I have never admitted this to anyone but my wife, my children, and some of my closest friends, but it's time I went public with it: I have an alter ego. His name is Voice of Society Man. This alter ego can't fly or stop speeding bullets, but he does have the ability to butt into other people's business in a single bound. Voice of Society Man is everyone's nagging grandmother, pesky uncle, and nosy neighbor who is always right. People say that it takes a village to raise a child, but people no longer live near their relatives and that 'village' has nearly disappeared. Voice of Society Man is a traveling village.
Superman originated on Krypton, sent to Earth before the fiery explosion of his home planet. Voice of Society Man's origins are murkier and not as exciting. He was born during a crowded subway ride in Manhattan when I got tired of staring at the inseams of young men whose testicles apparently needed their own seat. His first words were "Excuse me" as he indicated one of the spots beside the young man. This clever ploy worked, and soon I had a seat next to a dude who had to squeeze his entire crotch into only two seats. It was a small victory, but it propelled me to bolder moves. I realized that simply by speaking up where no one else dared, I could perhaps effect a small change in my surroundings. Voice of Society Man was born.
In truth, VoS Man has to do more than ask for a seat or be the first to clap after the lousy piano playing of a cousin. He has to speak up for what is right (or at least against what is wrong). In fact, his main goal is to Teach Someone a Lesson so that the offender won't repeat the offense. But my alter ego's actions require powers beyond speech. Let's say that someone is smoking in a playground. VoS Man must first use his keen sense of smell to detect the offending smoke. Next, he has to be aware of local laws; if unsure, he will consult the sign at the entrance to the playground. Finally, VoS Man has to be aware of potential disasters that could arise from informing members of the general public of their shortcomings, so in the case of the playground smoker, he uses his keen sense of tact to deftly announce the regulations regarding smoking in playgrounds.
When confronting members of the public, there are two approaches that Voice of Society Man can use:
1. TACT
VoS Man can use disarming tactics, such as saying, "It's so annoying that Big Brother has made all these rules about smoking, isn't it? Gosh, it must be hard knowing where you can smoke. Anyhoo, my children all have lung cancer, so could you, um, kindly put out that cigaret after taking one more puff for good luck? Thank you so much for your sacrifice."
2. SNARK
When VoS Man senses a need for sarcasm, he first disarms his foe with a confusing opening statement: "Ya know, when I first joined the Scouts, my Scoutmaster told me that I'd have to stop farting in other people's faces. I bet it's like that with smoking. But every once in awhile I slip up. I won't mind if you smoke if you'll let me fart in your face."
It is perhaps clear that Voice of Society Man must also rely from time to time on one other skill: his highly developed sense of running away fast
Without further ado, I present
The Numerous and Varied Adventures of....
Voice of Society Man!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Larry David at the Carousel
If you do only one historic thing when in Martha's Vineyard, ride the carousel in Oak Bluffs. If you do only one histrionic thing in Martha's Vineyard, get into a fight about it.
One week ago, I spotted Larry David
walking past the carousel. Undoubtedly he was there not for the ride but for the annual Fireworks night. Larry David, creator of Seinfeld, is now the star of his own HBO show about his own curmugeonly self. This afternoon, while biding time before our ferry home, I got involved in the type of kerfuffle that Larry David apparently experiences on a daily basis.
The line at the carousel wasn't long, but the teenagers who run it are not interested in expediency. They don't try to fill empty seats on the ride, so the line sometimes clogs up with large groups who want to ride together. The result was that we were the second group of four to enter the carousel when our turn came. The first group all took seats on the far end, leaving a nice collection of four horses right in front of us. The big kids grabbed adjacent mares, and Shirra and I went about getting seated behind them. First, however, Shirra had to fasten the strap on Maeve's inside horse, so I held the outside horse to indicate that it was 'taken.' Suddenly a large blond girl of about 9 began to mount this horse, so I explained that I was saving it, indicating with a gesture that my family was all sitting together. She persisted a moment before I asked her again to find a different horse. The next thing I knew, she was sobbing like a 4-year-old and pointing at me.
