teardrop tattoo that seemed like such a swell idea at the Weirs years ago. Five others, including a woman who’d driven all the way from Maryland for this morning’s test, are sent away because of poor-enough eyesight.

I’ve known about the requirements for weeks. For me, a man in his forties, I need to accomplish the following: bench press 86% of my weight at least once, do thirty-two sit-ups in a minute, nail twenty-two push-ups, and run a mile and a half in just under thirteen minutes. I haven’t bench pressed anything in a while, and I don’t normally run like someone’s chasing me, which is what it will feel like once the timed run comes around.

Applicants for a job with the State Police must pass all four phases of the physical test, score at least a 70% on today’s written test, and then pass the oral boards a few days later, prefaced by an exhaustive questionnaire, thirty-plus pages of questions ranging from past employers to your gambling habits. Then you must pass an extensive background check, followed by a polygraph test, interviews with the Director of State Police, physical and psychological exams and unannounced drug tests. “Only three to five percent of everyone who walks through that door is offered a job,” Lt. Sweet offers. “It’s very rigorous. We consider personal appearance, communication skills, bearing and demeanor as important pieces of what makes a state trooper,” he states as he looks past me at the line of the applicants. This is all swell, but my sparkling communication skills won’t be lifting that bar off my chest.

My application process will end with the physical this morning, but I’m determined to do everything I can to earn a 70%. I’d love to take the written test if I qualify, but I’m told it wouldn’t be a good idea. I bet they have lots of questions about scatter guns, dirtbag perps and that guy in the red Ferrari heading north on 89 at an unsafe clip, but Lt. Sweet tells me it’s more about general aptitude than trooper lingo.

Six applicants fail the bench press, each with his own dejected, embarrassed smile as he walks out of the weight room and across the assembly hall, escorted by a trooper who explains, presumably, why weaklings like them make lousy officers. The trooper offers a handshake, but I want to see him grab the guy’s hand and squeeze hard, dropping the former applicant to his knees in crippling, humiliating pain, but each time the trooper offers words of encouragement as he points to the door. I should temper my desire to watch others fail, because based on my lack of upper body strength, lifting 86% of my own body mass may induce a stroke. I know Lt. Sweet’s given me a pass, but still, emitting whimpering sounds in front of uniformed, gun-toting spotters while the weight slams into my larynx is no way to make an impression.

Before I know it, I’m flat on my back with two troopers standing over me, the brims of their hats blocking the ceiling light as they ask if I’m ready. I am and lift the weight with no problem. Wow – that was easier than I thought. “Want to up the weight?” one trooper asks. I decline and head back into the assembly room where the other twenty-three men and one woman are waiting.

Lt. Sweet stands in front of us, explaining that state police work “birthdays, holidays, weekends and anniversaries,” reminding us that we must be willing to live anywhere in the state if we’re hired. He informs us that there’s a “self-imposed hiring hiatus,” and I can see a few mental balloons deflate among the group. Lt. Sweet adds, “It’s the Colonel’s decision when to start hiring again,” which is interesting because the only decisions the Colonel’s ever made that I cared about were what to charge for extra crispy or when to throw in a biscuit for free.

We’re split into groups of three for the rest of the testing, and we’re paired up for the push-ups and sit-ups. As we gather around the mats, Trooper Cooper, a man only an inch taller than me but with a chest and arms like a circus strongman, barks orders to the group. “This is your first and only opportunity to demonstrate your seriousness about this job. Give 110% at all times – we’re not looking for average here today,” he says, pausing to make eye contact with each of us. “We are not here to motivate you so don’t be anyone’s cheerleader.” Trooper Cooper concludes with a warning – “We don’t need to hear any swearing or vulgar language from any of you. I tolerated it during the bench press but no longer.” Everyone nods in agreement. “Are there any questions?” he asks. Now, everyone in a ten-mile radius of this moment knows now is not the time to ask questions, but that doesn’t stop one young guy who asks, “Can we move side to side during the sit-ups?” Trooper Cooper stares at the kid for a moment, looks away and says, with simmering contempt, “Work your side obliques on your own time.” He ends with, “Don’t question the trooper – don’t argue or we’ll send you packing.” I think he’s serious.

I’m paired with David Tirado from New York City, a crack push-up specialist recently done with his Air Force service. We both pass with flying colors, each of us taking turns holding each other’s feet and placing a fist under the chest for a perfect push-up. Trooper Cooper is right down next to us, counting out each and every exercise. I do more than thirty push-ups, but he takes a few away from my tally because I didn’t get low enough. I decide not to correct him.

All eight of us pass these second and third tests, and we head to the final challenge – the timed run. The track is a miniature version of a racing oval, and we’re told it’ll take seventeen and a quarter laps for the mile and a half. The entire set-up has the vague feeling of a Japanese game show, except we’re not wearing helmets or shiny unitards. We sit in silence, waiting to begin. It’s really hot in here, and my arms are shaking from the rapid-fire push-ups I’ve just done. Minutes later we’re up, standing at the starting line.

The lone female trooper takes the helm, explaining that we’re to shout out our names and lap number each time we pass the troopers, each of whom stands with a stop watch and no trace of a smile. She shouts, “Go,” and the eight of us take off. I have no reason to rush – I know I can run a mile in eight and a half minutes, and my day ends after this, but I’m caught up in the moment and run like an EZ Pass violator with three priors and an expired registration. A few guys sprint out ahead, and I struggle for a pace. “O’Shea one!” I yell as I come around the corner. One guy in a red shirt finds inspiration and sprints at an absurd speed – there’s no way he’ll make it. I settle into a groove and keep going as the others ebb and flow around me, the red shirt sprinter putting more and more distance between us. Laps later, just as I yell “O’Shea thirteen,” the red shirt sprinter grabs his hamstring and nearly falls to the ground. I think about stopping to help, but there’s no time. My heart thumps, and it must be at least ninety degrees in here. I pass someone and keep going. The troopers offer no encouragement, only flatly stating our elapsed times. I finish my seventeenth and a quarter laps, and I’m done. I’ve run it in just over eleven minutes, at a pace close to seven and a half minutes per mile, earning me a passing grade of 80% on the run. Lt. Sweet sits with me afterwards, tallying my final score. I score an 81.25%, good enough for a B-minus average for the whole test.

I learn later from Lt. Sweet that only nineteen applicants made it past the sit-ups and the run, including me. Another two failed the written test, and two more didn’t survive the oral boards, leaving roughly a third of everyone who showed up on Saturday ready for the more rigorous requirements that still lie ahead. I wish them luck, but I won’t be joining them. I’m leaving my tattoo options open.

Bet on It

2008-11-27T20:57:00.002-05:00

The world is divided into poker players and the rest of us. True poker players use phrases like “wired nines,” “limping in,” and “kickers don’t play,” while we say things like, “All my cards are red cards – is that good?” “Where is the closest ATM?” and “Do fries come with that?” Good poker players are like good fishermen – anyone can drop a worm in the water, but you need some skill to reel in the big one.

I’ve never played much poker – a few games decades ago where the host used rules he memorized from Odd Couple episodes while everyone else complained about the flat RC Cola and stale snacks. No one knew how to shuffle, and we ended up playing liar’s poker for pretzel rods and noogies.

But I’m in my forties, and time is running out to master the manly arts – things like moose hunting, whiskey drinking and chain sawing - those elemental aspects of a masculine life brimming with self-reliance and gumption. Poker’s one such art – and one I’m determined to learn.

I should be an expert already, considering how many hours of poker I’ve watched on basic cable, but television’s no substitute for the real thing. I try joining a local “house” game where the bets are small, the lighting is lousy and the local authorities aren’t welcome, but my contact rebuffs me, fearing my big mouth and lack of knowledge will result in legal action and a fat lip.

Instead, I find the next best thing – a weekly $20 poker tournament in Concord. Makris Lobster and Steak House, on the outskirts of Concord, hosts poker games two nights each week. These are known as “charity gaming” events, where selected charities, the state and the gaming company split each night’s proceeds. Play real poker, give to charity and help with our state’s education funding woes – while drinking cold beer? Is this heaven? Maybe so, but I need to earn my wings so I don’t embarrass myself at the tournament table.

My first stop is my sister-in-law Jonsey’s house where Bo, her husband and local card shark, gives me a quick tutorial in poker’s finer points. I learn about the button, betting, and big and small blinds as Bo deals hand after hand of Texas Hold ‘Em, the game of choice at the Makris Poker Room. His instructions come rapid-fire - “Don’t give up the big blind.” “Hands off your chips!” There’s nothing wrong with limping in.” We walk through scenario after scenario, and Bo concludes with two valuable lessons. Playing a hand of poker, Bo tells me, is usually more about everyone else than it is about me, which is good because if everyone else is as confused as I am, we may all end up wrestling for chips underneath the table. He ends by saying, “There is no shame in folding. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is get out of the hand before losing any money.” I feel like young Grasshopper at the feet of Blind Master Po.

Next I try my luck on the web, finding a free novice room for Texas Hold ‘Em players. Online poker loses its luster pretty quickly. Playing against cartoon icons with names like Fuzzy_Gambler2645 and Captain_Gummybear88 lacks that human element, and the scrolling text commentary tells me the world of online poker is filled with a combination of shut-ins, misanthropic math whizzes and future tax evaders.

The big night’s here, and I’m nervous. I arrive at the restaurant and meet Kory Kamke, the manager of the Makris poker nights and an employee of Torguson Gaming, the Mississippi-based casino company that runs these games and a slew of others at the Lodge at Belmont. The tournament crowd gathers, and Kory explains how charity gaming works. Charities across the state apply to win a coveted spot on the schedule, earning 35% of the proceeds for ten nights a year. Tonight’s charity is the District 44-N Pinardville Lions Club of Manchester, and Kory’s expecting a good night. “For a $20 roll, we fill up almost all the seats. On our free roll nights, we get more than sixty five people.” Kory shares a few tips with me, including, “Everyone wants to see a cheap flop.” I laugh and nod my head but have no idea what he’s talking about. Bo said nothing about any cheap flop.

There’s no time to fret because the tournament’s starting. There are three tables of at least seven players each. I find my seat, and Bo’s two spots away from me; I can’t tell if he’s smiling because he’s happy to be playing cards or if he’s happy to be playing cards against me. Twenty-one year old Natasha Ganzel is our dealer, and she welcomes us to the game, fanning out the deck of cards for our scrutiny. I’m flanked by Kathy Watson from Loudon and Bill Boomhower from Penacook. Franklin’s own Joanne Poehlman sits two to my right and the only two people I’ve not met are Mr. High Roller, who’s already bought an extra $60 in chips, and a guy seated directly across from me, to Natasha’s left. He has his game face on, and I sense he will be my nemesis.

We begin, and I peek at my two cards. Two 9’s – not bad for a first hand. Mr. Instant Nemesis makes no eye contact, figuring me for an easy mark. He’s too aggressive for the first hand, and he continues to raise the bet while fondling his stack of $1,000 chips (not really that amount – $20 gets you $3,000 in chips). We’re no more than ninety seconds into the first hand, and if I fold, Mr. Instant Nemesis wins, and I’m history. I call his bet and after the flop and another round of betting, I’ve put almost all of my $3,000 into the pot. Not much shows on the board, and Mr. Instant Nemesis seems rather confident. Natasha tells us to flip our cards, and I win! I gather my pile and pull it towards me as everyone remarks on my beginner’s luck.

I either fold or lose the next four or five hands, then I’m dealt two aces – I later learn the correct term is “wired aces,” but for now, I only know this is as good as it gets. OK, don’t panic. Don’t start laughing or emitting high-pitched bird mating whistles – just stay cool. Three of us remain and I’m tagging along - calling each bet. Mr. High Roller, who’s been buying chips like the bank’s been buying bad mortgages, goes all in, and I don’t have enough to match him. Bill, to my right, remains in as well and the pot’s now enormous. Mr. High Roller and I enter into some sort of side bet, which Natasha explains, but I’m too busy trying to not pass out from the stress to understand what’s happening. People gather around as we flip our cards. My two aces are not enough to beat Bill’s three jacks but better than Mr. High Roller’s pair of kings. I win some of the pot, enough to keep playing. This is all very confusing.

Kathy, to my right, flames out. “For twenty bucks, it was a fun night out,” she says as she walks away smiling. Joanne, sitting to my far right, continues to win pot after pot. My stack is dwindling as I spot pocket 4’s. Within seconds it’s just Joanne and me. I forget Bo’s advice to fold when my pair isn’t the highest on the board, and I see two kings in the flop, but I try to ride my 4’s to victory, which is like trying to ride a Big Wheel to victory at Daytona. I go all in and lose immediately to Joanne’s superior pair of 7’s. She wins the pot and all my chips, and my tournament is over.

