We got to spend a weekend in Buffalo with one of my wife’s high school classmates. It was the weekend right before Buffalo got hit with four feet of snow, so we lucked out for once.
In case you haven’t been to Buffalo, you should try it. It’s big enough to have everything you need — great sports, culture, restaurants, etc. — but small enough to feel cozy and friendly. I like it a lot and hope to return soon.
At one point during the weekend, we were outside our lovely friends’ warm and comfortable home when the mail lady walked up. At that point, our friend yelled out, “Hey, you got any love letters for me?” I found that to be very telling. Let me explain.
Clearly, in her mind, a good day is when the mail person brings you a love letter. I will say I’ve gotten one or two of them myself, but that was long ago, when I had a narrow waist and thick, dark hair.
These days, I get excited only if the mailman brings me motorcycle parts or magazines. Anything else goes to my lovely wife to deal with.
But I couldn’t get the thought of receiving a love letter out of my mind. With that said, I’d like to make this column a love letter to you, my faithful readers.
Every now and then, I’ll be at the market, gas station, or library, and one of you will come right up to me and tell me how much you love my column. Wow, what a rush.
The fact that my writing gives anyone any kind of comfort or joy is so wonderful and amazing to me. So let me say right here that I love you very much for that. Thanks so much, and thank you yet again. I really do appreciate it.
Some of you even take the time to write me letters. Yes, believe it or not, some of you are so moved by my writing that you take the time to send me handwritten thanks and encouragement.
I love all of you who have written to me over the years. It’s really a treat to get a letter like that, but don’t expect an answer from me in the mail.
Here’s why: I once tried to sell Girl Scout cookies for my daughter in the office where I work. I did sell a few boxes, but I had one very good friend there who would not buy them.
“Frank,” he said, “there are 500 people on this floor, and if I buy cookies from you, I have to buy from them as well, and I just can’t eat that many cookies!”
So that’s why I don’t personally answer my “fan mail.” Anyone who mails me personally deserves a thoughtful, handwritten response.
The only way I can do that, because of my chicken-scratch penmanship, is to write very, very slowly. So slowly, in fact, that to answer my letters I would have to lose some of my beauty sleep to complete even one.
Trust me, if you saw me these days, you’d know I need all the beauty sleep I can get, haha. So no personal thank-yous from me any time soon, but thanks so much for writing. I really love that you took the time to let me know you like my writing, yes I do.
Here’s the main reason I want to use this column to say how much I love each and every one of you who reads it: By reading my column in The Altamont Enterprise, you are supporting local, independent journalism. That is fantastic.
I don’t know if you are aware, but newspapers in general are having a hard go of it in the Internet Age. The only way many can make it is to cut staff to the bone and then work the remaining staff crazy hours on a shoestring budget. This is not how it should be, of course, but unfortunately how it is.
So every time you pick up a copy of The Enterprise, you are using your hard-earned dollars to say how much you support local independent journalism. I truly, really, love you for that!
Think about how much less our lives would be if we didn’t have this paper. Because of The Enterprise, we get to see how local government (mostly) works; what our friends and neighbors are up to; and the overall feel of what life in the Capital District and surrounding areas is like.
Truly, I feel enriched when I read The Enterprise, from the award-winning editorials by our wonderful editor, Ms. Melissa Hale-Spencer, to the latest ramblings of the Old Men of the Mountain, and everything in between. Where else can you find unique and interesting content like this?
I’m just waiting for a Recipe of the Month to start appearing, yes I am. I like to cook but I need all the help I can get, so start sending in your best recipes now.
Fun Fact: During the Buffalo weekend, my wife’s friend said this: “A bra can cost $40, if you buy a good brand.” As someone who has never purchased a bra in his entire life, I would have guessed they were $10, maybe $20 max.
I mean, I can buy a three-pack of T-shirts or a six-pack of socks every day for 10 bucks, so what do I know? The fact that something so ordinary and common, and that 51 percent of the population uses every day, costs so much is truly eye-opening, at least for me.
Hey, if you’re lucky you learn something new every day, so there’s that at least. I guess the TV show “The Price is Right” is not in my future any time soon, too bad for me.
So thanks for reading my column over the years. I really appreciate it and love you all. Especially, let’s all give a big thanks for local independent journalism like The Altamont Enterprise, the beating heart of this most special part of the planet that we all so fondly call home.
Thanks to everyone at The Enterprise for keeping this most excellent and appreciated publication fresh, alive, and vibrant. And for all of my lady readers, keep an eye out for when those bras go on sale. Who knows, you might find a good one, and then maybe you’ll get some love letters in the mail.
Postscript: the above was written before the devastating Christmas blizzard in Buffalo that has, as I write this, taken 27 lives and counting. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say our thoughts and prayers go out to the entire city of Buffalo.
A zebra walks into a bar:
“Hey, can I get beer, please?” says the zebra.
“Are you joking, mate? We don’t serve animals in here!” brays the clearly perturbed bartender.
“But the name of this bar is The Wild Bunch. Says so right on the sign,” retorts the zebra.
“Yes, the name of the bar is indeed The Wild Bunch, but that doesn’t mean we serve animals. It’s just a clever, fun kind of name, something to make the customers feel good when they come in here.”
“Oh, I understand now,” says the zebra. “I was taking the name The Wild Bunch literally. I thought it meant this was a place where wild animals would be welcome. You see, I needed a place to tell my friend the antelope to meet me today. So I thought this would be a great place.”
“Sorry for the confusion, mate” says the genuinely apologetic bartender.
“No, it’s totally my fault,” says the zebra. “Clearly, the name of your bar — The Wild Bunch — is allegorical in nature. I should never have taken it literally. Obviously, a nice place like this wouldn’t be this nice if you allowed wild animals in here. The symbolism in the name — the fun and playfulness, in fact — is just to make your hard-working customers feel better about paying vastly marked-up prices for quite ordinary food and drink.”
“Now you just wait a minute!” shouts the bartender.
“No, I was wrong,” says the zebra, “and I want to make it up to you.”
“Oh yeah?” says the bartender, throwing his towel over his shoulder and folding his arms defiantly. “How are you, a zebra, going to make anything up to me?”
“I have an idea. Come outside with me and let me give you a ride around the block.”