Her father and mother came over, asking why I'd made her get off the horse. I tried to explain my side of the matter, but clearly it was no use; Blondie kept bawling until I told her that she was far to old for whingeing, at which point she suddenly stopped. Her parents, however, continued to speak forcefully about my rude behaviour (they were British). I repeated my sweeping hand gesture to no avail, and father (or 'fahthuh') told me that he was going to report me to the pimply staff, which had the same effect on me as when Philip told me that he had chosen a new best friend in fifth grade. After the useless teenagers conferred with each other and then with me, the five-minute-long ride finally started, approximately five minutes after it should have. The reformed blubberer was put at the head of the line for the following ride, and her parents continued to glare.
Just as the ride began, a second woman standing nearby chastised me, saying that she'd seen the whole thing. I didn't mind that she had stated her opinion, but I was peeved when the ride ended to discover that she may have been biased: She was Blondie's aunt. We would have had nothing more to do with her had it not been for the fact that Fiona had managed to grab the bronze ring -- the prominent feature of this carousel ride -- entitling her a free ride. The rest of us filed off the carousel, Blondie ran to her favourite horse, and we stood by, waiting for Fiona while Aunt Snaggletooth spoke in a stage whisper to Mum about white trash, people these days, and Fiona's ring-grabbing technique. It was at this point that I decided to have a chat with her, but before we had said much to each other, Uncle Halitosis came between us and told me to get out of his wife's face. I pointed out that she and I were having a conversation and that he was the one who was, in actual fact, in his wife's face. With strong hints of sarcasm, he acknowledged how clever I was (a point that Brits always make when confronted with logic), but Aunt Snaggletooth decided that this was looking like an affair for the police and asked a bored teenager selling popcorn to make the call (which he promptly ignored). I am sure the cops would have gotten involved had I phrased my next few arguments to Uncle Hal correctly, but I decided to avoid having to withstand a punch from him just to have him arrested. It would have been a wonderful bout of irony: How often is it that a wife calls the police to have her husband arrested for hitting a stranger, I wondered.
Ironically, despite the Aunt's conviction that we were exhibiting incivility, it was Blubbering Blondie's papa who verged past blue into somewhat violet prose when he dropped an F bomb on Shirra. She only told me about this later, which was lucky because I have a feeling that if I'd known about this during my conversation with Uncle Hal, I would have definitely gotten myself punched in order to get him arrested. I would only have had to ask myself, "What would Larry do?"
This may sound like grandstanding, but there is precedent. On a long train train ride in Australia 18 years ago, I took a drunk, older man to task for smoking in our non-smoking car. After he flicked his lit cigaret at me and then lunged at me when I continued to chastise him, I got him kicked off the train. We made an unscheduled stop, dropped off the old coot, and continued. I found out later that the train only goes thru that town once a week. So don't mess with me! Grrr.
One week ago, I spotted Larry David
walking past the carousel. Undoubtedly he was there not for the ride but for the annual Fireworks night. Larry David, creator of Seinfeld, is now the star of his own HBO show about his own curmugeonly self. This afternoon, while biding time before our ferry home, I got involved in the type of kerfuffle that Larry David apparently experiences on a daily basis.The line at the carousel wasn't long, but the teenagers who run it are not interested in expediency. They don't try to fill empty seats on the ride, so the line sometimes clogs up with large groups who want to ride together. The result was that we were the second group of four to enter the carousel when our turn came. The first group all took seats on the far end, leaving a nice collection of four horses right in front of us. The big kids grabbed adjacent mares, and Shirra and I went about getting seated behind them. First, however, Shirra had to fasten the strap on Maeve's inside horse, so I held the outside horse to indicate that it was 'taken.' Suddenly a large blond girl of about 9 began to mount this horse, so I explained that I was saving it, indicating with a gesture that my family was all sitting together. She persisted a moment before I asked her again to find a different horse. The next thing I knew, she was sobbing like a 4-year-old and pointing at me.