I linger for a bit, enough to sit down and join a cash game. The rules are a little different and as five of us sit down with Natasha, Joanne runs over and whispers in my ear, “You can never push someone off their cards with your hand.” This is probably sage advice, but I lose $20 in chips so fast that the only words of wisdom that might have helped were, “Put your money away – you’re no poker player.” Maybe not, at least not today. But between Bo’s instruction, basic cable programming, the Makris Poker Room and Captain_Gummybear88, I’ll be a real poker player in no time. You can bet on it.

Right Lane Loser

2008-10-23T20:12:00.003-04:00

If wishes were low gas prices, beggars would drive. There was a time when gas for $2.79 a gallon would make a man cry, but now it’s cause for high fives. I, for one, refuse to sit around yearning for the days when two bits bought me enough petrol to fill the Packard for a ride to the barn dance and a fountain soda with my best girl. So I’ve decided to take action. I’ve become a hypermiler.

Hypermiling is the art of gas conservation, something I’d only previously practiced in delicate social situations. Older folks remember it as gas rationing during the War, and you drivers from the ‘70’s didn’t do much rationing because you were too busy blaming Henry Kissinger for your troubles as you slept in line for gas in your huge family station wagons with bench seating and optional lap belts. But as gas prices shoot up faster than Tina Fey’s approval ratings, hypermiling is all the rage, with plenty of techniques to choose from.

Strategies range from the logical (drive the speed limit, use cruise control) to the practical (avoid drive-thru windows, combine errands), and the innovative (eschew left turns and fast music) to the downright dangerous (draft behind bigger vehicles, drive barefoot, and never come to a complete stop until you arrive). Hypermilers remove extra weight from their cars, always look for pass-through parking spots and never idle - a hypermiler idling his car is like a pastry chef whipping up a batch of Yodels. Some extreme followers practice “ridge riding.” Driving in the right lane, you aim your right tires at the big white line separating the road from the shoulder, reducing friction under your wheels.

Times are tight, and every dollar matters. I clean out my 2003 Honda Accord of extraneous things. I fill the gas tank and do the quick math. I’ve been getting around 30 miles per gallon pre-hypermiling – not bad, but I’ve heard that some hypermilers increase their MPG by 50%. If that’s the case, I won’t need a refill until spring training.

Day One is here, and I drive in the right lane, going the speed limit and watching a parade of cars fly past. I’m going so slowly that I feel like I should be heading to the Cat n’ Fiddle for a 3:45 dinner seating of chicken cordon bleu, ambrosia salad and a nice glass of sherry for dessert. I really need to get to work, but I won’t give in. I continue on, flirting with ridge riding and making sure to back into my parking spot when I arrive. I’m a good ten minutes behind schedule as I double-time it to my desk.

Day Two starts just as Day One ended – creeping along alone in the right lane as everyone else drives like their hair’s on fire to my left. I avoid fast music – only non-confrontational talk radio and a Kingston Trio – Cowsills mix tape that really is a hoot. Spending so much time over here makes me feel like I’m stuck watching the cool kids arm wrestle each other while my mathlete pals and I trade graphing calculator tips. I’m turning into a Right Lane Loser. But I won’t stop, even though I realize hypermiling means chronic tardiness. I’m fifteen minutes late for work, and arriving home at night, my family’s started dinner without me. “Late and Hungry” – the hypermiler’s credo.

Day Three begins badly. On my way to the gym, I forget to time the stop light and sit idling for almost a minute. I leave the car on to run a few items into the post office and realize as I back into my driveway I forgot to combine errands! Back out I go, take three left turns and even have the audacity to turn on the car’s heat. I’m a failure, and I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.

As penance, I drive to and from work shoeless, a sockless foot giving me a real feel for the gas pedal - a barefooted supplicant to the Gods of Refined Oil, my sins forgiven with every speed limit-adhering mile I go. I also try drafting behind an 18-wheeler until the driver makes it clear he is not amused. Hypermiling is hard; it takes lots of patience and concentration, two things I’m finding in short supply.

I need some advice so I turn to Hugo Martel, local hypermiling legend. Hugo, (his name changed to protect him from hypermiling profiling) starting hypermiling before it had a name. “I was sick of giving my money to Exxon,” Hugo tells me, “so I just figured out how to use less gas.” Hugo is a proponent of EOC – Engine Off Coasting, something that can only be done with a manual transmission and intestinal fortitude. Hugo seeks out east-west routes because, “Those are the ones with the hills.” He speaks of a two-mile coast outside Boscawen in hushed tones and describes a four-mile coast on Route 9 just over the Vermont border like a renegade flower hunter describing a rare ghost orchid. Hugo turns the car off completely and lets gravity do the work. His advice? “You need to be vigilant. You can’t afford to get distracted. You need to pay very close attention to everything to do this right and not get rammed from behind.”

I know what he means. Day Four arrives, and I lose my concentration, finding myself in the cash lane at the toll booth. The woman in front of me must be trying to convert drachmas to dollars because it’s taking forever. I’m stuck behind the one commuter without EZ Pass! What year is this? Was she too distracted by the Falcon Crest marathon last night to get her exact change in order? Hurry up! I’m wasting gas, and all the ridge riding and drafting I can muster won’t make up for that idling at the toll plaza. And, of course, I’m late for work – again.

Day Five comes and goes with strict recognition of the rules- a day dominated by no sudden stops, no idling and a calm, steady pace with my right tires on the white line for frictionless driving. My gas tank hovers at the midpoint, which is good because tomorrow is every hypermiler’s dream - a road trip. I’m heading to New York City for the weekend, determined to wring every drop of gas from my tank before filling up.
Day Six arrives, and I deploy every technique I know – tire overinflation, windows up, heat off, cruise control and public radio on, drafting, ridge riding and staying at or below the speed limit, not an easy thing on a Concord to Manhattan road trip. A quick note – slow, early morning driving on empty highways while listening to the BBC World Service is akin to taking a fistful of Lunesta with a warm glass of milk. But the voice of Hugo Martel keeps me awake and alert, exhorting me to press onward.

By the time I’m south of Hartford, I’ve gone 460 miles on the same tank when the gas light finally comes on, more than 100 miles than usual. I should have at least four gallons remaining at this point, so I continue. The odometer reads 470, 480, 490, 500 miles! I’m determined to see how far I can go before spending another dollar on gas. But as the odometer reads 520, I start doubting my middle school math word problem skills and panic that I’ve miscalculated. I’ve never gone more than 450 miles without filling up, and I’m well past that now. I can’t wait any longer and find an exit and fill up the tank. It’s bittersweet realizing I still have more than three gallons to go before I would have run dry. I could have made it all the way to New York. True, I would have run out directly on the Cross Bronx Expressway, but I would have done so with pride, the epitome story of hypermiling courage and persistence.

Before I pull back onto the highway, I figure I’ve increased my MPG from 30 to 37, a 23% increase. Not bad for a neophyte hypermiler with a lead foot. And as I head south on the interstate, I smile as I ease into the left lane, hit the gas pedal and crank the tunes. I wave to the right lane losers as I speed towards the big city, trying to make up for lost time.

Men in Tree Houses

2008-09-25T20:18:00.002-04:00

My son Sam and I are in the car driving north, looking for a tree house. I miss hanging out in the one I had as a kid, a hand-me-down from my brother. By the time it was mine, the only things left were shag rug remnants stapled to the trunk, past issues of Cracked magazine, and two-by-fours hammered into a makeshift ladder leading to a cluster of sturdy limbs. This morning, as we head towards the mountains, we’re looking for a place called Monkey Trunks. I’ve heard it’s the best tree house around.

I have almost no idea what we’re getting ourselves into. Based on the scant information I gleaned from Monkey Trunk’s website, I’m not sure if we’re heading to a heart-stopping manly adventure or into a glorified McDonaldland jungle gym and ball pit mistake.

We’ve been driving for an hour and just after passing Lake Chocorua and the rock-scarred mountain that shares its name in the distance, we arrive. We’re greeted by Hazel Ives, a Nottingham, England native and Monkey Trunks’ owner. She welcomes us in, and within moments we’re seated in a small conference room to view a video about on-course safety. We learn we’re about to spend the morning atop a high-wire adventure course with three levels and twenty-five challenges. Sam is thrilled.

Next we meet our team leader, Marcus Hansen. He stands there, harnesses, clips and helmets in hand. Marcus is our guide for the day; he’s from Denmark and, after living in England, he came to Chocorua to help Hazel open Monkey Trunks this past spring. As Marcus fits a harness around Sam, Hazel explains, “These courses are very popular in England.” By the line of folks queuing in the driveway, I think the same might soon be the case in New Hampshire.

Marcus makes sure our gear is snug and explains the rules. I’m counting on Sam to remember all the pertinent details, because the harness is giving me such a wedgie that I’m having trouble concentrating. Once Marcus hands us our “monkey paws,” double-hinged fist-sized clips attached to our harnesses, we learn the one key rule to success on the course – “Never, ever have both clips unhooked from the rope.” Before I can say, “Why not?” Marcus adds, “Because that’s how you can fall all the way down,” without a trace of a smile. Sam nods in agreement.

After a quick hands-on lesson in clipping on and off the ropes, Marcus explains that before unclipping each monkey paw, we must ask aloud, “Permission to transfer,” and get an “OK” from one of the three instructors before unclipping and moving our paw to another rope. This way, he explains, we’ll always be tethered. As we walk towards the structure, I realize this is the biggest tree house I’ve ever seen. It’s imposing, rising more than sixty feet with towers and platforms, swings, rings, pulleys, nets and steel cables criss-crossing each other on three levels.

Sam jumps right in, and I follow. Within seconds we’re onto our first challenge, a massive cargo net that stretches from one platform to another, about thirty feet off the ground. Sam climbs along with ease. I wait for him to finish, and I yell, “Permission to transfer.” It doesn’t take long for me to realize that 13-year old boys are better climbers. A few moments ago, I imagined scampering across the net like Spiderman but as I labor, I look like Peter Parker’s chubby older brother Clint who tries to keep up while his inhaler and pocket calculator fall out of his fanny pack.

We move at a fast pace. Hazel told us we’d lose track of time, and time is the last thing on my mind. I’m too busy keeping up with Sam while making sure this harness doesn’t cut off all circulation to my hips. We try every challenge, Sam always going first, my strategy having more to do with me not wanting Sam to see me slip, fall and dangle like a giant spider’s next meal than with common courtesy. We head to a huge V-shaped rope, and then it’s onto foot rings as we swing and teeter across. This is sort of like American Gladiators, without the steroid rage and skin-tight trousers, although this harness isn’t doing me any favors.

Sam and I traverse the course to the “Gauntlet,” a combination of rings and platforms that requires more than one mini-leap and scramble. We’re on level three and determined to get over to the top platform and the zipline. Sam gets there first and is greeted by Kate Everett, Marcus’s fellow team leader, her red hair poking out from underneath her helmet. I’m still making my way across a tightrope challenge as Sam stands on the platform. “You’re about sixty-five feet off the ground,” Kate tells us. She starts to explain what’s in store for us when I look over to see Sam standing there with both clips in his hands as he listens. Hmm, both clips in his hands – that looks funny. I must have missed that part of the video, and I don’t remember hearing Sam say anything about “Permission to transfer.” Uh oh.

“Sam,” I say in my calmest, most fatherly voice, “Clip on now. Immediately. Do it.” He stares at me with a terrified look, but he clips back on as Kate gently and firmly scolds him, warning him he’ll have to leave the course if he does it again. This mini-drama of unsafe adolescent behavior doesn’t slow us down because after a short tutorial in ziplines, we’re off the platform and hurtling down the wires, laughing our heads off, trying to outrace each other.

Marcus hoists a ladder and unclips us, and we head back for more. It’s been close to two hours, but it feels like fifteen minutes. My fingers are like bruised Vienna sausages, my shoulders are killing me, and I’ve been in a full sweat since I put my helmet on. But we continue, working our way up the course, and by now it’s crowded. We wait for our turn on the challenges as Kate, Marcus and Matthew Macdonald, the third team leader, navigate the course, responding to “Permission to transfer” with shouts of “OK.” All Sam says to me is, “This is awesome.”

The rope swing is our final challenge. Kate meets us on the platform as Marcus unhooks the rope swing from its tether below. Sam goes first. He sits down on the edge as Kate clips the heavy buckle attached to the rope onto his harness. I can see the weight already pulling him off the platform, but he hangs on. On the count of three, Sam lets go and he flies down, the long rope swinging him in huge arcs back and forth. He lets out a happy scream. Now it’s my turn, and I’m not ready for the tug of the thick rope. I’m slipping off the platform – Kate tells me to go for it, and I fall for what feels like forever before the buckle catches, and I swing back and forth, the late summer air rushing past my face. It’s not every day a 40-something man gets to spend a morning in a tree house, swinging like an ape with his son. Now if someone can just get me down from here, I might even try it again.