“A ride around the block!” snorts the bartender. “Why in the name of all that is good and green on this fine rock would I ever want to ride around the block on a zebra?”
“It’s like this,” replies the zebra, confidently. “It’s generally understood that zebras are not tamable, correct?”
“Well, not that I’ve given it much thought, but now that you mention it, I’ve never seen a cowboy in a movie riding a zebra.”
“Of course not. So when I’m riding you around the block, folks will take pictures and videos on their phones.”
“So?” says the bartender.
“Then those folks will post those pictures on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the like.”
“You’re wasting my time. Now get outta here, for Pete’s sake!”
“No, wait. Once they post those pictures and videos of me giving you a ride, their friends will quickly share them. Think about it — a picture of a bartender riding around on a zebra in the middle of downtown is a pretty rare thing.”
“Again, why should I care about any of this?”
“Because then their friends will share those posts, and then those friends will share, and then bang, it will go viral!”
“Go viral?”
“Yeah, just like that, you and The Wild Bunch will be all over the news.”
“We will?”
“Sure. You’ll be known as The Zebra Whisperer, and The Wild Bunch will become the new trendy place to go. Then you’ll get interview requests from all the news shows.”
“Come on!”
“I’m not kidding. The news shows love content, the crazier the better.”
“You’ve got a point there.”
“Then you’ll get a book deal, go on a speaking tour, and retire from this job so you can make being The Zebra Whisperer your new fun and exciting career.”
“Look mate, stop blowing smoke up my butt. How likely is all that to really happen?”
“Does a bear do his business in the woods, as they say?”
“Yes, of course, but —”
“Listen, people don’t want to deal with serious issues like climate change, overpopulation, and impending nuclear doom. They just want to scroll on their phones and tablets to get their dopamine fix by sharing odd or funny pictures and videos with their friends.”
“Dopamine fix? How do you know about dopamine, of all things?”
“I read it in The New York Times.”
“Ha, The New York Times! I knew you were a lousy leftist liberal loser the minute you walked in here!” bellowed the bartender.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” says the zebra, in his most sarcastic and flippant voice.
“Still, you may have a point about these pictures and videos going viral.”
“Of course I do. That’s the way the world works these days. It’s not about facts any more; it’s about content, and the crazier and stupider the content, the hotter it is.”
“To tell you the truth, I pretty much thought I’d have to slop suds behind this damn bar until I’m pushing up daisies. So if there’s any chance of what you say might happen could be true —”
“Look, would I lie to you?” says the zebra, with a clearly discernible wink-wink.
A regular customer, Mr. Osaka, who happened to be a corporate lawyer, was sitting at the bar while all this was going on.
“Mr. Osaka, what do you think about all this drivel from the zebra here?” asks the bartender.
“Zebra-san very wise,” says Mr. Osaka. “Zebra-san show great insight into realities of new youth-driven business environment. Clearly, zebra-san know which side of the bread is buttered.”
“Hmm. OK, then. Nancy?” yells the bartender to the quite fetching waitress, who’s been listening to all this while wiping down tables the entire time.
“What is it, luv?” she replies.
“Cover the bar, I have to go outside for a few minutes.”
“Riiiight,” says Nancy, in her best what-could-possibly-go-wrong-with-this-idea voice.
The zebra and the bartender go outside, and the zebra crouches down until his belly hits the ground. The bartender carefully gets on. Then the zebra rears up on his hind legs and flips over backwards, crushing the bartender, who winds up unconscious on the sidewalk, with a broken nose and several broken ribs. The zebra then rubs his back on a lamp post to get rid of the blood, and goes back into the bar.
“Hey, Nancy,” says the zebra, “now can I get a damn beer, please?”
Nancy serves the zebra, and then shares the video of the zebra tossing the bartender to her social media feeds. The video goes viral, and Nancy uses her newfound fame to become a social-media influencer, allowing her to quit the bar and buy a huge house on the water. The bartender goes on disability and is forced to close The Wild Bunch.
And the zebra? Mr. Osaka convinces him and the antelope to open a chain of pubs where animals are allowed in called The White Stripes. This works out great at first, until they get sued for copyright infringement by the band of the same name, bankrupting them, and forcing them to live out their remaining years on a farm for abandoned endangered animals.
The moral of the story? You might think zebras can’t talk or walk into bars and order beers, but in the world we now live in, which is the world of “alternative facts,” they most certainly can, for better or worse. So if a zebra happens to come into your bar, just grab him a nice, cold beer. He’ll appreciate it very much.
I call them the suburban cowboys. These are the young men who stand on the rear bumper of the Town of Guilderland Highway Department trucks, looking for all the world like cowboys, riding a horse sidesaddle.
They come by every now and then and take your tied and bound sticks and branches, as well as your bagged leaves, twigs, and weeds. We are very lucky to have these guys coming around on a regular basis. Many other towns don’t have anything like this, and I really do appreciate it.
Normally, I put yard waste in my little utility trailer. Then, when it’s filled, I tow it to the landfill and empty it there.
However, this year I had many other events and responsibilities that required me to keep the trailer available for other uses at a moment’s notice, like moving and hauling. I had to keep it empty at all times.
So that’s how I became a fan of the suburban cowboys, by putting out bag after bag of yard waste for them to gladly take. They really helped me out when I needed them.
Imagine being a young guy with a free summer, needing a job between college semesters. Then the opportunity to become a suburban cowboy pops up. What a great deal that is.
Think about it: You’re outside all day, waving to the girls when you see them, enjoying the best weather of the year. How much better is that than updating overdue spreadsheets with a boss breathing down your neck, or slinging burgers behind a hot, greasy grill.
I wish I could have been a suburban cowboy when I was that age. That would have been the bees knees, as they used to say.
Now promise me that, if you know any of the suburban cowboys, you won’t tell them about the next part of this story. Just keep this between you and me.
Why ruin it for these kids? Let them go on thinking they have the greatest summer job in the world. Deal? Good. I knew I could trust you.
I’ve been working from home on a part-time basis for a while now. I have my computer set up on a desk facing a window. This means I can watch the world go by as I toil with keeping all those recalcitrant bits and bytes in order.
So, when I put out lawn bags for pickup, I get to stare at them for the entire eight to 10 days it takes for the suburban cowboys to come by and pick them up. So far so good, but “aye, there’s the rub” (thank you, Bill Shakespeare).