Her father and mother came over, asking why I'd made her get off the horse. I tried to explain my side of the matter, but clearly it was no use; Blondie kept bawling until I told her that she was far to old for whingeing, at which point she suddenly stopped. Her parents, however, continued to speak forcefully about my rude behaviour (they were British). I repeated my sweeping hand gesture to no avail, and father (or 'fahthuh') told me that he was going to report me to the pimply staff, which had the same effect on me as when Philip told me that he had chosen a new best friend in fifth grade. After the useless teenagers conferred with each other and then with me, the five-minute-long ride finally started, approximately five minutes after it should have. The reformed blubberer was put at the head of the line for the following ride, and her parents continued to glare.
Just as the ride began, a second woman standing nearby chastised me, saying that she'd seen the whole thing. I didn't mind that she had stated her opinion, but I was peeved when the ride ended to discover that she may have been biased: She was Blondie's aunt. We would have had nothing more to do with her had it not been for the fact that Fiona had managed to grab the bronze ring -- the prominent feature of this carousel ride -- entitling her a free ride. The rest of us filed off the carousel, Blondie ran to her favourite horse, and we stood by, waiting for Fiona while Aunt Snaggletooth spoke in a stage whisper to Mum about white trash, people these days, and Fiona's ring-grabbing technique. It was at this point that I decided to have a chat with her, but before we had said much to each other, Uncle Halitosis came between us and told me to get out of his wife's face. I pointed out that she and I were having a conversation and that he was the one who was, in actual fact, in his wife's face. With strong hints of sarcasm, he acknowledged how clever I was (a point that Brits always make when confronted with logic), but Aunt Snaggletooth decided that this was looking like an affair for the police and asked a bored teenager selling popcorn to make the call (which he promptly ignored). I am sure the cops would have gotten involved had I phrased my next few arguments to Uncle Hal correctly, but I decided to avoid having to withstand a punch from him just to have him arrested. It would have been a wonderful bout of irony: How often is it that a wife calls the police to have her husband arrested for hitting a stranger, I wondered.
Ironically, despite the Aunt's conviction that we were exhibiting incivility, it was Blubbering Blondie's papa who verged past blue into somewhat violet prose when he dropped an F bomb on Shirra. She only told me about this later, which was lucky because I have a feeling that if I'd known about this during my conversation with Uncle Hal, I would have definitely gotten myself punched in order to get him arrested. I would only have had to ask myself, "What would Larry do?"
This may sound like grandstanding, but there is precedent. On a long train train ride in Australia 18 years ago, I took a drunk, older man to task for smoking in our non-smoking car. After he flicked his lit cigaret at me and then lunged at me when I continued to chastise him, I got him kicked off the train. We made an unscheduled stop, dropped off the old coot, and continued. I found out later that the train only goes thru that town once a week. So don't mess with me! Grrr.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Online Help with the Move
Some of my friends have asked me whether it was hard to move from New York to New Paltz. I must admit: It wasn't. Going from the Big Apple to a place surrounded by big apple orchards was made much easier by the Internet.
Even without the Web, we could still cheer ourselves with the fact that we're just 80 miles away from Gotham, and part of our decision to move to the NP was predicated by proximity to NY; after all, with our kids' 6 [sic] grandparents on the Upper West Side and my biweekly unicycle club get-togethers, we wanted to stay fairly close to The City (capital T, capital C). Of course, those visits are only a few weekends each month and wouldn't be enough to sate a city mouse who felt trapped by all of the open space of a rural community. What makes a move to the country so easy is that we can still connect to our interests and our friends via the computer.