I Wanted to be like Mike

2008-08-28T20:17:00.004-04:00

I wanted to be like Mike. After this month’s Olympics in Beijing, who wouldn’t? By now you’re familiar with Michael Phelps, the 23-year old American swimmer who singlehandedly won more medals than Mongolia, Malaysia and Moldova combined, breaking world record after world record and making all the other swimmers look like Water Baby class dropouts with swim diapers and runny noses. I first told myself I’d never be like Mike – at least not in the pool. My competitive swim career ended in the phone booth of a local swim club as a ten year old. Whether it was the fear of competition, the early morning practices or how my new Speedo pinched me in all the wrong places, I hid from the coach and cried to my mom over the phone until she agreed to rescue me.

So how else could I be like Mike? After watching his Olympic victories and scouring the internet for any and all stories about him, I learned that Mike likes to eat. Hey, me too! I love to eat. Maybe I could be like Mike. I wouldn’t need to shave my body or wear a form-fitting bathing suit to eat just like him. Sure, he swallows 12,000 calories a day, not a normal amount, but how hard could it be to sit around and eat? I’ve been doing it for years but never had a goal – maybe this time, with focus and the right amount of coaching, I could live the Olympic experience and never leave my kitchen.

My Phelps Gastronomic Emulation Experience took place last Sunday. I’d learned that Mike works out for six hours a day, so I needed to burn a few calories before sitting down to breakfast. I can’t even sleep for six hours a day, and I certainly wasn’t going to swim for six hours, so instead I ran for three miles, burning 458 calories, which was not a good sign. Michael probably burns that flossing his teeth.

Preparing breakfast was a workout in itself. First, a five-egg omelet, then three chocolate chip pancakes, three slices of French toast, followed by three fried egg and cheese sandwiches on whole wheat buns with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato and fried onions (a nice touch). Oh, and a bowl of grits, which I hear is a southern delicacy – which, if true, is the reason the South lost the Civil War (“Git that blue coat, Jessup!” “I cain’t - my belly’s a’swollen with them dang grits!”). I finished cooking and sat down with the feast before me. The mood among the coaching staff in the kitchen was not one of positive encouragement. “You’re gonna barf,” my daughter told me as she paced back and forth. I wore swim goggles and my two fourth-place butterfly medals from my younger days to get in the mood as I began eating.

Whatever calories I burned during my daybreak run I gained back after the second bite of the mayo and fried onions in the first egg sandwich. The sandwiches were going down faster than expected, and the omelet wasn’t so bad. And those pancakes, wow! Chocolate chips are yummy! “I can do this no problem,” I said to myself between forkfuls of eggs and French toast. Even the grits were good – well, ok, “good” might not be accurate. How about “edible?” On to the second egg and cheese sandwich and some coffee and maybe a few more bites of the omelet. Ding Ding! Open wide! Here comes the chocolate chip choo choo around the corner for more pancakes! Let’s not forget the French toast. The food was disappearing, and I felt fine, even though I was in a full sweat as my goggles fogged up. Just a few more nibbles of the omelet and maybe a spoonful more of the grits before I returned to the French toast. Hmm, well, maybe I should take a breath or two – I mean, no need to rush it right? “Let me get through these pancakes, and then I’ll worry about the last egg sandwich,” I murmured to no one in particular. Fifteen minutes into the first meal of the day, my belly was filling up, the coffee was cold and the grits, um, the grits started to look and taste like wallpaper spackle. But I needed to get through that last sandwich – a few more mouthfuls and I’d be done.

How does Michael Phelps do it? I felt like I swallowed fifty pounds of wood pulp and couldn’t imagine keeping my head above water much less doing the backstroke for 360 minutes. With half a bowl of grits and a few slices of French toast remaining, I sulked away from the kitchen counter. No time to think about failure because lunch was coming soon. The menu - one pound of pasta (with sauce), 1,000 calories of energy drinks, and two ham and cheese sandwiches. As I imagined every bite of lunch, I lay on the floor of the living room, delirious with carbohydrates. My son yelled to no one in particular, “This was a really bad idea.” I began to concur but drifted off to a fitful nap.

At 1:30 PM, about four hours since breakfast, I headed to the pool, knowing I needed to burn more calories if I stood any chance of surviving. There are few sights sadder than a 41-year old short fat man wearing borrowed goggles, gym shorts and a heart rate monitor around his bulging pale belly trying to swim laps. I swam for thirty minutes, the pace going something like this – stroke, breathe, burp, stroke, burp, breathe, stroke, burp. I burned 273 calories, an amount Mike burns as he clips his enormous toe nails on his cartoonishly huge feet.

I arrived home and decided to skip lunch – two sandwiches, a gallon of protein shakes and a pound of fusilli? No way. But the day wasn’t over, and there was still time for redemption, so I hopped on my bike and spent the next ninety minutes riding up, over and down Oak Hill and home, burning another 1,100 calories. Maybe my mini-triathlon had the intended effect, because when I got home, I was hungry for the first time since dawn.

For dinner each day, Michael Phelps consumes an entire cheese pizza, another 1,000 calories of energy drinks and a second pound of pasta with sauce. It’s rare when a grown man has an excuse to order, buy and eat an entire pizza pie, and I relished the moment. As I returned home from the pizza shop, I thought I heard the faint tones of the Olympic theme song playing in a distant meadow, but it turned out to be one of the four strawberry cream Myoplex shakes I chugged in order to get a head start on the meal. The shake had a vague taste of gorilla sweat combined with the fruity aroma of marshmallow circus peanuts and a metallic finish like when you chew on a lint-covered pencil. The pinkish liquid was seeking a place to call home in my gut, and the sound was unnerving.

By the fourth slice of pizza, I faced the reality that I was no Olympic athlete – I couldn’t swim like one, and I now knew I couldn’t eat like one. The giant bowl of pasta never stood a chance, and the idea of taking another swig of that strawberry bilge water masquerading as protein made me want to cry and/or vomit. My son saw the anguish on my face and said, “For your own health, just say, ‘I quit’ and walk away.” I did just that. There would be no gold medal for me this day.

I no longer want to be like Mike. I don’t have the time, the physique or the talent. He’s the greatest athlete in the world, and I’m the fourth greatest athlete in my house. Besides, those grits were really gross.

Bike to the Future

2008-07-24T21:40:00.002-04:00

I’m standing by the service counter of a local bike shop, and I think I might be in over my head. I’m here to pick up my new road bike – a blue and black Trek 500 with cool handlebars, shiny brakes and more gears than I know what to do with. I approach the counter as the young mechanic puts down his tools and eyes me with a look of slight disdain. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same look you get in a record shop or book store – that air of subtle contempt for anyone not wearing a beret, a “Neil Peart for President” tee shirt or a “Frodo Lives” button. “I’m here to pick up my bike,” I say. He ambles over and, in a light guffaw, says, “Oh. That little one over there?” This isn’t starting off well - my first foray into the world of road biking, and I’m pegged as a circus clown in street clothes picking out my new mini bike.

Then again, maybe it’s me and not the mechanic. I’ve resisted this day for more than two years. My wife’s an ardent road biker, riding from April to November, heading out on the weekend for epic stretches. She’d been asking me to join her, and I’ve held back. I haven’t owned my own bike for thirty years due to a series of two-wheeled experiences that all ended in tears. There’s the 1981 Memorial Day Apollo Three Speed broken chain to broken wrist disaster, or the recent fiasco when, on a borrowed bike, I bumped my daughter’s back tire, and she broke the fall to the pavement with her two front teeth. And how can I forget the lingering shame of my sister’s hand-me-down bike from high school? If there’s a list of things not to do when arriving at a 10th grade make-out party, riding a girl’s bike with the bent bar and daisy stickers rests near the top.
I’ve eased into this day by spending the last four years spinning, an indoor exercise class that involves an instructor, loud music and a stationary bike that you peddle like someone’s chasing you, slowing down to pretend you’re on a hill and speeding up for an imaginary flat stretch of road, all the while gender-confused pulsating club music blasts in your ears as your instructor reminds you to do a better job of pretending you’re riding a real bike. In hindsight, indoor bike riding makes about as much sense as indoor duck hunting, but the classes have prepped me for what awaits me outside.

But true love makes you do crazy things, and with my wife’s encouragement, I returned home with the bike (and helmet, water bottle and speedometer) and got ready to ride. We rode thirteen miles that first day, and other than realizing that compulsive gear changing only ends in popped chains and greasy fingers, I survived, and since that day, I’ve learned a lot about road biking. First, your shoes should come with clips, and these take some getting used to. Trust me. No matter how hard you may try, it’s impossible to look like a seasoned expert while you’re flailing around on the road, your shoes wedged into the bike clips as your belly makes its way free from your untucked tee shirt, your water bottle’s contents pooling with the bike grease that covers your hands and face.

Bikers put a lot of effort into their outfits. Cotton is about as welcome as a flat tire because bikers wear clothes that breathe, usually high-tech shirts with bright colors with team names on them, form-fitting black spandex pants with cushions in the rear, fancy sunglasses and padded fingerless gloves, making everyone look like Darth Vaders’ Storm Troopers on Spring Break. I refuse to wear a skin-tight shirt with a zipper to the navel, but I did acquiesce and buy a pair of black biker socks. I did so to avoid what my wife calls the, “white tube sock as ‘80’s leg warmer look.” I’ll admit that wearing black socks with shorts reminds me of a priest playing kickball at recess, but they are comfortable.

I have a recurring fantasy about me and my new bike. I’m riding on Farrington Corner Road outside Concord, alone on the road in the early morning. The only sounds are the spinning of my tires, the changing of my gears and my measured breathing. I reach the dense underbrush near the power lines, and a huge black bear leaps into the road and attacks. I’ve worked out two endings to this fantasy. First, I fall to the ground as the enraged ursus lunges at me. I huddle under my bike, its alloy frame and sophisticated gears shield me from the bear’s body blows, his claws glancing off the spokes of my wheels. The alternate ending has the beast sprinting to catch me as I shift gears and speed up. The bear lumbers next to my accelerating bike, a look of angry surprise on his face, shocked at my ability to outrace him. With both fantasies, the bear grows weary and sulks back to the underbrush, settling for that unsuspecting runner I spotted a while back. Either way, my bike rescues me from a certain mauling.

I’ve had the bike now for fifty days, and I’ve gone more than 400 miles. I’ve done a bunch of quick rides and a few rides so far from home that I half-expected to see French-Canadians waving cheap American dollars and laughing at me, American tourist biking fool. But last week I finally figured out what road biking is all about.

I was riding on Rollins Road in Hopkinton and been told to look out for three big hills. The first two hills were bad but not horrible, and I expected one more to go before heading home. But after the third came a fourth, and this one was brutal. I changed gears and made my way up, but as I continued, yet another steep hill loomed ahead! Would these hills ever stop? I didn’t have much gas in the tank, and I got so distracted with the fear of heart failure that I didn’t bother getting my gears ready. I slowed to a crawl, my arms and shoulders aching as I pulled against the handlebars and pushed my legs forward. Gasping for breath, I didn’t dare switch gears, too worried I’d pop my chain and teeter over. At this point, the only things breathing were my socks. Just as I was close to wobbling over and down, I found a tiny burst of energy and made it to the top. Within moments, I took a right turn and headed downhill at breakneck speed. My speedometer showed 32 mph, 36 mph, 39 mph! I clung to my bike for dear life, the only things separating me from certain death were two thin tires and my helmet that looks like it came off of Wheelie, the recuperating American Girl doll. Down I went, hurtling towards certain doom when the road evened out. Just as I slowed to breathing speed, Beech Hill Farms appeared like a mirage, its overflowing orders of homemade ice cream beckoning my name. I rode on by – miles to go before I could stop, but I promised myself I’d return to the scene of my near demise and celebrate with ice cream.

If road biking is about anything, it’s about risk and reward. And if I need to risk a serious case of road rash, broken limbs and oxygen depravation in order to reward myself with a hot fudge sundae, I’m ready to ride any time you’d like. You pick the route, and I’ll pick the flavor.

Red Bull and Fisher Cats

2008-06-12T20:24:00.002-04:00

Minor League baseball is like America’s goofy uncle - the one on your mom’s side with the wacky voices and crazy hats, those plaid-on-stripes outfits and a belly laugh that makes you smile. Lucky for us, we have such an uncle nearby. Right down Route 3 you’ll find the New Hampshire Fisher Cats, the Eastern League affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays, a team two rungs from the big time located in the heart of Manchester. If the major leagues are “The Show,” then the Fisher Cats are more like an off-off-Broadway event. The on-stage talent may ebb and flow, but it’s always a great time.