My lovely neighborhood is uber dog friendly. I mean, really, really dog friendly, such that I see dog walkers pass by my house all day long. Being conservative, let’s say eight dog walkers pass my house every day.
Again, being conservative, just to make sure I get this right, let’s say half the dogs that pass by “mark” my lawn bags. By mark, I mean they make their human stop, as if they’ve never seen a lawn bag before.
Then they sniff all around the bag profusely, sopping up whatever nasty smells are there. Then, for good measure, they lift a hind leg and happily pee right on the lawn bag. What fun to be so unencumbered by normal constraints of decorum, hahaha.
So, over 10 days, which is about how often the suburban cowboys visit, my lawn bags are marked by the neighborhood dogs, conservatively, 40 times (do the math). That means that, when these strapping young men hop off the truck and bear hug those huge, overstuffed bags to shove them in the hopper, they are actually grabbing giant pee-soaked sponges.
Yuck! Let’s hope they get a good shower at the end of the day.
Listen, every job has its perks and quirks. Some things are good; some things are not so good.
Truly, being a suburban cowboy has a huge upside. I wish I’d had that kind of summertime job when I was going to school.
What fun to be outside all day, getting paid to hang off the side of a truck, watching the world fly by. So what if the leaf bags you have to pick up all day are covered in dog pee?
At least that’s a natural substance. It’s not like breathing in asbestos or some other toxic chemical. And look at the bright side: At the end of the day, before you shower, every dog you meet will take special interest in you for sure.
The suburban cowboys of Guilderland are truly local heroes, in my opinion. I’m very glad we have them. Rock on, boys, and, if you stop by to say hello, please shower first.
Well, after two years of due diligence, I finally got COVID-19. If you’ve had it, believe me, I feel your pain. If you’ve managed to somehow avoid getting it, keep up the great work. Trust me, it truly sucks.
Here is what COVID-19 did to me, over the course of two very rough days:
— Intense headache requiring copious amounts of Tylenol;
— Legs that felt like they were made of lead;
— A shallowness in my chest when breathing; and
— Being freezing cold yet sweating profusely while trying to sleep.
Fortunately, after two days of this misery, I slowly got better. I think being in fairly good health overall was something I had going for me. I can easily see how, if someone is weak or frail, this kind of thing could be devastating for them.
If you ever needed a good reason to exercise, put COVID-19 defense right up there at the top of the list. I’m over age 50, which is the group who really had it rough with COVID-19. I think exercising six days a week helped me beat it.
If you want to be safe, and feel good in general, find some kind of exercise, anything that gets you moving, and then stick to it. You’ll never regret it, and it might just save your life.
So how did I finally get COVID-19 despite doing everything right — being triple vaccinated, not going anywhere, wearing a mask all the time — for over two years?
A couple of weeks ago, my wife had her 50th high school class reunion. She was on the planning committee, and this was a truly marvelous event that went on for five hours.
I lasted for two hours, but she stayed the whole time. This was on a Saturday. By the next Wednesday, my wife tested positive for COVID-19. That same night, I started to show symptoms. So there you go.
This reunion turned into a “super spreader” event. At last count, a dozen attendees have come down with COVID-19. What a bummer.
As I said, my wife was on the planning committee, and they really did a great job. They even took the time to remember classmates who are no longer with us. What a nice touch. It’s so sad that this insidious, invisible, horrible virus had to go and ruin it for so many of us.
And yet, getting COVID-19 myself isn’t the worst thing about the COVID-19 for me. The worst thing was, at the height of the pandemic, having to keep six feet away from my grandson. He was just a toddler then, and I played it off by making up games of tag and the like so we could just run around and around outside.
But he knew, young as he was back then, that something was wrong.
“Mom,” he’d say, “I want Grandma and Grandpa to come inside and play with me.”
That really sucked but, knock on wood, my daughter has kept her family COVID-19 free throughout all this. Good on her.
The Tuesday night after the Saturday-night reunion, my wife and I had dinner at a nice Italian restaurant with my brother, who was visiting all the way from Florida, and a dear old friend of mine. Somehow, my brother did not get COVID-19, but my friend did.
What makes it worse is she’s smack dab in the middle of a complete kitchen makeover. She now has to quarantine, so that project is on hold for at least 10 days. Can you imagine having to live with that upheaval for so long? I’m just sick that she apparently got COVID-19 from one of us. What a total drag.
It’s not all bad news, though. I’m lucky to have the kind of job that can be done mostly remotely, so I have not had to miss any time from work. I had been scheduled to get my second booster the very next week after the reunion, but now I’m going to wait three months.
Supposedly, if you survive COVID-19, your body makes its own antibodies so you are protected for a while. Let’s hope.
As I write this, I’m well past my 10-day quarantine, yet I’m still testing positive when I use a rapid test. According to my doctor, it’s possible to test positive for up to three months after you’ve had COVID-19.
According to rules from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, I’m now allowed to be out in public without a mask. Still, I’ll be masking until I get two negative tests in a row. That’s just the right thing to do.
Now let’s talk about vaccines. I consider them a miracle of modern science, and I can’t wait until I get my next booster.
Frankly, no pun intended, I have no ability to understand people who refuse to get vaccinated. I understand there is a tiny minority who have systemic health issues that may preclude them from getting any kind of vaccine, but the skeptics?
Come on. I wouldn’t wish what I had to go through for two miserable days on anybody; it was that bad.
The protection is there, just get it, for your family’s sake if not your own. Had I not been triple vaccinated, my outcome, bad as it was, could have been a lot worse.
It’s like that old joke that goes like this: A guy’s house starts to flood. Some folks come by in a big truck.
“Come with us!” they say.
“No thanks,” he answers. “The Lord will save me.”
Then the water gets higher. Some guys come by in a boat.
“Come on, we’ll save you!”
“No thanks, the Lord will save me.”
Finally the water is so high, the guy is on the peak of the roof. A helicopter lowers a rope.
“Grab onto the rope!”
“No thanks, the Lord will save me.”
Of course the guy drowns. When he gets to Heaven, he says to God, “Why didn’t you save me, Lord?”
God says “I sent a truck, a boat, and a helicopter; what more was I supposed to do?”