In my case, I was thrilled to learn about the International Scrabble Community (or "ISC"), where people from around the globe (mainly the US) can challenge eachother to a highly competitive round of their favorite game. Thanks to the 'chat' feature, Scrabblers like me can also keep in touch with distant buddies even when dozens or hundreds of miles apart. I discovered the ISC a year before we moved, and I knew that it would make the transition easier. I can't make it to the weekly meeting of the NY Scrabble club, but I can play a dozen fast games online everyday, and in some ways, that's even better. I've kept up with people I knew from before and have made new pals. Can you spot one of the 6-letter words using these letters: DEFINR? *
I've also used the Internet to connect with people via my blogs (especially this one), and that's been quite rewarding. If you'd like to get in touch, just drop me a comment!
EBay and other online purchasing sites have helped, too, since we're not completely dependent on local shops for all of our purchases. iTunes has taken the place of an actual music store (for better and worse), and NetFlix has kept us fairly current with movies and tv series.
So what's been the hardest part about moving out of the big City? Was it getting used to the smogless air? The quiet nights with nary a car alarm to disturb our slumber? The endless search for a parking spot? No way. The hardest thing about our move is when a storm disrupts our satellite Internet connection. Oh, the horror!
_________________________________________
* Answer: There are several words in the letters DEFINR: 'redfin' (a type of fish), 'finder,' and 'friend.'
Even without the Web, we could still cheer ourselves with the fact that we're just 80 miles away from Gotham, and part of our decision to move to the NP was predicated by proximity to NY; after all, with our kids' 6 [sic] grandparents on the Upper West Side and my biweekly unicycle club get-togethers, we wanted to stay fairly close to The City (capital T, capital C). Of course, those visits are only a few weekends each month and wouldn't be enough to sate a city mouse who felt trapped by all of the open space of a rural community. What makes a move to the country so easy is that we can still connect to our interests and our friends via the computer.
In my case, I was thrilled to learn about the International Scrabble Community (or "ISC"), where people from around the globe (mainly the US) can challenge eachother to a highly competitive round of their favorite game. Thanks to the 'chat' feature, Scrabblers like me can also keep in touch with distant buddies even when dozens or hundreds of miles apart. I discovered the ISC a year before we moved, and I knew that it would make the transition easier. I can't make it to the weekly meeting of the NY Scrabble club, but I can play a dozen fast games online everyday, and in some ways, that's even better. I've kept up with people I knew from before and have made new pals. Can you spot one of the 6-letter words using these letters: DEFINR? *
I've also used the Internet to connect with people via my blogs (especially this one), and that's been quite rewarding. If you'd like to get in touch, just drop me a comment!
EBay and other online purchasing sites have helped, too, since we're not completely dependent on local shops for all of our purchases. iTunes has taken the place of an actual music store (for better and worse), and NetFlix has kept us fairly current with movies and tv series.
So what's been the hardest part about moving out of the big City? Was it getting used to the smogless air? The quiet nights with nary a car alarm to disturb our slumber? The endless search for a parking spot? No way. The hardest thing about our move is when a storm disrupts our satellite Internet connection. Oh, the horror!
_________________________________________
* Answer: There are several words in the letters DEFINR: 'redfin' (a type of fish), 'finder,' and 'friend.'
Monday, August 20, 2007
Fortnight in the Vineyard
This blog is mainly about (my) life in New Paltz, but occasionally I have to leave the Noop. Two weeks in Martha's Vineyard tends to make me miss New Paltz and to be grateful for what we have in our new home.
Our annual pilgramage to Martha's Vineyard, sponsored by my mom, is actually what got us to move to New Paltz in the first place. Shirra, and later Fiona, and later Emmett, kept asking to move to somewhere with more of an 'outdoors' than New York City. Initially I thought our move from Manhattan to Brooklyn would be enough -- after all, we had a backyard with an entire sixth of an acre to ourselves -- but two years ago, we started to look outside of the City in search of a much more rustic life. I discovered early on that I didn't want to move to Martha's Vineyard, so our search concentrated on towns not too far from NYC, and eventually we ended up in NP. My very early blog entries here will explain this in much more detail, if you're interested.
Martha's Vineyard and New Paltz are both small-town areas dependent on tourism, but that's about all they have in common. Here are some ways to tell them apart:
RADIO
* NP: A lot of country music on the FM dial with a good dose of rock from 90s to present.