I spent a night living the minor league experience as a guest member of the Fisher Cats’ on-field promotions crew. The Fisher Cats met the Portland Sea Dogs, the Red Sox’ double A team on a crisp Friday night, and I had a front-row seat, even though I didn’t do much sitting.

My guide and boss for the evening was Morgan Crandall, a twenty-something Maine native and the Community Relations manager for the Cats. Danielle Matteau, the Fisher Cats’ head of Public Affairs, agreed to let me shadow Morgan and her co-workers as part of the promo team as it led the crowd of 6,500 fans through all sorts of mid-inning on-field hi-jinx.

Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I wanted to be the mascot – just for one game. A single night dressed as a cartoon fisher cat - a large, dark-brown North American arboreal, carnivorous mammal - would be something I’d brag about for decades, but Danielle demurred. Besides, the team already has a more than capable mascot in Slider. And after seeing Slider sweat his stubby brown tail off for nine innings of baseball, I’m confident I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning bill.

I arrive at the park two hours before game time to meet Morgan, and we start walking at a fast clip while Morgan talks. I scramble to keep up, a theme that repeats itself for the next six hours. In the time it takes us to walk from the right field foul pole to behind home plate, I learn this is Morgan’s third Eastern League team in three years; after college in Virginia, where she majored in sports management, Morgan “couldn’t imagine not working in sports once I graduated,” she says as we turbo-stroll the concourse. Morgan is a force of pure energy! She says hello to everyone we pass, directing employees and interns while greeting season ticket holders and harried birthday party parents. Morgan introduces me to both Bernie Carbo and Rico Petrocelli while collecting waivers from the Cub Scout color guard and ensuring the crowd of ceremonial first pitchers is ready to go all the while sharing, in exacting detail, about the Eastern League All-Star game taking place in mid July right here at the stadium. “That’s my thing; I’m organizing it,” she announces with pride.

The game starts in ninety minutes, and I’m already exhausted. There’s no way Morgan can keep this pace up - she’ll be toast by the seventh inning stretch! But there’s no time for idle thoughts. We need a little girl for the fireworks promo, and while we scan the crowd, Morgan tells Luke the summer intern to, “Look for cute.” Luke, a college student from Indiana, is one of the twenty-two interns the Cats hire each summer. Luke says little, stunned by the rapid-fire directions Morgan shoots his way. I don’t know about Luke, but I’m getting chest pains just watching her work. “Try doing this for nineteen days straight,” Morgan says to me, smiling.

It’s 6:20, and first pitch is minutes away. We move onto the field. A dozen kids from a local taekwondo school jump, shout, and kick in red and white outfits to pulsating music as Michaela Sweet, Morgan’s cohort, the team’s marketing manager and on-field emcee paces back and forth. The kids howl, breaking boards with their hands and feet on the first-base side of the field. Michaela is inches away from getting a pre-teen foot to the head, but she’s unfazed. I guess once you’ve been in the minor league baseball promotions business for six years like her, one gaggle of yelping, frenzied pint-sized warriors is like any other. Even as the nunchuks come out, Michaela is unconcerned.

As I stand on the field, a giant tooth uses an oversized toothbrush to clean off home plate. Slider hurls balls into the crowd while dozens of Jays and Clam Kings - local little leaguers - play catch on the infield. Morgan commands the scene like General Patton at a traffic stop, giving the Cub Scout color guard instructions. I’m afraid to move a muscle - I’m either gonna get a nunchuk to the noggin, an errant Clam King cutoff throw to the ear, or Super Tooth will mock my gingivitis, so I stay motionless by the dugout.

Then, in an instant, a youngster belts out the National Anthem, the Scouts present the colors, the Clam Kings run off the field, the first ball throwers do their thing, and the game begins. I feel like we’re already in extra innings, and not a single pitch’s been thrown. Morgan never skips a beat. In the first two innings, she arranges a successful scoreboard-announced engagement (“Kelly, will you marry me? Alan”), sets up and judges a gunny sack race for a box of cereal between two pint-size girls, and preps for the Build a Burger event.

Underneath the stands, Morgan corrals the two burger builders, gulping a Red Bull as she talks. Maybe this is the source of her boundless momentum, but she’s been working non-stop for hours already, and this energy drink might actually be calming her down. Either way, she is cheery, focused and does a nice job of thanking both bun and burger for participating.

It’s the third inning, and we’re standing in the corner of the Sea Dogs’ dugout. The sumo competitors, Morgan, Michaela, and I are clustered together, drawing no attention from the players, which is a good thing. My one chance to interact with the future stars of the Red Sox, and I’m helping a man velcro himself into an enormous non-breathable fat suit. The inning ends, the wrestlers flop around for ninety seconds, and we’re onto “Race the Mascot” in another three outs.

Eight-year old Megan is racing Slider tonight, and she beats him by a whisker to the applause of the crowd. Morgan congratulates Megan and hustles off to change into an elf costume for next inning’s Santa’s Village promo. Never knowing if the inning will be over in three pitches or, in the case of tonight’s game, forty pitches, two pitching changes, one error and five runs, means Morgan and her cast must be ready immediately. Elfin magic Morgan and her Santa sidekick perform with gusto, giving away a scooter to a lucky fan.

It’s the seventh inning, and I give Morgan the slip and sit down to watch some baseball. The Sea Dogs lead 14-8 in front of a thinning crowd. Out of nowhere, the Fisher Cats manager throws a fit, directing a tirade at the home plate umpire, his tanned face turning purple-red with anger as he screams at the man in blue. He gets tossed and is followed by the Cats’ hitting coach, who yells all sorts of adult-only adjectives until he too is asked to leave. It’s a bit unsettling when two of the oldest people in the park act like complete babies, but if you had to wear stretch pants, an athletic supporter and do nothing more aerobic than spit sunflower seeds, you’d be a blown call away from snapping too.

Just when I think the promos are done, a group of interns gathers on the concourse to prep for the 8th inning ”Cha Cha Slide” dugout dance, wearing food-themed costumes. I’m not sure what they’re promoting, but if bananas, hot sauce, Tootsie Rolls, ketchup and tomato soup are the ingredients, I’m not taking a bite.

Friday night is Fireworks night for the Fisher Cats fans, and the moment the game ends, Morgan and Michaela waste no time kicking off the finale. Morgan leads a little girl onto the field, Michaela introduces her with an energetic voice, the girl drops the pretend detonator, and fireworks fill the Manchester night sky.

This is my cue to call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t even look up at what sounds like quite a show. As I leave the field, I see Morgan in a dead sprint, off to hammer out final details on another task. In ten hours, she and the rest of the entire Fisher Cats organization will be right back here to do it all over again. Let’s hope there’s enough Red Bull to go around.

In the Cards

2008-05-01T20:19:00.004-04:00

So this guy shows up at a psychic’s office without an appointment. The psychic opens the door to her office and says, “I’ve been expecting you!” Before the other night, that joke summed up my appreciation for the world of psychic powers. That and some creepy memories of run-ins with the Ouija Board as a child. And the Drew Barrymore movie when she uses her mind to set fire to anyone who gives her the stink eye, although I always figured she just never got enough love from her stage mom, and, deep down, she was really a nice little telekinetic second grader. Michelle Beauregard changed all that for me. And contrary to popular myth, psychics do require appointments. I made mine for this past Monday night and arrived at Michelle’s office in Center Barnstead with nothing but a “clear mind,” at her suggestion.

I’m here for what Michelle calls an “intuitive reading.” I’ve never done anything like this before and have no expectations, except a vague sense that she’ll spill the beans about my future. As I sit down, my only hope is that I don’t learn that I’ll die in the claws of an enraged giant marsupial, and I definitely don’t need her telling me that she sees me fatter, balder and shorter in my waning years. I don’t need a psychic to tell me - the mirror works just fine for that.

Michelle sits me down, and as she picks up a small crystal and holds it in her hands, she asks me to select a pack of cards from a broad assortment. “Look them over,” she tells me, “and choose the pack you’re drawn to.” I feel no energy emanating from the cards, although that pack on the end looks kinda cool so I grab it. “Those are the Shape Shifter cards,” she tells me as I shuffle them into three stacks. Michelle takes the stack I point to and lays out three rows of six cards each. The drawings on these cards are not what I expected. With titles like “Legacy,” “Success,” “Loneliness,” and “Sorcerer,” the cards look like the album cover concepts Ronnie James Dio rejected for his greatest hits compilation. But there’s no time to think about the breakup of Black Sabbath because Michelle launches into what she sees or feels about me and my energy through the eighteen cards on the table between us.

Michelle is a thirty-year old mother of two, a shamballa reiki master and psychic whose been doing this kind of work full-time for two years. “I’ve always been intrigued by tarot cards, ever since I was a kid,” she says. “And then once I learned reiki and the energy work around it, I heightened my senses and really started to do card readings for people outside my friends and family.” (Check her out at www.theinnateinyou.com) I’m pretending I know even the first thing about tarot cards, and before tonight I would have guessed that shamballa reiki was some sort of bean curd dish served with fresh vegetables, as in “Yum, this shamballa reiki tastes swell with a nice cold glass of soy milk!” But I’ve since learned that it’s a form of holistic healing that focuses on the energy inside of us, and reiki masters use their hands to help channel the energy into the right spots to fix whatever’s ailing you.

What’s ailing me first, apparently, is the fact that I could use a little more money. Michelle feels a “heavy weight” pressing down on her as she focuses in on the card, which, I’m presuming, shows a gas pump and Concord tax bill, but as I look, I think I see a man’s head on a piggy bank, and the man is weeping. Considering it cost me $47 for half a tank of gas to get here, I’d say Michelle is right on target. Holding up the card titled, “The Moon,” she goes on to say a few very insightful things about my wife’s family, which, for the sake of harmonious holiday dinners to come, I’ll keep to myself.

Most of what Michelle tells me is spot-on. She knows that my family owns a cabin in the woods up north and that my mom loves the solitude of it, often spending time there alone. She nails it when she describes my job and what might lie in store for me, although her insistence that there is a 5’10” woman “with long legs, blonde curly hair with either heavy eye makeup or eye glasses” who has a lot to do with my future career success is a tad unnerving. And her description of my wife as “The Sacred Flame,” full of talent, potential and “untapped spiritual energy” is something I commit to memory immediately for future use at the appropriate time.
Michelle barely takes a breath, except for occasional sips of water, and she juggles the crystal in her hands, her eyes glazing over a bit as she moves from card to card. I really have no idea how she’s doing what she’s doing, and her sunny face, her great laugh and the ease with which she seems to be capturing pieces of my past and present and turning them into a puzzle for my future is compelling and comforting.

Not all the news is good. She takes a while explaining how one of my siblings will get into some trouble at work, and how I will be the “guiding light” to help him or her (I’d rather not share) make it through the dark times. She intimates that this sibling’s done something bad, so, just in case, I’m on caller ID high alert at home, my copies of ethical and/or criminal codes handy for quick reference. And then there’s just plain odd. Michelle swears my family and I are soon to see a dinner theater version of the Disney movie “Mulan,” but I honestly have to say we’d need to be forced at sword point to do such a thing. Maybe a meatball sub and a DVD of the movie, but “Mushu and Friends on Ice” isn’t in the cards for us, even though it seems to be for her.

The hour flies by, and Michelle tells me a lot of information about myself, the choices I’ve made, the regrets I have and how my future and my family’s future is generally very bright. Granted, I didn’t need her to tell me that my wife and I are happy together, but it’s sure nice to get the validation, even if it’s based on a stranger’s interpretation of a playing card with a drawing of a scantily-clad woman-lioness hybrid frolicking with a cloven-hoofed man-beast playing a lute and laughing to the sky. The weird thing is that is exactly what we’re wearing for Halloween next year. Coincidence? I think not.

Karaoke Krimes

2008-04-03T19:35:00.002-04:00

You self-confident people have all the fun - always smiling, with lots of healthy-looking hair, using your fingers like pretend pistols as you point, chuckle and say, “Hey there, buddy!” because you have no idea what my name is, and buddy will work just fine. Well, my name is Tim, and I could use a little more self-confidence. But how? Extra smiling seems creepy, and the only place I’m growing hair at my age is on my ears; I could call more people “buddy,” but buddy’s really a dog’s name. After some thought, I decided the fastest way to earn more of this elusive character trait was to spend a night in public, singing for a bunch of strangers. And nothing says “strangers” and “singing,” like karaoke, so I invited a few friends and headed to the local bar to check it out.