COVID-19 is no fun at all. Trust me on this. Do whatever you have to do to avoid getting it.
At any given time, there are about 20 people, men and women both, riding solo around the world on a motorcycle. These intrepid travelers sell all their possessions, try hard to get corporate sponsorship, and then set out on the adventure of a lifetime.
Most of these trips take several years to complete and include all kinds of weather, corruption at borders, illness, and sometimes even kidnapping or violence. To offset these downsides, there is universal compassion for the weary traveler, where the kindness of strangers can build renewed confidence in the overall goodness of humanity.
When they get back home, they often write books and go on speaking tours. It’s nice work if you can: A, get it, and B, survive it.
I’ve read several books by ’round-the-world motorcycle travelers (Glen Heggstad, Ted Simon, and Helge Pedersen are some famous authors in this genre, and there are many more). In one book, the rider found himself in a village deep in Africa. There, an older woman begged him for a book, any book, because she wanted to learn to read and speak English.
He gestured to her as best he could that he didn’t have any books. She persisted, begging him for anything just so she could see some written English. He wound up giving her the instruction manual that came with his helmet. She reacted as if she had won the lottery. That, my friends, is the power of the written word on actual, hold-in-your-hand paper.
To me, the written word is what separates us from all the other animals. Reading and writing let us do all the great things that come only when we work together. Having access to so many great minds from the past truly has been a boon for society.
Thanks to the internet, much of this “content” is now available at the click of a button. While that in and of itself is truly amazing, good old hard copy is not dead yet.
These days, many people start their days by going to a website for the latest news. Not me. I use the web as much as anybody, but I still want an actual newspaper, like this one, in my hot little hands when I really want to understand what’s going on.
Pixels on a screen are too ephemeral for me; I need ink on paper when I’m serious about understanding the big picture. Libraries, one of the greatest inventions of humanity, are a big part of this.
Let’s put it this way: When I have a day off and the weather is decent, I can ride on my motorcycle to the Guilderland Public Library and take out a book. Then I can ride one hundred miles up Route 30, where I’ll find the perfect tree in the beautiful Adirondack Park and sit by the water.
At that point, I don’t need wi-fi or a login and password, or a good battery charge. I can just open the book and be transported to whatever place or time the author chooses to take me. If I were to win the lottery tomorrow — not that I even play very often, but still — I’d do exactly this same trip, as often as I could. There is nothing better.
There are three services the Guilderland library offers to support the sharing of the written word that you might not be aware of. Check with your library; it probably has them as well.
These are all great things that anyone who loves to read and think and share ideas would love. These three things are used book donations, the used magazine exchange, and the Little Free Library. Let’s go through them one at a time.
Most libraries are not accepting donations at this time due to COVID restrictions. However, they often provide third-party donation boxes. In Guilderland, we have boxes from bulkbookwarehouse.com, a company out of Rotterdam, New York, that tries to find good homes for old books.
If you are a baby boomer like me, you might be downsizing your own or your parents;’ houses. There will no doubt be tons of old books lying around. Dropping your books into these bins is much, much better than throwing them out. Think of the old lady in Africa; if they even re-purpose one book for someone like her, the whole program is worth it.
Then there is the magazine exchange. I love magazines and always will, but it gets to a point where you simply don’t have the time, money, and storage space to get all the ones you’d like. Enter the magazine exchange, which is a totally terrific idea.
I read my copy of The New Yorker, drop it off at the magazine exchange at the library, and then pick up a different magazine, like The Economist. How great is that? Again, much better than throwing them out.
Speaking of The Economist, which is a fantastic magazine: When I get lucky and find a used copy of it at the magazine exchange at the Guilderland library, there are always key passages underlined in many of the articles.
The thing is, whoever is doing it has a different idea of what passages I would have considered to be the key passages. So it’s like I’m playing a mental game with a stranger every time I score a copy of The Economist. Great fun.
Finally, there is the Little Free Library. The one at Guilderland can be hard to find at times. Due to all the construction there, like the game whack-a-mole, it pops up in different places. But keeping an eye out for the Little Free Library is worth it.
It’s just a little box on a pole where random books are dropped off and taken out by the general public. When the library was closed for months due to both construction and COVID, the Little free Library was my lifeline. I read at least one book a week, and I discovered many new authors.
What’s very interesting about the Little Free Library is this: It’s never completely full or completely empty. Like a “closed system” in science, it just seems to maintain its equilibrium all year long. That’s just great.
The written word on actual paper is not dead yet. Far from it. Rather, it’s alive and well in this and other great newspapers and good old books and magazines that are still prized and desired all over the world.
Long live the written word that can actually be held in your own hands, an old but still tremendously valuable technology. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to catch up on my reading.
The game we call football is known around the world as “American football.” This is because the game we know as soccer is called football elsewhere in the world. Soccer is also known as “the beautiful game” and, if you take the time to get to know it, as I have, you might just call it beautiful as well.
If you go to youth athletic fields these days, you’ll see a lot of soccer being played by kids. It has really taken off in this country. Attendance at professional league games has increased as well; Major League Soccer draws huge crowds on a consistent basis. Soccer has indeed arrived in this country.
The thing about soccer is you have to have an attention span to appreciate it. Baseball has been falling off the radar with the kids because it’s just too slow.
They keep changing the rules in American football in order to get more scoring, which “they” think will keep us interested in it (actually, gambling plays a big role in football’s popularity). I’m a huge football fan, yet even I can’t justify spending three hours to watch one game anymore unless it’s my favorite team.
What’s great about soccer is it’s two 45-minute halves, with no commercials. Awesome. As far as how soccer appears on TV, it’s better than the other goal-scoring sport, ice hockey, because it’s slower and you can see it clearly. Still, like football, you really need to be there in person, sitting high up, to get the big picture and see the plays developing.
With soccer, it’s all about probing the other side, trying to find a weakness. You push here, they push there, you feint, they counter. You make what you think is a slick move, then get rebuffed. Doubling back, you rethink your strategy, trying to find a balance between pushing too hard while at the same time not getting exposed.
It’s a lot like making love if you think about it, haha. All kidding aside, it’s a sport that rewards extended thought and attention. The more you watch it, the more you get to understand and then enjoy it.