* MV: Mostly a mix of soft rock and oldies, plus some religious stuff on weekends.
TOURISM
* NP: Most obvious on summer weekends, when cars from NYC clog up Main St. Since SUNY NP is out of session, the population actually decreases during the summer except on weekends, when it increases by a few thousand.
* MV: This island lives, financially, for the 3 months of summer, when folks from all over clog up all of the parking in any of its 5 towns. Island driving is affected mainly in and around the towns, and this is the case everyday of the week. MV's population swells from 20,000 to about 200,000 each summer.
SIZE
* NP: Pretty small, geographically. You can drive from north to south or east to west in a matter of minutes.
* MV: Quite spread-out. It could take an hour to cross the island.
FIRE!
* NP: Two fire stations, tho activities are almost exclusively carried out from the big building off Main St. Large fires require mutual aid from neighboring towns, like Gardiner, Plattekill, and Highland.
*MV: Each of the 5 towns has its own station. Like NP, the fire fighters are all volunteers. Large fires receive 'mutual aid' from the other stations on the island.
HOUSING PRICES
* NP: Housing is reasonable, tho there is a large range. Apartments can be rented for $800 a month or purchased for the low $100ks. Larger apartments and small houses would run in the mid-200ks to low 400ks. The most expensive houses would be in the range of $1 million to $2 million, tho these are mainly for weekenders.
* MV: There is no longer a middle class in Martha's Vineyard, a fact lamented in all of the island's newspapers on a regular basis. Some can find (and deal with) cramped quarters in some basement dwelling for $100-200k, but most offerings are in the low 400s to the high 600s. Throw in a 4th bedroom or a hint of sand ("just steps from the beach!") and the price will easily breech the seventh digit, and there are a few mansions in the $5-10 million range and plenty for just a bit less. Of course, all of these places are exclusively for weekenders and those who 'summer' on the island. Only a handful of natives can afford a hint of beachfront, and they're the ones who own the few large businesses on the island.
OTHER PRICES
* NP: Fairly normal. Some things are a lot cheaper than NYC (movie tickets: $4, Ben and Jerry's: $3/pint), some are about average (milk: $3/half gallon), and some are a bit pricier (like stationery, since the local store is more expensive than a big chain like Staples). For the most part, prices in our necka are reasonable, and we feel lucky to be living there.
* MV: Ridiculous for the most part, tho some tourist items are quite cheap. But a pint of B&Js is usually $5.60, milk is nearly that, and groceries in general are exhorbitant. Ice cream at a local parlor (Mad Martha's) is $3 for a single scoop in a cone and $4.50 for a double. A tee-shirt exhorting our favorite new coffee place is $24. I think that natives have a way of buying goods at a discount thru the use of some card, but I'm not sure.
SWIMMING
* NP has a few pools and a couple of others nearby. The Moriello Pool is great, and it costs only $130 for the summer season for the whole family. Still, it's not the beach. Of course, I'm not a huge fan of sand-in-the-pants, so I'm not complaining.
* MV: There are some amazing beaches, tho storms and general erosion have nearly destroyed them. We love the Lucy Vincent (huge waves at times) and Squibnocket, but both need passes only available to people who have houses in a specific area. Our hotel provides walk-on passes, so we occasionally drive to the beach or come up with other strategies. My favorite technique is to drop the family off at Lucy Vincent, drive back to the nearby library, and unicycle five minnutes back to the beach.
LOCALS
* NP: I really like the locals in the NP area. For the most part, they are a very down-to-earth group. We have farmers, hippies, blue-collar guys with trucks, teachers, and so on. I'm hoping our minority presence continues to grow, but the place seems pretty open towards everyone for the most part.
* MV: Because of the high prices of everything, only the middle-class and rich find themselves visiting the island during the summer. Therefore, the only poor people are some of the locals, tho we rarely encounter them except when shopping. They really stand out sometimes, showing apparent signs of inbreeding including bad teeth, poor eyesight, obesity, and a distinct lack of fashion. We don't meet too many farmers or hippies (tho they do exist) because most of the folks we run into are the wealthy people here on holiday.