Karaoke’s origins are disputed – some claim it was a bunch of besotted Japanese salarymen filling in for a missing performer; others say it was a Japanese bar singer who coaxed the drunken patrons to join him in singing; and others contend it started during Japan’s feudal era when the Samurai would drink boxes of sake and sing to relieve their stress from carrying around such heavy swords in their pajamas.

My wife and I meet our Massachusetts friends Erika and Kojo in the basement pub of Chen Yang Li in Bow. There were no more than ten people on this Thursday night, and most of them are focused on basketball and not on Rick the KJ in the corner. Rick runs “Rick’s Good Time Karaoke” where it’s suggested on his song request forms that we “Come be the star that you are!”

In the interests of full disclosure, I’ll share that I’ve arrived with a few beers already in my belly – the history of this activity stresses alcohol as a key element, and earlier in the week, my co-worker Kelly explained in Rule Four of Kelly’s Five Rules of Quality Karaoke that, “The only way to get up there and do karaoke is to do it drunk!” Kelly knows a lot about karaoke, enough for me to commit her Five Rules to memory. I get myself a cold draft, find a table for my wife and friends and prep for a night of self-confident singing.

The bar has the feel of a cantina at a forced labor camp. One couple picks over a plate of chicken wings while a guy in a red hat gives us a look that says, “Don’t even think about singing.” I grab a binder of song choices from Rick’s gear, and Erika and I pour over the pages. Neither Kojo nor my wife will be singing - they’ve our designated drivers tonight, which is a good thing based on how fast that beer just went down.

As I select my first song, Kelly’s Rule One comes to mind: “Pick a song you really love and know all the words.” The song binder is massive – choosing between Mel Tillis, Motorhead and the Monkees is harder than you think. While I keep looking, Erika bounds up front, and Rick announces, “Let’s hear it for Erika!” Other than us, no one gives Erika a second thought, but with the first sounds of her voice, everything changes. “I’ve been cheated, been mistreated. When will I be loved?” Erika sings, and everyone in the bar stops to listen. As she continues, it’s as if Linda Ronstadt herself came in for mu shu takeout, heard a commotion and grabbed the mic. Erika’s voice is full, sweet and sultry, and when she sings, “It happens every time!” the crowd is hers and hers alone. The song moves into the instrumental break, and I’m so mesmerized by my friend’s beautiful voice that I don’t remember Kelly’s Rule Three (“Never, ever speak the words ‘Instrumental Break’ when they flash on the screen. It’s not funny.”) No need to because Erika is gently swaying to the rhythm while we wait in rapt anticipation for the finale. She delivers, and the crowd loves it. Rick’s smiling, and Mr. Red Hat is hooting, giving Erika a high five as she sits down. Everyone applauds.

The pressure! The crowd will be expecting brilliance after that debut, and I hustle up front. I’ve chosen Lynrd Skynrd’s rollicking tribute to the flirtatious coward in all men - “Gimme Three Steps.” After thirty years of singing that song to myself, I know the words and belt it out, using hand gestures to emphasize phrases like, “And he was looking for you-know-who,” and “Wait a minute mister, I didn’t even kiss her, don’t want no trouble with you,” and the crowd at least seems unoffended. I finish to tepid but noticeable applause. I can feel the confidence flowing a bit, or maybe that’s the hops and barley. Either way, this is fun.

Erika’s up again, choosing Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats.” The crowd hangs on every note from her throaty, precise voice, and when she croons, “I might’ve saved a little trouble for the next girl,” the smiles on the faces of two women closest to Erika, both deep into matching goblets of white wine, are huge. As Erika sits, another woman walks over and says, “That was beautiful. Did you see my man split for the bathroom when you started singing that one? Ha!” Erika’s voice – so good it forces cheating men to run for cover.

I’m up next and take a risk, choosing “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” a Pat Benatar staple. I thought about “Hell is for Children,” but remember Kelly’s Rule Two: “Karaoke is much more fun when the audience knows the song.” I can see one of the Chardonnay Twins laugh as I begin. It’s better than expected, although my voice sounds more like Alvin the Chipmunk going through puberty than Pat Benatar in her heyday. But Alvin never sang lines like, “Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you better make sure you put me in my place.” The crowd approves, and the Chardonnay Twins love every minute of it - even Mr. Red Hat throws me a high five. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

This really is fun. Granted, catching lawn darts is lots of laughs after six quick beers, but something tells me I’m OK at this. I decide the best way to win the crowd over and nail this self-confidence thing is to duet with Erika! This fulfills Kelly’s Rule Five – “A team effort is a good thing,” and we choose Elton John’s and Kiki Dee’s, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” We walk arm in arm to the front, and I’m ready to blow ‘em all away. But right out of the gate, I can’t find the tune, and my voice sounds like Peter Brady during his “Time to Change” phase while Erika’s performance demands everyone in the room strikes the mere memory of Kiki Dee’s now-pedestrian voice from our minds forever. We continue, and I hear something in the sparse crowd. Just before we finish, I realize Mr. Red Hat is shouting at me. “You stink! Stop singing. You’re ruining it!” he yells, leaning over as we walk by, saying to my wife, “That guy was lousy but the lady was awesome!” Wow – heckled by one seventh of the crowd. I’m not sure if Kelly has a secret Rule Six, but I’m betting “Expect to get heckled in front of your wife and friends,” is not it.

We sit down and think about heading home when the taller of the Chardonnay Twins ambles by, the wine edging over the lip of her glass and announces to Erika, “You have a voice of pure gold. You got to do something with it. I’ve seen every episode of American Idol, and you are way better than every one of them.” Erika is gracious, brushing off the compliments, but Chardonnay Sister One persists. “What are you doing in Concord, New Hampshire? You are too good for this place. Promise me you’ll do something with your voice. Promise me,” she says, touching Erika’s arm. Erika promises, and Chardonnay Sister One stumbles away, content her role as local dream catcher is complete.I sit and watch this unfold, realizing my voice, on the other hand, is not too good for Concord (or Bow, Penacook or Hooksett, for that matter), and I’m OK with it. This self-confidence thing is gonna take some time, and I’ve got just the right song list to get me there. But next time, I’m going solo, avoiding Elton John and doubling up on the beers. I’m pretty confident about that.

A Fish(less) Story

2008-02-22T07:12:00.001-05:00

It’s just before sunrise on a frigid February Sunday morning, and I’m standing on a frozen lake. It’s still dark, although the sun is starting to make its way up and out over the trees behind me. My guide for the morning, Ben Nugent, a thirty year-old biologist for Fish and Game, finishes pulling his sled, packed with the tools we’ll need for a day of ice fishing. I met Ben about twenty minutes ago, right near Mosquito Bridge outside Tilton. The first thing he said to me was, “This is the coldest morning I’ve fished this year,” and now, standing in the middle of Lake Winnisquam, wearing six layers of clothes, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and foot warmers inside my boots, I believe him. The cold takes my breath away, reminding me that it sure was warm in my bed about an hour ago, where I still could be, snug and cozy as I dream of soft tropical breezes and warm sand between my toes.
My imaginary vacation is interrupted by the whine of the gas-powered ice augur that Ben’s man-handling as he drills a hole into the ice. Water gushes out as Ben kicks the slush and ice away and drills another hole. My guess is that the fundamentals of ice fishing haven’t changed much since our ancestors realized that salted squirrel meat gets pretty tired around mid January. You cut a hole in the ice, you bait a hook, you drop the hook into the hole, and you wait. A few days before Ben cautioned me that even though he’s picked out a sure-fire winning spot for us, “There are no guarantees” we’ll catch anything, but as I watch him set up the shelter and cut the bait, I have a feeling I’m in the hands of a pro, and if I can prevent myself from freezing to death or falling through the ice, I might just be eating fish for dinner tonight.
I’m not much of a fisherman. To-date, my greatest achievement as an angler is getting a three-pronged lure stuck in my ten-year old belly while yanking it from a sunken log only to be followed twelve years later by a mid-river mishap in Montana when I learned that fly fishing waders filled with gallons of Bighorn River water make for a hilarious, near-lethal combination. And prior to today, the thought of ice fishing reminded me only of the joke about how the ice fisherman died (he got himself run over by the Zamboni), but with thousands of fishable bodies of water across New Hampshire, I decided it was time to hit the ice and see what the frigid fuss was all about.
Ben’s from northern New Hampshire, and after two years of college, he abandoned his plan of becoming a pharmacist. “A life under fluorescent lights was not for me,” he adds as he divvies up the sucker meat. Ben is a conservation biologist for New Hampshire Fish and Game. “My job is to look for and study endangered fish populations for the state and help towns make good decisions about how to protect them,” Ben explains. And when he says things like, “Trawlin’ on Winni,” and “Jigging for lakers,” he says them with such casual conviction that I’m convinced this man knows more about fish and fishing than I could ever hope to. Besides, anyone who utters the sentence, “Black crappie makes great eating,” with a straight face deserves my respect.
We’re now seated in the temporary shelter – sort of a bob house on the fly. The thick plywood base has two hatches in the floor, and Ben’s positioned them just above the holes he’s drilled. He then unveils his baby, or as he calls it, “My $350 fishing buddy,” a state-of-the-art depth and fish finder. Ben drops the cable sensor down the hole, and we see how deep the water is and where the fish are. “Without this, you’re fishing blind,” he says, which sums up every attempt I’ve ever had at fishing until today.
Ben hands me a small rod with a simple lure and a piece of sucker meat on it. I watch as he cuts more of the meat and puts it into what looks like a small copper bell at the end of another rod. “It’s time to chum the holes,” he explains as he puts three or four pieces of bait into the bell, latches the bottom and drops it into my hole. Ben tells me that it’s a chum bucket, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve heard that term before, but only during Spongebob Squarepants, drawing even greater attention to the fact I’ve got lots to learn.
We watch the bucket descend on the depth finder’s small screen, and just as it reaches fifty-five feet and the bottom, Ben yanks the line to release the bucket’s bottom to let the chum fall to the floor. Our target today is lake trout, a robust species that’s found in most lakes across the state. I learn that any trout we keep has to be at least eighteen inches long and that trout love smelt. Ben waxes poetic about the smelt, about how they’re key to the health of the larger fish in the lake. “The trout and the salmon eat smelt, so we need smelt for the other fish to thrive,” Ben tells me. I had no idea how important smelt were to the entire operation, and Ben continues, telling me the smelt population in Lake Winnisquam is healthy and plentiful. I think we’ve dumped enough of it at the bottom of our holes to host a trout-only, all-you-can-eat “smeltasbord,” but so far, the fish ignore us.
Ben’s fish finder shows nothing except our lines in the water and an occasional fish or two. We’ve been out here for about two hours already and nothing’s biting except the cold air. Ben suggests that the chum left behind by the bob house owners in the distance might have helped our trout lose their appetites or that last weekend’s fishing derby may have played a role. Either way, we’re having no luck, and Ben decides to find a new spot. Within minutes he’s drilled two new holes, and we’re soon seated in our cozy shelter, rods in hand, and fresh chum down the holes.
One thing I can tell you about ice fishing when the fish aren’t biting is that you spend a lot of time talking about other things. Ben saw John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett at the Capitol Theater last weekend, and I really liked George Clooney in the film, Michael Clayton. The sub-prime housing market issue is a big problem, and the New York Mets will play their last season at Shea this summer. I once saw an otter in the lake when I was a kid, and did you know that otters will eat only the eyes and brains of salmon that are caught in Fish and Game’s nets? We talk Red Sox, mink, bald eagles and fish. We discuss the state of fishing on Winnipesaukee (great) and the future of the Bridal Shiner (not great). We talk about how ugly the cusk is and about how last summer a renegade pickerel in Merrimack nipped at campers’ feet as they swam, and that the Round White is a very rare fish in New Hampshire and lives only in Newfound Lake.
“We might get skunked today,” Ben laments. We try another strategy and go back to the original holes and bait a hook on a “tip up,” a contraption that sits over the hole with a baited line at the end and a flag that snaps up the moment there’s any tug on the line. Ben sets it, and we head back to our holes.
It’s around 10 AM and we’ve been out here for four hours. Just then, Ben sees the raised flag on the tip up, and we jog over to see what we’ve caught. Ben can’t believe it – the flag’s up but there’s nothing on the end of our line, just remnants of the sucker meat. Apparently we’re the only suckers out here today. Back in the shelter, our time running out, we even try dumping the carcass of the sucker fish Ben filleted last night to entice our recalcitrant foes, but it’s frozen, and the sucker’s head bobs on the surface of my hole, its dead eyes staring through me, mocking my incompetence.
Just before we quit, we’ve fallen back into silence when Ben murmurs, “You’ve got a lake trout right underneath you.” I reel the bait gently upward, hoping the fish will forget the free food we gave him and attack my strings-attached snack. But he’s too smart, too full or too jaded for my shenanigans, and he swims away, leaving us fishless.
You might call five hours sitting on a block of ice in the frigid winter air with no fish to show for it the definition of failure, but I’m not so sure. How often do you get to learn all sorts of things from a man who’s an expert in his field and have fun doing it? And there are worse places to spend a Sunday morning than in the great outdoors. Besides, what’s a little frostbite among new fishing buddies?