Soccer is very similar to ice hockey in that they are both sports where the object is to score a goal. However, soccer is burdened by the “offside” rule. This means you can’t just let a guy hang back by the other team’s goal, waiting for easy pickings; the ball must always advance down the field before the team trying to score.
In ice hockey, they have a blue line; once the puck passes the blue line, anything goes. A line like that could easily be added to a soccer field (more properly known as the “pitch”). Then, instead of having so many 1-0, 2-1, and 0-0 games, you’d have 7-5, 10-8, etc. The thing is, it’s a worldwide game at this point with decades of tradition, so no one wants to change anything.
What confuses me is someone can watch a 1-0 baseball game and say it’s the greatest thing ever, yet trust me when I tell you, I have seen some truly fantastic 1-0 and even 0-0 soccer games that featured all kinds of great skill and drama.
The more you get to know the game, the more you get to know when you see greatness. Yes, there are some times where a team will go up 1-0 and then just play “keep away” in the hopes that it can just cruise to an easy win. What can you do? Nothing is perfect.
At least these days they keep track of goal differential, so the incentive is to always score as many goals as you can while giving up as few goals as possible. That usually makes for good play.
If you thought the only place to find “divas” was on the opera stage, you should try watching some soccer. It got to the point where so many players were taking “dives,” that is, trying to get the referee to call a penalty on the defender by overacting, that now you can get a penalty for taking a dive.
Like sign stealing in baseball, you can try to ban it but it will always be done. Players in all sports want any advantage they can get. Soccer referees work hard to call only real penalties, but the players make it so tough for them. Being a soccer referee at the highest levels cannot be an easy job.
In this country, all our major sports have a big problem with “tanking.” This is where a team will intentionally try to lose games in the hopes of finishing last so they can get the first pick in the draft (the draft is where they get the best college players).
Imagine that; you pay good money for season tickets or the sports package on your cable, only to watch teams intentionally lose. Well, this doesn’t happen in Great Britain’s soccer league, the English Premier League.
There, 20 teams start each season and, when the season is over, the bottom three teams get “relegated” to the minor leagues. This is the way to solve the tanking problem. We need that in this country for sure. There should never be any incentive to lose games on purpose.
Speaking of the English Premier League: It has a huge problem with racism for some reason; the Black players often get treated horribly by the so-called fans. Now, before each league game, players on both teams take a knee right there on the pitch, to signify that racism will not be tolerated. Good for them.
Now they just have to figure out what to do about the over zealous fans known as “hooligans” who get drunk, start fights, and cause all kinds of mayhem. It’s one thing to love your team, but devotion to the point where things get violent cannot ever be permitted, period.
American soccer players are getting better, but it is just a fact that soccer is played at a much higher level around the world than here. Think about it: In the past, your tall, fast, coordinated kids would all go out for football, basketball, baseball, or ice hockey.
That is changing now. We are seeing kids playing soccer and staying with it much more now, such that we have several Americans, like Tim Howard and Christian Pulisic, who star with the best teams around the world.
Also, our American women have been at the top of female soccer for decades. If you’ve never watched our women play soccer, you owe it to yourself to give them a chance. They play with lots of skill, heart, and joy, the way the game is meant to be played, and they are great fun to watch. They are a true national treasure.
There are a couple of great soccer players I just have to mention. The first is England’s retired star forward, David Beckham. He had the ability to “bend” the ball, that is, kick it in such a way that, like a curve ball thrown by a pitcher, it would curve or bend at the last second and wind up in the net. This was an amazing feat because he was so consistent with it.
Another great player was the great Brazilian star Pele. I saw somewhere where a coach was diagramming plays on a chalkboard for Pele using Xs and Os like they do in football. Pele grabs the coach’s chalk, and then just draws long, flowing Ss, winding up in the goal. That’s the kind of player he was, pure poetry in motion.
The World Cup, the greatest sporting event in the world, with literally billions of viewers, is coming up this November. It’s interesting when you watch this spectacle how the teams are so true to their heritage: The Germans are precise and clinical, the South Americans are fluid and graceful, the English are somewhere in between.
Spain has lots of passing and moving around, much like dancing. Argentina flows and presses constantly, like waves at the shore. The Nordic teams are painstakingly precise, while Mexico runs around with tremendous skill and energy.
As far as America goes, we try hard. We really do. We never give up, and that’s something to be very proud of.
Soccer is a sport that rewards the time invested in learning its many nuances. If you take the time to do that, I can guarantee you’ll be rewarded many times over.
Goals are hard to come by and, when they occur, they are often produced by sheer artistry on the pitch. When you see goals scored like that — often right off someone’s head who is flying through the air like a bird — you will understand why soccer, or really football, truly is the beautiful game.
I used to work at the Chemical Bank on Broadway in Manhattan, downtown in the Wall Street area, right by where the famous and iconic “Charging Bull” sculpture is now. Back then, there was a little parking area where those brave enough to commute by motorcycle in “the city” would park as well.
It was a vibrant area to be in, especially when you first got off the subway in the morning. I’d order a buttered hard roll every day in the deli on the ground floor. The guy in the back would make it, wrap it, and then throw it to the guy at the register, who would deftly catch it with one hand before handing it to me. Fun times.
One of my favorite co-workers at the bank was a fellow computer programmer named Ron. He was a little shorter than me and a bit older than me, with sandy gray hair and a big, wide smile. I liked Ron a lot because he was smart, friendly, and loved to ride dirt bikes and go skiing. Just an all-around great guy. I hope he’s doing well.
You know how people talk in offices. One day, a female co-worker, who’d noticed I was friends with Ron, approached me:
“You know about Ron, right?”
“Er, no, I don’t know about Ron. What about him?”
“He’s independently wealthy.”
“What?”
“He has loads of money. He just comes in here every day because he likes playing around with computers.”
“No kidding.”
“Yep. He comes here just for the fun of it.”
Mind you, anyone working on Wall Street, aside from the infamous “1 percent” who come in by limo or helicopter, is either commuting by subway or bus or some other difficult way each day. It’s an ordeal.
Yet Ron did it, even though he didn’t need the money, just to be allowed to do what he loved, which was computer programming. This was back in the days when personal computers were expensive, slow, and clunky. Real programmers, like Ron and I, worked on large mainframes. It surely was a totally different world back then.