NIGHTLIFE
I'm off to bed. Nightlife in Martha's Vineyard is about the same as in New Paltz: There isn't much of it. In fact, MV is even quieter than NP because 3 of its 5 towns are dry, including the one we're in (not that I care).
Our annual pilgramage to Martha's Vineyard, sponsored by my mom, is actually what got us to move to New Paltz in the first place. Shirra, and later Fiona, and later Emmett, kept asking to move to somewhere with more of an 'outdoors' than New York City. Initially I thought our move from Manhattan to Brooklyn would be enough -- after all, we had a backyard with an entire sixth of an acre to ourselves -- but two years ago, we started to look outside of the City in search of a much more rustic life. I discovered early on that I didn't want to move to Martha's Vineyard, so our search concentrated on towns not too far from NYC, and eventually we ended up in NP. My very early blog entries here will explain this in much more detail, if you're interested.
Martha's Vineyard and New Paltz are both small-town areas dependent on tourism, but that's about all they have in common. Here are some ways to tell them apart:
RADIO
* NP: A lot of country music on the FM dial with a good dose of rock from 90s to present.
* MV: Mostly a mix of soft rock and oldies, plus some religious stuff on weekends.
TOURISM
* NP: Most obvious on summer weekends, when cars from NYC clog up Main St. Since SUNY NP is out of session, the population actually decreases during the summer except on weekends, when it increases by a few thousand.
* MV: This island lives, financially, for the 3 months of summer, when folks from all over clog up all of the parking in any of its 5 towns. Island driving is affected mainly in and around the towns, and this is the case everyday of the week. MV's population swells from 20,000 to about 200,000 each summer.
SIZE
* NP: Pretty small, geographically. You can drive from north to south or east to west in a matter of minutes.
* MV: Quite spread-out. It could take an hour to cross the island.
FIRE!
* NP: Two fire stations, tho activities are almost exclusively carried out from the big building off Main St. Large fires require mutual aid from neighboring towns, like Gardiner, Plattekill, and Highland.
*MV: Each of the 5 towns has its own station. Like NP, the fire fighters are all volunteers. Large fires receive 'mutual aid' from the other stations on the island.
HOUSING PRICES
* NP: Housing is reasonable, tho there is a large range. Apartments can be rented for $800 a month or purchased for the low $100ks. Larger apartments and small houses would run in the mid-200ks to low 400ks. The most expensive houses would be in the range of $1 million to $2 million, tho these are mainly for weekenders.
* MV: There is no longer a middle class in Martha's Vineyard, a fact lamented in all of the island's newspapers on a regular basis. Some can find (and deal with) cramped quarters in some basement dwelling for $100-200k, but most offerings are in the low 400s to the high 600s. Throw in a 4th bedroom or a hint of sand ("just steps from the beach!") and the price will easily breech the seventh digit, and there are a few mansions in the $5-10 million range and plenty for just a bit less. Of course, all of these places are exclusively for weekenders and those who 'summer' on the island. Only a handful of natives can afford a hint of beachfront, and they're the ones who own the few large businesses on the island.
OTHER PRICES
* NP: Fairly normal. Some things are a lot cheaper than NYC (movie tickets: $4, Ben and Jerry's: $3/pint), some are about average (milk: $3/half gallon), and some are a bit pricier (like stationery, since the local store is more expensive than a big chain like Staples). For the most part, prices in our necka are reasonable, and we feel lucky to be living there.
* MV: Ridiculous for the most part, tho some tourist items are quite cheap. But a pint of B&Js is usually $5.60, milk is nearly that, and groceries in general are exhorbitant. Ice cream at a local parlor (Mad Martha's) is $3 for a single scoop in a cone and $4.50 for a double. A tee-shirt exhorting our favorite new coffee place is $24. I think that natives have a way of buying goods at a discount thru the use of some card, but I'm not sure.