"The Fat Man's Candy" or "How Cheese Changed my Life"

2008-01-18T07:00:00.000-05:00

The holidays are over, and as I look in the mirror, I see a flabbier version of myself staring back, a look of confused anxiety on my face as I realize what six weeks of over-indulgence can do to a man. This year was gonna be different – this was the year I stayed away from third helpings of the festive pecan sugar log, rejected another lap around the buffet table, the year I avoided the face-first forays into the creamy Frito-laden dip. That plan ended the minute the eighth swan went a’ swimming, unfortunately, leaving me swollen, sullen and looking for the ghost of Jack Lalanne, and he isn’t even dead yet. When New Year’s Day rolled around, I seized upon the first day of the New Year as the perfect time to right my ways.
But then the cheese called. Well, not the cheese itself but the cheesemonger, dashing my hopes for a slimmer future. Cheesemonger? What in the name of Cheez Whiz is a cheesemonger, you ask. Until two weeks ago I too had no idea, but any job that features cheese in the title can’t be all that bad, so I went to learn more, casting my weight loss plan aside like an unopened Absizer.
There are those who care more about the Doodle than the Cheez, who consider cheese a sidekick and nothing more. Then there are those who see cheese for the glorious creation it is, finding a partially filled glass of milk and caring nothing about the half-empty versus half-full argument, demanding only to know what moron blew the chance to turn that milk into cheese. I love cheese not as the corner man but as the main event - the Muhammad Ali of the meal rather than the Bundini Brown. Cheese, I believe, is the pinnacle of human existence, the reason for life itself, and the only real thing that separates us from our simian cousins. Cheese – the fat man’s candy, milk’s leap into immortality – it has many names, each of them beautiful. I will never have enough cheese.
I enter Butter’s on Main Street in Concord, and Keith Dickey is standing there, waiting for me, a look of detached determination on his face. He greets me and hands me an apron. “Are you ready to work,” he asks with a wry smile. Keith’s been the proprietor of Butter’s since he opened its doors in the summer of 2006. After years as an archaeologist and then an investment banker in Manhattan, Keith, his wife and daughter moved to Concord, and soon after he poured all that archaeology money into Butter’s, creating a destination for cheese lovers across the Granite state.
After a quick tour of the store, a beautifully renovated space with exposed brick, cases teeming with cheese and fancy meats (think prosciutto, not porterhouse), shelves stacked with gourmet snacks, crackers, oils and wine, Keith gestures to an enormous wheel of cheese resting on a butcher’s block table in the store’s front foyer. “You’re going to cut that up,” he says and points to a table nearby covered in cheeses of all sizes. “And then we’ll tackle those.” I’m reminded of the line from the film, Field of Dreams, when Kevin Costner’s dad asks, “Is this heaven?” I expect Keith to read my mind and respond, “No, Tim, this is a cheese shop,” but he just smiles and gets me working on the wheel.
My first job as a cheesemonger, or one who sells cheese, is to cut it before I can sell it. The title of cheesemonger, I later realize, is a more unofficial one, like “parade grand marshal” or “celebrity spokesmodel,” except that this requires fewer decorative sashes and more skill. Keith introduces me to a beautiful wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and we wipe it down to remove the excess oil. He explains that this 80 lb. wheel of Italian cow’s milk cheese has aged for at least two years, its birthday burned into its rind. He offers a quick lesson in how to open it. I learn that a true cheesemonger never cuts this wheel; rather he breaks it into pieces slowly, using a set of special tools – a cross between spackling trowels and fancy hood ornaments. Within seconds my heart rate’s racing as I drive the tools inch by inch into the massive circle. A small crowd gathers – it’s not every day you see a small man wrestling with a large wheel of expensive cheese – and as I twist the tools in the opposite direction, the wheel opens and the most amazing smell releases into the air, drawing the three or four onlookers closer. Keith offers us a taste of the uneven shards, and the cheese explodes with flavor. It’s sweet, salty, robust and delicate. Parts of it crunch like candy as others melt softly in my mouth. Keith stands back as we each seem to be discovering this cheese for the first time, blown away by its aroma, texture and taste.
But I’m here to work, so I keep cutting, the halves into quarters, the quarters into eighths and so on until Keith and his team wrap the cheese into sections for selling. Next up we attack what looks like a curling puck, and I learn it’s an Ascutney Mountain cheese from Vermont, its slightly hard texture yellow with the milk of the jersey cows that’ve had a hand in its production. Its taste is dense and rich, not quite as intense as the Parmigiano but subtler, more subdued.
We finish with the Ascutney Mountain, and Keith gives me a lesson in wrapping. “True cheesemongers take special care to wrap cheese the right way,” Keith explains as he shows me the correct technique. “You don’t want any wrinkles – the ghost effect is the goal,” he says as he deftly wraps a half-wheel of the cheese we’ve cut without a single fold in the plastic wrap to be seen.
I continue cutting, first a soft Fourme D’Ambert, using a wire to slice it into two large discs, then use a double-handled, 24-inch blade to open a five-year old huge wheel of Gouda, its smokiness shattering my taste buds as I pop the gleaned remnants in my mouth. We talk cheese as I work.
At this point, I feel like the Trekkie at a Star Trek convention who’s wandered into Leonard Nimoy in the men’s room and struck up a conversation about the episode where Abe Lincoln and Captain Kirk band together to fight Genghis Khan and the Klingons. Keith tells me about the foundations of cheese making (“It’s all about the milk,”) and how there are strict rules governing around selling cheese made with raw versus pasteurized milk. Keith says things like, “My Stilton is stuck in the harbor,” “You don’t want bleu on your cheddar,” and, “Notice the piquant flavor.” And by the time he describes the “mushroomy nuttiness of Brie,” I feel like my older sister during her Leif Garrett stage, listening to his record as she flips the pages of Tiger Beat with Leif shirtless on the cover. Dreamy.
Keith continues, tells me about the role of rennet, the enzyme essential to the cheese making process. He explains how bacteria is to cheese what Big Papi is to the Red Sox – the critical element that turns regular milk into a winner. I learn that bleu cheese’s mold comes from penicillin and that the crust on the outside of a nice wheel of Brie is all mold as well. “All cheeses are living, breathing things,” Keith explains as I cram another fistful of soft Brie in my mouth. I can barely form sentences now I’ve eaten so much cheese, and when Keith offers me a few sips of wine he’d been sampling earlier, I might not make it home in one piece. We say our goodbyes, and as I leave, my hands and shoulders sore from the cutting and opening, my New Year’s resolution is in tatters. But I don’t care. Weight may come and go but cheese is eternal.

Tim O'Shea Must Shut Up!

2007-12-03T15:26:00.000-05:00

“No talking. At all. The whole day. Are you crazy?” This is my reaction as I read my invitation to the White Mountain Sangha, “a day of silence and inquiry,” so that I might discover my “deepest nature” and “share in beautiful silence.” Considering silence and deep thought fit me about as well as a two-piece bathing suit, I’m skeptical. I tell my son Sam about the idea, and after informing me that a story like this will be “the most boring story in the world,” he declares, “You can’t stop yourself from talking.” I’m not listening because I’m too busy telling him about my favorite kinds of apples and how Saving Private Ryan is such a good movie and that Kevin Garnett sure will make the Celtics better this season and that I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt as a kid and that Buzz Aldrin would have been a really cool uncle and some other stuff I’ve been meaning to tell him.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.

SF Man Part Two - I Am Not Dougie!

2007-11-26T20:05:00.000-05:00

Part Two – I Can Hear You Getting Fatter

When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.

Short Fat Man Tears ACL, Gets Shorter and Fatter

2007-11-22T08:14:00.000-05:00

Part One – Mental Toughness, Physical Weakness

The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid

2007-10-26T06:45:00.000-04:00

I’ve come to Hopkinton to find Frank. Standing in Blaser’s Fireside Tavern in the early evening of a warm late summer night, I’m talking with my contact, Jay Bowe. Jay’s invited me to join her and the team from ECTO, the East Coast Transcommunication Organization, for a night of paranormal investigation, or what laymen might call “ghost bustin’.” Jay introduces me to Nancy Blaser. She and her husband Terry have owned Blaser’s since 1999, and Nancy assures me the place is haunted, recounting story after story of spectral encounters. This is when I learn about Frank.

Frank Mills is Blaser’s resident ghost, and he’s been haunting this place since he shot himself dead in 1926, distraught over the death of his young bride the year before. Nancy must serve quite a pepper steak for anyone, dead or alive, to stick around the same place for seventy years, but before I can order from the pub menu, I head upstairs to meet the team. The ECTO members are easy to spot – they’re the ones dressed in black with the expensive AV equipment. One guy sets up the video cameras, microphones and VRCs; another unpacks his temperature gauges; a woman plays with a pendulum while another boots up a laptop. Between the dark clothes, facial hair and high-tech equipment, I feel like I’m backstage at an Allman Brothers concert, but then Tim Derr, the ECTO member specializing in EMF (electromagnetic frequency detection), introduces himself and shows me his tool of choice, the copper dowsing rod. I’d always thought dowsing rods were for mildly nutty people looking for water as the PBS cameras roll, but Tim is normal, chatty and definitely not nutty. Tim explains that dowsing rods can be used to detect changes in electromagnetic frequency, “a good sign that there’s spectral energy close by.”

This prompts another member, Ron Pinkham, with a gift for “spectral videography” to tell me, “It’s all about energy. These ghosts have energy that always exists, so we use these tools to find the energy.” Just then, Tim’s twin rods start spinning around as he approaches the stairwell, prompting Ron to use a hand-held EMF meter, but instead of stumbling upon our first ghost of the night, Ron and Tim agree that there must be power cables running behind the wall, Ron remarks, “That’s not paranormal, that’s just dangerous.” He continues, “Most of what we do is prove each other wrong. We want to make sure what we find is legit. We tell each other all the mistakes we’re making so we can prove the good stuff.” I can’t help but think these guys would make great house inspectors.

I need to be straight with you – I’m a believer. Granted, I might not sleep in cemeteries on Halloween and know my sisters rigged the Ouija board, but I’ve no doubt that some departed souls just never got the memo about the big sleep. And I admit it doesn’t take much to scare me – one scene in The Sixth Sense made me yelp aloud in a packed movie theater like a pre-teen girl with a wooly spider in her popcorn, and I often run faster than Edwin Moses getting up my basement stairs, just in case someone or something is following me, which I’m pretty sure is true most of the time.

It’s getting dark outside, and the team continues to set up. ECTO’s two leaders, Karen Mossey and Mike Sullivan, give me a quick overview of the world of paranormal investigation. Karen’s specialty is EVP - electronic voice phenomena - and she shows me her digital voice recorder, explaining that spirits, “manipulate the energy in the recording devices,” sometimes leaving behind their voices. Mike then gives me a primer in EVP, playing a series of creepy recordings, where I hear voices say things like, “We’re the hunters,” in a chilling, old-fashioned accent, and another that says, “I love you,” but not in the way you’d really want whispered in your ear. I listen and nod, but all I can think of is that I’ll never invite Karen to my house – with my luck, she’ll wander around with her voice recorder discovering the one ghost who loves to mock my personal hygiene. “Nose picker,” it would say or something just as revealing.
Mike, who’s been doing this kind of work for thirty-plus years, tells me that images of ghosts most often appear as reflections in mirrors or glass objects, which explains why he’s arranged a dozen or so old bottles and small mirrors throughout the third floor and why he takes photo after photo like an over-medicated tourist with film to burn. Mike shows me a photo from his collection, a tiny one of a man wearing a morning coat and bowler, and I get queasy because I’m pretty sure I’m staring at a picture of a man who’s been dead for fifty years. I bet if I fake left and run right, I can make it downstairs and to my car in twenty seconds, but it’s dark in the parking lot and who knows what’s out there waiting for me, so I thank Mike for the lesson and gird myself for what’s next.

The team gathers, and Karen begins in the near-pitch black on the third floor. I ask no one in particular if I should have some sort of safe word if Frank gets me in his ghostly clutches, like “binkie” or “mommy,” but the team is in no mood for jokes. Karen asks for quiet, calling out to Frank, urging him to join us. We’re greeted with silence, save for the soft snapping of digital photos. ECTO then moves into overdrive, using every tool at its disposal, exploring all parts of the tavern’s second and third floors. Karen hands me a thermalined monocular, a night-vision scope, and I walk around in the dark, praying that I see only people I recognize through the green-tinted lens.