I’m mentioning Ron because I’m at the point in my career where I seriously have to question how much longer I should work. One reason I moved to Albany 38 years ago was because of the excellent pension plan my job offered.
The more I keep working, the more it keeps growing. When I retire, there will be many payroll deductions and work-related expenses I’ll no longer have. Then I’ll add in my pension, savings, and Social Security.
These things won’t make me independently wealthy like Ron, but I won’t have to work for financial reasons anymore. Isn’t it amazing — working hard and saving your money throughout your life actually pays off in the end. What a surprise, haha.
Every day, 10,000 Baby Boomers in this country — those of us born between 1946 and 1964 — retire. So it’s not unusual for someone my age to be thinking about retirement.
Still, like Ron, I enjoy working with computers and technology very much. With computers, unlike with humans, there is no ambiguity. The code is either correct and it works or it’s incorrect and it doesn’t.
If you like puzzles, games, and riddles as I do, you’d probably like playing around with computers as well. It’s just very satisfying to work with things where emotions are not involved and it’s all straightforward and logical. Too bad more of the world is not like that.
My job, though I like the technical side of it, is of course not perfect. There is mind-numbing bureaucracy, office politics, and just a bland, organizational feel to the physical infrastructure.
It’s not a place you look forward to traveling to. Working from home at times is better but, let me tell you, having access to the fridge and the pantry all day is a discipline challenge.
Despite all of that, it’s just good to be on a team with other motivated individuals to achieve goals and get work done. It’s still very satisfying, even after all these years. Plus I’ve been there so long now I even have a great parking spot. Hate to give that up, haha.
If you count part-time jobs after school, I’ve been working for close to 50 years. The thought of not having someplace to go on Monday morning actually gives me the chills. It would be such a change for me.
I’m just so used to being in the working world that I’m having a hard time imagining not contributing anymore. I know I may be in the minority here. I’ve seen people stare at the retirement countdown clock on their computer every day for years, hoping and praying for the day when they could walk out of the office for the last time.
Go into any bar and you’ll hear people complaining about their jobs. How sad all these folks couldn’t figure out something they liked doing, even a little bit, before spending all their working life just grinding it out until retirement.
When I retire, I plan on running for the Guilderland Library Board of Trustees, so I can give back to an organization that has given me so much pleasure over the years. I’d also like to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity, where you help to build housing for folks who need it.
I’m sure I’ll find other productive things to do. Maybe even part-time work of some sort.
Plus I can do as much programming as I want on my own home computer when I retire (personal computers are a lot better now than in Ron’s day). But “checking out” from full-time employment is so antithetical to me I’m going to have to work very hard to get mentally ready for it.
A lot of people look forward to traveling when they retire. I like to travel, but there are so many great places to go it’s hard to imagine choosing only a few.
Fortunately for me, I can take out a library book and then, if the writing is good, be magically transported to a different place or even time. That’s why reading has always been my favorite hobby.
“In my mind, I’m going to Carolina,” as James Taylor so beautifully sings, is a real thing. I do it every day.
Let me leave you with this: At another bank I worked at, we had a security guard named Ernie. Ernie was a roly-poly old Italian guy, always smiling and always laughing, a lot like Norm from “Cheers.”
Those of us working in the bank loved him, and so did the customers. He brightened up everyone’s day, every day. Then they cut him down to three days a week, then two, and then to only one day a week.
At that point, his whole demeanor and physical appearance changed, very much for the worse. He was no longer happy all the time, and he slumped when he walked. It was so sad to see.
It’s like the reduced hours — the reduction in contact with the people he loved — reduced his will to live. Finally one day, he was gone for good.
I don’t know what happened to him after that, but I can say for sure he wasn’t doing well at all when they let him go. Think about it — he went from being needed, loved, respected, and adored to being unceremoniously cast off like yesterday’s lunch. Ouch.
Now I’m not saying retiring from a lifetime of working is like what happened to Ernie. I know it’s possible to have a fulfilling and happy retirement with interesting activities, travel, volunteering, etc.
There’s also spending more time with family and finally getting to all those household projects that have been on the to-do list for so long. Those are all good things. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself lately.
The end is near. Or is it really just the beginning?
— Photo by Frank L. Palmeri
Using index cards, Frank L. Palmeri maps the notes on the music staff to the strings and frets on his guitar.
There are some things that are so perfect they can’t be improved on. A few that quickly come to mind are the #2 lead pencil, the Victor mouse trap, the Zippo lighter, and the Swiss Army knife.
Today I’d like to talk about another perfect thing that we really take for granted, and that is the standard 3-by-5-inch index card. Yes, those ubiquitous little white, lined index cards are among mankind’s most powerful intellectual and organizational devices, even in the computer age. Index cards rock.
What got me into index cards recently was my continued study of music. I’m to the point now where I can actually pick up sheet music and attempt to play songs.
Don’t take this lightly, believe me, because there are many well known, extremely rich and famous musicians and songwriters who have said publicly for years that they don’t know how to read music. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I know I want to be able to look at written music and, if nothing else, at least get a feel for the piece.
So I needed a way to map the notes on the music staff to the strings and frets on the guitar. What I did was make up six index cards, one for each string. Each card clearly shows me which notes on the music staff map to which notes on the guitar fretboard.
By doing it this way — one string to one index card — I get the power of “less is more.” It is much easier to learn it one string at a time, at least for me.
This is where index cards shine. By limiting the sheer amount of information they can comfortably contain, they force you to pare down to its essence whatever it is you are studying. How great is that?
I can still remember my kids making up index cards or “flashcards” to help study for tests. We’d go over the material with them, reading the questions off the cards, over and over, until they got it. What an effective way to study.
Just having to make up the cards in the first place is helpful, and then the repetition, over and over; you can’t beat it. Heck, if you’re not careful, you could also learn the material by doing this kind of studying with them, haha.
I like to read thrillers and mysteries. Often I find myself thinking how it was possible for the author to keep track of so many characters and plot lines. Turns out some of our greatest writers use index cards to help organize all this stuff.
A popular method is to stick index cards up on a large cork board or lay them out on a large table, and then move them around as necessary to complete the “story arc.” Apparently Vladimir Nabokov of “Lolita” infamy was a huge proponent of writing this way. What a great idea. To think that these simple little cards can assist in creating truly great writing is pretty amazing.