SWIMMING
* NP has a few pools and a couple of others nearby. The Moriello Pool is great, and it costs only $130 for the summer season for the whole family. Still, it's not the beach. Of course, I'm not a huge fan of sand-in-the-pants, so I'm not complaining.
* MV: There are some amazing beaches, tho storms and general erosion have nearly destroyed them. We love the Lucy Vincent (huge waves at times) and Squibnocket, but both need passes only available to people who have houses in a specific area. Our hotel provides walk-on passes, so we occasionally drive to the beach or come up with other strategies. My favorite technique is to drop the family off at Lucy Vincent, drive back to the nearby library, and unicycle five minnutes back to the beach.
LOCALS
* NP: I really like the locals in the NP area. For the most part, they are a very down-to-earth group. We have farmers, hippies, blue-collar guys with trucks, teachers, and so on. I'm hoping our minority presence continues to grow, but the place seems pretty open towards everyone for the most part.
* MV: Because of the high prices of everything, only the middle-class and rich find themselves visiting the island during the summer. Therefore, the only poor people are some of the locals, tho we rarely encounter them except when shopping. They really stand out sometimes, showing apparent signs of inbreeding including bad teeth, poor eyesight, obesity, and a distinct lack of fashion. We don't meet too many farmers or hippies (tho they do exist) because most of the folks we run into are the wealthy people here on holiday.
NIGHTLIFE
I'm off to bed. Nightlife in Martha's Vineyard is about the same as in New Paltz: There isn't much of it. In fact, MV is even quieter than NP because 3 of its 5 towns are dry, including the one we're in (not that I care).
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Emmett's Baseball Camp (and Barry Bonds's Broken Record)
On the day when Barry Bonds broke the career homerun record, my son made it to third in his second-ever baseball game at camp. Woo hoo! That's quite an accomplishment (Emmett's, that is).
Bonds is known to have used performance-enhancing drugs, ranging from steroids to growth hormone. He doesn't even deserve the asterisk that Roger Maris's record was supposed to get in 1961 when he needed 8 extra games to break Babe Ruth's single-season record. Asterisks would be too good for Barry. I don't even give his record an ampersand... maybe a question mark instead. Luckily his record will be eclipsed in 7 or 8 years by the great Alex Rodriguez, who last week, at age 32, became the youngest 500-homerun-hitter of all time.
My son, Emmett, on the other hand is known to have used water, pretzels, and sun screen in his baseball career. It started auspiciously when he hit an infield single in his first at-bat yesterday, but unfortunately, he was erased when he ran to 2nd on the ensuing kid's popup and was tagged out for failing to tag up. He knows the rule now, but unfortunately, he had to learn it the hard way. I had a little chat with the coach this morning, and I was happy that he appreciated my suggestion to improve the way he handles things when working with kids unfamiliar with the rules.
Baseball is a weird sport. I should call it a "game" since "sports" involve fit people breaking a sweat while doing something that requires skill, and baseball is only batting 1-for-3 according to that definition. In any case, what's odd about baseball is that you cannot sum up in just a sentence or two the basics of the game. Let's try to define a few sports and games to see how easy they are to learn:
HOCKEY: For one hour, players carrying curved sticks skate on ice while trying to shoot a flat, rubber, 'puck' into the opponent's goal.
SOCCER: Like hockey, only with a head-sized ball, grass instead of ice, 30 extra minutes, and a larger playing area.
ULTIMATE: Like soccer, only with a frisbee instead of a ball and marijuana instead of grass. The time of the game is limited by how long each team can stave off the munchies.
BASKETBALL: For 48 minutes, two teams try to put a large, bouncy ball into the other team's small basket ten feet off the ground. In order to move the ball, players either pass it or they bounce it while walking or running. Baskets are worth between 1 and 3 points.