The more the team explores every corner, I wonder if they’re frightening the ghosts away. If I were a ghost, these black-clad leaders of the AV Alumni Society calling out my name might make me hide in the floorboards for the night. I ask Audra Pinkham, Ronnie’s sister, if ghosts can be scared off, and she tells me, “If ghosts aren’t ready to go to the light, they are not ready and they are not leaving.” I prep my best Jo Beth Williams imitation, (“Carol Ann, stay away from the light!”) but think better of it and get back to my night vision duties.

Somehow, I find myself alone on the third floor in absolute darkness. I knew this was a bad idea. I’m in the one area in New Hampshire where ghosts book their appearances months in advance, and we’ve baited Frank into showing his ghostly face right in this room! But before I can hyperventilate into unconsciousness, I hear something downstairs. I hustle off to find the group huddled together, excited about a discovery, the first of the night. Karen presses play on her recorder, and we hear her voice call out, “Is there anybody here? Speak if you are here. Who is here?” And then we hear one word, spoken in a low, peculiar voice. The voice says, “Frank.” The team is ecstatic – real EVP proof that Frank has arrived! They may be thrilled, but my stomach feels like my pancreas is holding onto my duodenum for dear life, the three of them scared out of their wits, just like me.

As we listen again and again to Frank’s voice, I’m struck by the fact that these people are like the paparazzi – they sit around with expensive cameras and gear, waiting for a glimpse of someone special to show his face and then they pounce.The group heads back upstairs, but my night’s over. Tim’s dowsing rods may have found something else, and Karen’s planned a full séance to continue the chitchat with Frank, but I’ve heard enough to know there really are things that go bump in the night. Besides, it’s getting late and this crowd looks like it could go all night. I need to get home to go to sleep. With the lights on.

A Day No Pumpkins Shall Die

2007-10-14T10:42:00.000-04:00

Ah yes, New England in fall. Leaf-covered lawns, brisk mornings, shorter days, crisp apples and firewood to stack. But then you had to show up with an armful of pumpkins and ruin everything. Explain to me your fascination with the Cucurbita maxima. Everywhere I look I see them, grotesque, oblong, inert blobs of orange lassitude, rotting ever so slowly since that creepy kid who works at the farm stand sliced their connection to life, kick-starting their decline towards rot. And I’ve seen you, laughing and cavorting in those roadside pumpkin fields, searching for just the right one to leave on your doorstep while its carcass begins its decline. You act like that pumpkin patch is heaven and those vegetables were fluffy orange clouds of mirth and joy.

Well, one family’s heaven is another man’s gourd-filled hell, and I ain’t having any of it. When I see a pumpkin, I think of getting my ass kicked as a twelve-year old on Halloween. And I’m reminded of my family as a kid – we were that family that always bought a few mega-pumpkins the size of bulldozer tires. We’d display our burnt sienna bounty on the front porch or by the back door, announcing to the world that we too could read a calendar and suspected winter was on its way. Sometimes we’d make jack o’lanterns, each of us trying to make the perfect scalene triangle eyes and gap-toothed smile. We also were too damn lazy, waiting until Flag Day to remove these rotted vessels of pagan misery, needing hazmat suits, a wet-vac and snow shovels to clean up the congealed pools of fetid pumpkin flesh that cascaded down our steps.

And let’s not forget the pumpkin bisque served at a friend’s wedding in 1993. Nothing ruins a belly full of free beer and good music like a steaming hot bowl of pumpkin gruel. The band’s drummer should have banged out a slave galleon beat while we force-fed ourselves the nutmeg-tinged slop. Considering the happy couple is now divorced, I’m convinced if we’d had a nice clam chowder or perhaps skipped the soup and had a simple salad with leafy greens and a soy dressing, those two would still be together.

Combine that edible pumpkin memory with the earnest Starbucks barista trying to foist a few squirts of pumpkin-flavored corn syrup in my $4 cup of steamed milk last week, and I pray for a day when no pumpkins shall die.

Every Halloween, Keene, New Hampshire crows about displaying the largest collection of carved pumpkins on the planet. Let’s remind the proud, misguided and clearly not-busy-enough-at work citizens of Keene that this is because no other country in the world considers it a worthy thing to grow something for five months, drive it to a church parking lot, dragoon a cub scout into marking up the price and extorting you into buying one so you can rip the top open, thrown out all the edible parts, carve a cretinous visage on the front and then cram an open flame in its disemboweled stomach. Most humans on this planet go through that trouble to stop their children’s stomachs from distending any further. But seriously, don’t mind me. Thanks for the pumpkins. It wouldn’t be fall without them.

Bingo!

2007-06-30T10:30:00.000-04:00

Just as peanut butter has jelly, and Jerry Lewis had Dean Martin, bingo will forever have smoking. A few weeks back I spent a night playing bingo and smoking at the Concord Bingo Center, learning a few key lessons. First, poor math skills as a child do not make bingo any easier; second, bingo demands a high degree of mental dexterity; and third, nicotine and French fries are no match for Lady Luck’s capricious whims.

I visited the Bingo Center to experience a night of carefree games of chance with a lit smoke in my hand, relishing what I bet will be the final days of one of the last true freedoms we have in the Granite State. Truthfully, I’m not a smoker, although I’ve had my share of furtive, late-night puffs outside parties to look cool and impress my neighbors. Earlier that day I’d heard of the State House’s plan to ban smoking in most public places, not sure if bingo parlors made the cut, remembering that social, fraternal and religious organizations are exempted from the ban, “only if smoking areas can be segregated effectively."

The first thing I notice in the Center is that the best chance you have of segregating the non-smokers is to find them a cozy bingo room of their own, somewhere outside Tuftonboro perhaps, because the smoke is so thick I’m sure I can walk across it. It hangs in the motionless air like dense fog on a crisp spring morning, but nobody, non-smokers and smokers alike, could care less. There’s bingo to play!

I walk to the front, the room already filled with almost 200 players, each of them carving out a spot at one of the long rows of plastic tables, like early morning beach goers before the start of a muggy day. They sit in pairs and small clusters, the tables spotted with charms of all kinds – pink-haired troll dolls, wide-eyed gremlins, ceramic cows and lucky ash trays. I reach the head of the line, fork over $25 and act like I’ve been here before. Collecting my game sheets and my new bingo marker, I’m handed a large paper grocery bag. Just as I start wondering if the bag’s for all the money I’m planning on winning, a wily veteran sitting near the front tells me with no prompting, “It’s for your garbage.”

Now knowing it’s clear I have no idea what I’m doing, I hope someone will pity me when I find my seat in the smoking section. I sit down and light up my first smoke of the night. Someone approaches, and he too is smoking. I assume he’s on his way over to chat about how Parliament Lights and Menthol Kools are alike in so many ways, but as he introduces himself, I realize either my bewildered gaze or my constant gumming of my cigarette make it clear I am a fish out of these cloudy waters. Don Gelinas is tonight’s caller, and he walks me through the rules and then stops, sees the stack of sheets in front of me and says, “Are you sure you can handle all these games?” with genuine concern. I take a drag, try not to cough in his face and assure him I got it covered.

Across from me sits Rose Lord, an experienced player with a Philadelphia accent that cuts throw the smoke between us. She shakes my hand, offering a simpler explanation. “Just watch the board – you’ll see the pattern up there. You can sneak a peek at the TV in the corner – that will give you a head start on the next number called. I’ll make sure you don’t get too confused,” she says with a smile. I notice the close-circuit TVs that ring the room as well as the basketball hoops against the wall. The TVs and the smoke remind me of a jai alai fronton in Ft. Pierce, and the basketball hoops seem completely out of place. Of all the scenarios likely to break out here tonight, a spontaneous three-on-three shirts vs. skins hoops game is not one of them.

Don is up front, microphone in hand, and the bingo balls start percolating in the wind-driven drum next to him. He calls the first number in a buttery voice, and we begin. For full immersion, I’ve decided to smoke a cigarette per game. After three quick games, my head is swirling, my hands are shaking, and I’m pretty sure I won that Block of Nine with the Wild Card, but the surge of nicotine in my bloodstream would have distorted my voice. Yelling “Bangoo” in a crowded room is not my idea of blending in, so I keep my head down, ask Rose for advice and try not to embarrass myself.

I lose game after game – the Arrow, the Six Pack, the Picture Frame and the Layer Cake - never even close to bingo. I start to wonder when the beer guy will come around, but Rose explains that there is no liquor at bingo. A shame, I think, but then again, booze leads to chatter, and chatter leads to distraction, and that’s a combination for losing, so no booze at bingo.
As my unlucky streak continues, I notice the employees circling the room, selling pull tab lottery tickets for $10 a pack. Irene Garceau, sitting next to me, explains that these tickets are a huge seller. She tells me lots of people spend over $100 a night on these, hoping to win far more than that, noting that a woman won over $5,500 a few weeks back. The employees carry the packs in little plastic trays, like workers at a blood drive, collecting money and dishing out packs of lottery tickets like gauze pads and “Be Nice. I Donated!” stickers.

Finally, as I creep into the second half of my pack of cigarettes, I wonder if I can use my paper bag for the vomit that’s surely to come, but instead I order some fries, light another smoke and prepare to conquer the Martini glass game that’s up next. “Don’t forget the olive!” cracks Norma Jean Smith, a veteran caller who sits down at my table to dispense wisdom. I try a joke of my own, hearing Don call, “B-12.” I add, “That’s the closest anyone’s getting to a vitamin tonight!” but it’s met with silence.

By the time the Carryover Coverall approaches, I’ve had enough fried food and cigarettes to contemplate looking for a portable defibrillator, but Rose interrupts me to tell me how much she enjoys bingo. “I haven’t won in a while,” she tells me. When I ask her about the ban that may mean she can’t smoke in here, she looks at the big board, taps an ash into the ashtray and says, “Smoking is my only pleasure.”

Just before the night ends, Rose wins a few hundred bucks on a Regular Bingo game. “Come back,” she tells me, “you brought me luck.” And as the night ends, Linda Lampon, Irene’s daughter, also wins, yelling “Bingo!” like she sat on a tack. Then Don bids goodnight, reminding us all to take care on the roads. Irene turns to me and says, “There are nice people at Bingo.” And I agree. Nice people who love their routine, love their game and love their smoking. And it would seem a shame to change any of it.

One Day We Shall Look Back on This, and I Shall Blame You

2007-05-28T22:15:00.000-04:00

The season of shame is over. With summer’s advent we say goodbye to that most dreaded of events - those two hours when every sane parent prays for an asbestos scare or a teamster strike – that one scheduled activity that may haunt us and our progeny forever – summer is when we say goodbye to the Dance Recital.

The Dance Recital is as close as most of us will ever get to structured child abuse, and we should all be ashamed. Every late spring we find ourselves, ninety minutes early, clutching a bouquet of cheap flowers in noisy cellophane, depositing the grandparents in seats just close enough to see movement and color but far enough away not to notice the kiddie burlesque abomination about to unfold in front of them, while we wrestle with a video camera from 1993 with the detachable sound cone and boom mike. Meanwhile, your wife is trying to wrestle your daughter into some sort of taffeta sequined ball gown chopped at the knees and staple a plastic bowler on the bewildered kid’s sweaty head. You stay safely away, knowing your child’s muffled cries from beneath the non-breathable fabric will only fill you with more guilt.

Then, the lights go down, the music comes up and you glance at the program to see what this year’s theme is. But it won’t really matter because there are only so many ways you can tie together Thursday’s Hip Hop III Advanced with Monday’s Pre-K Fish Hop and Tumbleriffic class. Oddly, both work perfectly in such annual themes as “Dance Around the World,” “Dancin’ USA,” and “All Growed Up! Look at Me!”

The dancers’ names and outfits may change year after year, but every dance recital has the same cast – the fish-eyed kid who’s got to be hiding gills underneath that spangly top and jazzy skirt; or the tarted-up 8th grader who does a pre-dance pole routine while all the dads immediately distract themselves by the expiration date on their camera’s batteries. Nothing like staring at the ceiling while AC/DC’s “You Shook Me” blares over the auditorium’s speakers – you know just one glance at the stage and you’ll either turn to salt or take one huge step closer to becoming just like your pervy uncle Clint, who’s probably in the balcony right now filming the routine for posterity. Or the three-year old with the thousand-yard stare who has no business being in public much less in a poodle skirt and bobbie socks in front of hundreds of strangers. She’s been there since dawn, with the other polka dot chain gang, and she’s consumed twice her weight in Sour Patch Kids and mini Krackle bars. Just as the music starts for her first number, Our Little Pumpkin gets shoved onstage, stares offstage while every adult points and yells at her, and then, mercifully, Pumpkin is yanked off by the dance instructor’s assistant, who patrols the stage like a Stalag 17guard.