Speeches, books, scientific research — all of this creative activity and more has been powered by the humble index card. Before computers, they were used to form personal contact databases as well (the classic desktop “Rolodex” was essentially a rolling collection of sorted index cards).
Again, when you write the information down yourself, it just helps to reinforce it. Contrast that with someone handing you a business card. Not the same.
I have a little spiral-bound book I was given for Christmas one year in which I write my favorite recipes. My wife and her mom used index cards for their favorites. Some of their cards, like the one for lasagna and the one for apple pie, are well worn because we use them so much.
The great thing about using index cards for recipes is you can organize them into those little boxes that make it so easy to find them later. Maybe I should switch.
I’ve been to plenty of training sessions where index cards were used to jot down ideas for group reflection and discussion. I think Post-It notes, because they can be stuck on whiteboards and walls, have usurped the index card in the business world for brainstorming activities. When you think about it, you realize that a Post-It note is simply an index card with sticky stuff on the back, so it’s still kind of the same thing.
If you’re old like me you must remember the card catalog that was used in libraries for years and years. The cards allowed you to search for a book by title, subject, and author.
In fact, these cards and the index searchable model that they represented became the basis for the computer databases that are used today for library cataloging. The system, enabled by the humble index card, was so versatile that the computer systems created from it can easily handle the DVDs, CDs, magazines, and all the other great stuff that libraries so wonderfully make available to us. Awesome.
These days, when you attend a class or presentation, the first thing everyone wants to know is if the PowerPoint (the computer slide show) will be made available. That’s great if it is, but how often do you really go back and look at it later?
A better thing to do is, as the presentation goes on, to write the main idea of whatever point the speaker is making on the back side of an index card. Then you can write the details on the lined side.
The advantages of doing it this way are that it is an active process — you are writing down information, which will help retain it — and the cards are very portable so you can take them with you and easily pull them out at a later time. I wish I’d known about this method of note-taking when I was in school.
In researching index cards, I came across something I’d never heard of before — a “cropper hopper.” This is the generic term for a box used to store photographs, but which can easily be repurposed to store index cards in an orderly way. Just do a search on “cropper hopper” and see what you find. Pretty great idea.
My new guitar-note index cards are going to help me learn to read sheet music. Now that I know how powerful index cards are, I’ll be using them for many more things in the future I’m sure.
If you’re still not convinced how great index cards are, let me leave you with this:
“Father emptied a card file for Margot and me and filled it with index cards that are blank on one side. This is to become our reading file, in which Margot and I are supposed to note down the books we’ve read, the author and the date.” — Anne Frank
Next time you’re in the dollar store, pick up a pack of index cards. You’ll be glad you did.
As he faces 2,000 empty seats from the grand stage at Proctors, Frank L. Palmeri imagines what it would be like to entertain an audience there.
As he faces 2,000 empty seats from the grand stage at Proctors, Frank L. Palmeri imagines what it would be like to entertain an audience there.
Every now and then I find myself standing on the stage at the beautiful and historic Proctors Theatre in Schenectady, facing 2,000 empty seats on two levels, imagining what it would be like to actually perform in front of a full house (being married to a professional musician has its perks).
How amazing it is to stand right where so many amazing performers have appeared. It is really humbling; I mean, how many of us could entertain a huge crowd for an evening? I’m pretty sure my guitar-playing, storytelling, and jokes would not pack ’em in, but it’s always nice to imagine doing just that when I find myself alone on that great stage, staring out at all those empty seats. It never hurts to dream.
Before COVID, we went to so many shows. How hard it has been these past 20 months, forgoing all kinds of public entertainment. Oh man, that’s been depressing for sure. What I wouldn’t give for a concert, an opera, or even a movie.
Let’s hope things get back to normal sooner rather than later. In the meantime, here are my top five events I’ve seen at Proctors over the years:
— You probably wouldn’t think an author would make this list, but when Tom Friedman from The New York Times came to Proctors, the house was sold out and he had us from the get-go. He’s written many books, including “The World is Flat,” which tells about the ramifications of having people in other countries willing to work for pennies on the dollar.
Nobody understands the big picture of global economics and what it means for us like Tom Friedman. When I left that show, I wondered why more great writers and thinkers don’t get invited to big halls like this. Great night, and I hope he comes back soon;
— Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music came to Proctors a couple of years ago. It was on a cold Tuesday night in November. I couldn’t get anyone to go with me so I went alone. Good thing I did: The place was packed and didn’t stop rocking for two hours straight. Unbelievable power and energy.
Roxy Music isn’t big in this country for some reason. Their only big hit here is “Love is the Drug,” but they are huge in Europe and the rest of the world. That night, many of the original band members were there, along with others who were just outstanding as well. Bryan did many Roxy Music classics, from the lyric ballad “Avalon” to the bring-the-house-down rocker “Both Ends Burning.”
If you were there that night, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That may have been the greatest concert I’ve ever been to;
— 3. You may have heard of Blue Man Group, since this iconic show plays all over the world. We saw it at Proctors and again in Boston. The best thing about BMG, similar to the all-time classic British TV show “Mr. Bean,” is that the humor is so transcendent and timeless you don’t even need to speak English to enjoy it.
I’m not going to reveal anything else about BMG because that would just spoil it for you. Trust me, if you’ve not yet seen the Blue Men and you get the chance, go for it. You will absolutely love it;
— 4. My daughter studied dance for many years. The highlight of this was always the end-of-year recital at Proctors. To see your kid up there doing all the moves and looking so beautiful; it don’t get any better than that. Imagine this: The curtain opens, revealing 30 toddlers in their little pink tutus, and the entire crowd, at the same time, goes “awwwwh.” That’s what it’s like.
One year, a poor little girl peed herself right up on stage, bawling so bad until someone came out and rescued her. It can’t be easy for toddlers to take all that pressure. Hey, if I found myself wearing a pink tutu in front of 2,000 people, I’d pee myself too, haha. Still, the dance recitals were always a tremendous show. I admire all the dancers and the teachers for working so hard to bring some joy and beauty into this world; and
— 5. When there is not COVID, Proctors holds a monthly noontime organ recital put on by the local theater organ group. This show is free and always fantastic. The Capital District is home to many world-class organists, including my lovely wife, Charlotte.
“Goldie,” the beautifully restored Wurlitzer organ, lives in the basement at Proctors and, when she majestically rises up to stage level, you know it’s going to be a good time. The theater organists always play a rollicking program consisting of standards, pop favorites, show tunes, and more on what is without doubt the world’s greatest instrument, the organ.
When you get to hear a well-played organ on full song, there is just nothing like it. As soon as COVID ends, I’m hoping these fantastic concerts will resume. I and many others I’m sure are just starving to hear “Goldie” ring out once again.
Finally, I have an idea for what I think would be a great show at Proctors. The famous author and raconteur Studs Terkel wrote a bestseller called “Working,” where he interviewed regular folks from all walks of life about their occupations.
The book was great because you got perceptive insight into what hard-working people, our friends and neighbors, do with their days. I find this kind of thing fascinating.
What’s it like to put on a roof in the dead of winter? Or to try to collect rent from someone who lost their job due to COVID? How does a massage therapist give a great massage at 4 p.m. when he or she’s been doing it all day and is flat-out exhausted?
So interesting, on so many levels. Maybe when I retire I’ll go down to Proctors and offer to host this kind of event. I’d call it, simply, “Conversations,” and just ask regular everyday people about their jobs, their hopes and dreams, what makes them happy, etc. Wouldn’t that be great? Who knows, maybe I’ll interview you!
We all can’t wait for COVID to be over so we can get back to normal life, including dining out without worrying and attending sporting events and shows. Let’s hope it won’t be too much longer. In the meantime, get vaccinated, get boosted, mask up, wash your hands often, and stay safe.
“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
— From “Big Yellow Taxi” by Joni Mitchell
The other day, I was rooting around in a drawer and found a box of matches from the long-gone but not forgotten Bavarian Chalet, that beautiful German-themed restaurant and bar on Western Avenue in Guilderland. I hadn’t thought about that place in a long time, but seeing that box of matches brought back all the old memories. Boy, do I miss that place.
Think about it: We used to have a world-class German taproom and restaurant right in town. How great was that? The only thing comparable is the bar and restaurant at the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, Vermont, which is a five-star resort and destination in its own right.
Yes, we had a place much like that right here in Guilderland at one time (minus the sweeping mountains and the whole “Sound of Music” vibe, of course). Wow.
The bar at the Bavarian Chalet had rich, deep woods, with consummate craftsmanship and accouterments. They had all the German beers on tap, and served them in those tall glasses that are so nice. The bartenders always wore fancy black and white uniforms, truly elegant.
Same with the servers: It was a very high level of atmosphere and service. There was always a wedding or banquet there as well, but the thought that you could just meet friends at a classy place like that, right in the neighborhood, is truly mind-boggling to me now. You really don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
I work with technology all day. Believe it or not, that’s not so bad. Where there is a problem, in general, if you look at the last thing you did, there’s a good chance you’ve found out what’s wrong.
So technology is fairly easy to deal with, in that it has rules, is predictable, and responds to clear, organized methods of work. It’s the people involved with technology that are harder to deal with.
People have good days and bad days, can be moody, sometimes spray you when they talk, get frustrated, etc. I’m sure you know what I mean. Even yours truly can be difficult to deal with at times I’m told, haha.
One day a long time ago, I had a really tough day at work. Everyone was being a jerk. It was miserable.
When I got home that day, I announced to my lovely wife, Charlotte, that I’d had a bad day, and because of that I wanted to go to the Bavarian Chalet to relax with a couple of beers. Many of you reading this know my lovely wife, but for those of you who don’t, be advised that she doesn’t need to take an assertiveness-training class.
“Hi, I had a really bad day at work, so I’m going over to the Bavarian Chalet for a couple of beers to take the edge off. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
“Um, I don’t think you understand. I had a really, really bad day at work. I need to relax for a while. I’m stressed out.”
“I understand perfectly. While you’ve been playing around with computers all day, I’ve been here cleaning, doing laundry, paying bills, vacuuming, answering the phone, and getting ready for dinner, all the while keeping two small children clean and entertained.”
“I know, but ….”
“There are no buts. You aren’t going anywhere. Instead, you will help with dinner, then you will give these kids baths and get them ready for bed while I give piano lessons to help pay the mortgage on this house.”
“But I had a bad day!”
“End of discussion. You aren’t going anywhere. Get used to it.”
In 35 years of marriage, that was the one and only time I had made that kind of request. Some guys would have just gone straight to the bar after work, but I’m not like that.
I really have always tried to do the right thing when it comes to my marriage and family. She was right, of course, but still. I could so badly have used a couple of those tall German beers on that awful day.
One time, my office booked the Bavarian Chalet for our annual summer picnic. There was a huge field outside where all kinds of animals could be seen.
That year, we had a pick-up two-hand touch football game. At one point, one of the ladies from my office was playing quarterback. She took the snap and then lateralled the ball to me.
Just in case you don’t know the rules: In football, if someone throws you a forward pass and you drop it, the play is over, but if someone laterals you the ball and you drop it, that’s a live ball, otherwise known as a fumble.
So with all my co-workers watching, the pressure was on big-time. Well, I grabbed that lateral, juked and jived a few guys, and then took off like a scalded cat and scored the touchdown. That really happened!
Just for that one sweet moment if nothing else, the Bavarian Chalet will always have a special place in my heart.
One of the best things about the Bavarian Chalet was the architecture of the building. It featured several graceful arches and an adobe style roof if I remember correctly. I don’t know about you, but I just love arches on buildings. That style is so elegant to me.
They also had a lot of windows looking onto their beautiful property; many long, decorated hallways that got you around efficiently; a large basement room for private parties; and of course that lovely u-shaped bar. The more I think about it, the more I miss all of it. Dang.
I’m not sure what actually happened to the Bavarian Chalet. I guess the land where it used to be is now a housing project and the Guilderland Senior Center. I’ve been in the senior center: It’s beautiful there, and the people who work there are awesome.
But, unless they start serving ice-cold German beer in tall, lovely glasses, it just isn’t the same.
The Bavarian Chalet was a true jewel, a neighborhood place that felt like a five-star resort. It is gone but it is most certainly not forgotten. Tschiirs!