Or the chubby kid who is, by far, the best dancer in the building but those peanut cluster bars taste sooo good after practice that you really can’t blame her. Or the poor jug-headed child with ears the size of manhole covers – sadly, no neon sunbonnet or tribal headdress will hide those appendages, and the crowd gasps whenever the child leaps, fearing she’ll take flight, those enormous wings on her head lifting her to the rafters. No dance recital would be complete without the little girl who just doesn’t have the beat, stumbling around like she’s had a few shots backstage, only the stiff tautness of the gold-lacquered bodice stretched across her belly keeping her from hitting the floor and staying there until “Natural Woman” ends and the guards drag her offstage.

Each dance is relentless in it persistent howl of bizarre mediocrity, and I find myself praying for Albanian separatists to burst through the doors, ready to take us all hostage – but they’d see the lack of rhythm, the ill-fitting costumes and the torturous interpretation of Hall and Oates’ “Maneater” and they’d hightail it out of there, their grenades and dignity still firmly intact.

There are some in the audience who seem to really be enjoying themselves – the same parents who never miss the new Kidz Bops CD and who think nothing of car windows slathered in stickers. There’s no doubt that if you’re cruising down the highway, cranking “Banana Phone” your lateral vision obscured by the many moods of My Pretty Pony, you can’t wait for Dance Recital season.

Another truth of these events is how often the dance instructors find themselves onstage as well. OK, we get it! You Love Dance! That’s why we drag our kids to your studio next to the GNC store at the mall near Osco Drug – because you love it so much. But do you need to find yourself in the middle of every other routine? Maybe you should stop shouting from the wings – you’re no better than the little league coach who tells every kid what to do on every pitch and batted ball. “Step two and shake your bum,” “Throw it to second base. SECOND BASE!” “Hop step two and sashay. Sashay! Come ON!” "Listen! Why won't you LISTEN?"

“Hey Mickey” followed by “Sea Cruise” followed by “Let’s Get This Party Started” followed by the theme song from The Aristocats . . . I’m sure this recital is being simulcast in Purgatory, and as the adults come out for the final dance – usually an awkward tap dance with our brave dance instructor and academy owner/operator leading the charge front and center – it strikes me. The only reason we’re doing this is because there are seven or eight grown women who won’t let go. They loved dance so much as children that they’ve created an entire universe in support of their habit – a universe filled with weekly lessons, absurdly priced outfits, cheap flowers, video cameras and gaudy lipstick, not to mention shoes, sequins, hairspray, leotards and a DVD to relive this horror any time we want. No one ever told them they really didn’t have any rhythm and that unless you’re on Broadway, sweetie, them tap shoes ain’t good for nothin’ but killing bugs. Just like the psycho soccer dads, loony hockey moms and third base coaches from hell, these people are doing this for themselves. The kids are just a means to an end. And if that entails you forking over hundreds of dollars and dragging your kid to lessons twice a week for 47 weeks a year while Pumpkin covers every last free space on that backseat window with a Strawberry Shortcake sticker, then so be it – that’s really your problem to handle – just don’t be tardy picking Pumpkin up or it’s a $15 late charge.

Well, I think my daughter’s done with dance. Sure, she’ll miss it a bit next fall, but by the time spring rolls around and she’s outside with mud in her toes and sun on her face, she’ll barely remember the forced labor two-step jamboree we made her endure last year. But, if in twenty years, as we find ourselves in a shouting match over Thanksgiving dinner, our little girl blaming the dance recital and our ignorance for her shortcomings as she shouts about how her Beachside Tabouli Shack business model would work if we’d only never let her dance in a recital, at least we’ll have the DVD.

Poppa Smurf and the Ten Amendments

2007-04-16T18:34:00.000-04:00

There comes a point in every parent’s life when it dawns on you that your kids may need a little extra help after school. Mine came in a double dose this past week from my son, now a 12-year old sixth grader. The subject of the film, Raiders of the Lost Ark came up. We’d rented it and planned on watching the movie together. Sam asked for a quick plot summary, and I obliged, explaining that Han Solo is essentially trying to save the Ark of the Covenant from the Nazis just before World War II. Sam then asked, “What’s the Ark of the Covenant?” Wince number one.

I explained that the Ark was the sacred vault for the Ten Commandments. Sam paused, looked at me, and shook his head, smiling. “Dad, you mean the Ten Amendments. They’re called amendments.” Wince number two. In that one moment I thought back to a fall afternoon in 1992 on Long Island. I was coaching middle school football with a fellow teacher – Lou. Lou and I knew nothing about football, and as Lou was fresh off the campus of Holy Cross College, we spent lots of time talking about religion. On that afternoon, I told Lou that if I ever had kids, I wasn’t sure I’d make them go to Catholic school like I’d endured. Lou concurred but then warned me – “But what about all the stuff we learned? What about all the cultural references that everyone knows because of a religious education? Your kids will miss all of that.” I didn’t give it much thought until almost fifteen years later when my son dismissed my plot summary as the ramblings of an historically confused man. I guess it was better than saying that the Ark held the “Ten Condiments,” (Thou shalt mix horseradish and sour cream for a tangy, satisfying dip for baby carrots”), but still, it made me wonder if I’ve been setting the kid up for failure later in life.

My concerns only got worse just yesterday when I sat down for dinner and noticed a picture on the kitchen counter. It was of Poppa Smurf, and I wondered aloud who’d printed it up, sure that my kids have never seen an episode of The Smurfs, which is good, because other than The Power Rangers, never was the bar for American TV programming set so low. Sam admitted it was his, so I had to ask why he’d printed it up. “Poppa Smurf is a famous historical figure, and I thought it was cool, and I want to hang it up in my room.” Third and final wince.

I’ve got some work to do. I think I’ll start by explaining that Poppa Smurf was the one responsible for giving Han Solo the Ten Amendments for safe-keeping from the Blue Power Ranger, just after he parted the Peppermint Stick forest in Candy Land. Every journey starts with a first step, and mine starts here.

Sounds Good, Big Guy!

2007-03-18T15:06:00.000-04:00

It’s time to put an end to the bullshit. It’s gone on far too long, and I’ve had enough. I realize I may not be the most memorable person, not one to make a lasting impression, devoid of major disfigurements or a unique stench to help you recall my name (“Hmmm, club foot – shrunken ear – smells like burnt hair and marmalade – this must be Tim. 'Hi Tim!'”), but did you really need to call me “Big Guy”? Let's dispense with this charade and admit you can’t remember my name although we’ve met twice, I had dinner at your house, and I’m pretty sure you were lying when you told me your favorite baseball team was the Kansas City Seahawks.

Let’s recount, shall we? I was leaving the supermarket on a Sunday morning, and yes, you clearly were on your way home from church. I could see the smug self-satisfaction on your face along with a smidge of communion wine on your chin, and as I waved hello, you looked at me, hesitated and said, “There’s the big guy!” and kept right on walking into the store. I might've been OK with “Hey guy!” or “What’s up, buddy?,” the two standard dammit-I-should-know-your-name-you-short-bastard salutations, but you had to add insult to ignorance by calling me “Big Guy.” I guess if I were a big guy, such a comment would be mildly reassuring, but I’m as tall as Danny Devito and buy my clothes in the Husky Boys section of Lord and Taylor, so you should've said something along the lines of, "Hello little person - I recognize your face and small yet stout physique, as if Billy Barty's been dabbling with Human Growth Hormone, but I can't remember your name, my wee friend." But no, you had to go for “Big Guy.”

I bet you’re the kind of person who likes to say, “God love ya!” too. I’m sure you're always prefacing nasty, pointed references with that greeting. Things like, “Pal, God love ya, but you’re as dumb as a box of hammers.” Let’s stop pretending your semi-religious disclaimer in front of phrases like, “But I wouldn’t hire you to baby-sit my hamster,” or “But I could make a cable-knit sweater from your back hair,” really makes a difference. Telling me God does love me just before explaining how my bad breath could cause renal failure does me nor you any good.

You just can’t wait to say things like, “Don’t get me wrong,” can you? “Don’t get me wrong –I love crystal meth and porn just as much as the next guy, but I’ve got to get back to choir practice,” may sound rational, but please, stop this insanity and get some help.

And your emails? I wouldn’t be surprised if your co-workers get dozens of responses from you with just two words – “Sounds good!” Sounds good? What sounds good about the four-page email I just spent an hour writing to you about why my career is falling apart and how I think I’ve stolen enough Post-Its and staplers to open my own office supply kiosk at the flea market? You didn't even read it, did you? Were you so busy playing with your pencil fort that you figured “Sounds Good” would be enough to let me continue my downward spiral into career-ending turpitude while you whistled your day away? Be a man and send a response that cuts to the chase. Give me a simpler two-word response - “Up Yours.” “Up Yours” accomplishes the same sentiment, letting everyone know exactly where we stand with you, guy.

So, to summarize, next time we see each other, look me dead in the eye, take a deep, cleansing breath, and say, “Hey Tubby! I should remember who you are but don’t, so Up Yours!” Give me a huge, genuine smile and never break stride. After that, I think we could be friends.

Britney, Fame Like Ours is Toxic

2007-03-11T09:58:00.000-04:00

Dear Britney -

This fame thing’s a bitch, huh? I know how you feel. It can tear a person apart, that’s for sure. One minute you’re writing a few hundred words for the local newspaper about fanny packs, and the next minute your well-shorn hoo-haw is out and about for the whole world to see. Let’s be real, Britney. We both love the attention, the fame, the celebrity, but it comes at a price. Selling 417 books out of the trunk of my 2003 Honda is full of glamour, but there's a dark side to it. That hollow feeling – whether you’re dropping off three copies for consignment sales at The Book Nook, or you’re getting slapped with a restraining order from your ex with the cookie duster mustache, leaving you alone and angry, smashing his car windshield with an umbrella – we both live it every day. I mean it's freaky how similar our lives have become.
It’s the emptiness that stings. You don’t miss those nights on arena stages, staring into thousands of adoring faces, their eyes looking right through you. Just like that night I had at the Toadstool, when I arrived to read a few essays and sign books. Looking out at the empty chairs they’d set up for me, watching people avoid eye contact for fear of acknowledging me, alone and dejected next to a stack of unsold books, I felt the same way you did. People just don’t know us like we know ourselves.
And even though blowing off steam at exclusive clubs without any underwear can be fun, the next day we're back to the juggernaut of fame, trying our best not to get crushed. I guess I'm lucky, in a way. When I shaved my head, I begged someone to take my picture so I could prove I'd done it. It's been a wee bit different for you- but basically the same. I looked like a naked mole rat, just like you. I looked kinda sad after it was over, just like you. We're connected on so many levels it's crazy, even toxic.
And the addictions? It's the worst part, isn't it? If I eat one more caramel bullseye or another packet of Suzy Q's, I swear I'll be dead. Granted, it's not expensive booze or high-quality weed that the father of my children left in the other baby bag from before all this went down, but it's basically the same. We need what's bad for us because we're searching for what's good for us.
And everyone hassled us for having a few cocktails a few days after our kid was born, didn't they! They all wanted to know why you weren't busy being a parent. Ditto for me, sister. Ten days after my son was born, I went to a wedding, and wouldn't you know it, some lady got all in my face on the flight home just because I needed her barf bag too. I didn’t appreciate her smirk as she handed it over, asking me, "I wonder who's getting up with the baby tonight." Babies having babies – ain’t that the truth.
And the back and forth from rehab? Been there - done that. True, it wasn't really rehab. It was more like 6th grade swim team practice, but I never even put on my suit, hiding in the phone booth, crying on the phone with my mom until she agreed to stop laughing and pick me up. You were totally afraid to bare your soul to the other addicts just like I was afraid to bare my belly as my Grimace rolls cascaded over my Speedo. It's no picnic letting others see us for who we are, I know, I know.
And the breasts? Everyone talks and talks about them, don't they? A few years ago, I left my house to go for a jog when this paparazzi - well, actually, he was a nine-year old kid just getting off the school bus, but he practically pounced on me and said, in a real obnoxious way, "Hey, you got big boobies - where'd you get them boobies? You got boobies like a girl!" The he started pointing at me, screaming, "Girl! Girl! You're a girl!" So when millions of people wonder if your boobies are real and how they defied gravity that time on the MTV Video Awards when you gyrated around in green leather and spandex with an enormous boa constrictor coiled around your sweaty neck, I could totally identify. At least deep down, we each know God gave us our boobies and wants us to be proud of them.
So do what I do. The next time people ask you when your next book is coming out or your next CD is ready for release, just put on your sunglasses, stroke your hairless head and remember that these troubles are temporary, but fame is forever. So call me when you get out of rehab. We’ve got lots to share.