FOOTBALL: For one hour, each team tries to move an elongated spheroid across the opponent's back line. They can kick it thru the opponent's "goalposts" for 3 points or run it across the back line for 6 points. If a team doesn't advance 30 feet every 4 tries (or less), the ball is given to the other team.
BASEBALL: Over nine "innings" each team has three 'outs' during which they... wait, no. OK, in this game, the defense has the ball. The team on offense sends batters up to a five-sided plate situated 60.5 feet from a mound where the defense's "pitcher" stands. Using a bat, each hitter tries to put the ball into play inside of a 90-degree angle defined by two lines that run from the plate out towards the field. There is a 'fair' territory inside that 90 degrees and a 'foul' territory outside of that. Hitters have 3 "strikes" before they're called out, but if they see 4 bad pitches, called "balls," then they can advance safely to the first of four "bases," the last of which is the same plate where they started. The defense has 9 players in different places who... oh, never mind!
It's easy to see why Emmett was a bit lost in his first day of this new sport. He and I have only recently begun to play catch, and we almost never watch baseball on tv (he's only seen parts of a few games). He'd never hit a ball with a bat until last month. But the kid can throw a mean frisbee and is the youngest unicycle-rider on the east coast, as I reminded him several times recently. If those other kids give him a hard time, he can just ride his uni for them and they'll be quite impressed. Which gives me an idea about tomorrow's drop-off....
Bonds is known to have used performance-enhancing drugs, ranging from steroids to growth hormone. He doesn't even deserve the asterisk that Roger Maris's record was supposed to get in 1961 when he needed 8 extra games to break Babe Ruth's single-season record. Asterisks would be too good for Barry. I don't even give his record an ampersand... maybe a question mark instead. Luckily his record will be eclipsed in 7 or 8 years by the great Alex Rodriguez, who last week, at age 32, became the youngest 500-homerun-hitter of all time.
My son, Emmett, on the other hand is known to have used water, pretzels, and sun screen in his baseball career. It started auspiciously when he hit an infield single in his first at-bat yesterday, but unfortunately, he was erased when he ran to 2nd on the ensuing kid's popup and was tagged out for failing to tag up. He knows the rule now, but unfortunately, he had to learn it the hard way. I had a little chat with the coach this morning, and I was happy that he appreciated my suggestion to improve the way he handles things when working with kids unfamiliar with the rules.
Baseball is a weird sport. I should call it a "game" since "sports" involve fit people breaking a sweat while doing something that requires skill, and baseball is only batting 1-for-3 according to that definition. In any case, what's odd about baseball is that you cannot sum up in just a sentence or two the basics of the game. Let's try to define a few sports and games to see how easy they are to learn:
HOCKEY: For one hour, players carrying curved sticks skate on ice while trying to shoot a flat, rubber, 'puck' into the opponent's goal.
SOCCER: Like hockey, only with a head-sized ball, grass instead of ice, 30 extra minutes, and a larger playing area.
ULTIMATE: Like soccer, only with a frisbee instead of a ball and marijuana instead of grass. The time of the game is limited by how long each team can stave off the munchies.
BASKETBALL: For 48 minutes, two teams try to put a large, bouncy ball into the other team's small basket ten feet off the ground. In order to move the ball, players either pass it or they bounce it while walking or running. Baskets are worth between 1 and 3 points.
FOOTBALL: For one hour, each team tries to move an elongated spheroid across the opponent's back line. They can kick it thru the opponent's "goalposts" for 3 points or run it across the back line for 6 points. If a team doesn't advance 30 feet every 4 tries (or less), the ball is given to the other team.
BASEBALL: Over nine "innings" each team has three 'outs' during which they... wait, no. OK, in this game, the defense has the ball. The team on offense sends batters up to a five-sided plate situated 60.5 feet from a mound where the defense's "pitcher" stands. Using a bat, each hitter tries to put the ball into play inside of a 90-degree angle defined by two lines that run from the plate out towards the field. There is a 'fair' territory inside that 90 degrees and a 'foul' territory outside of that. Hitters have 3 "strikes" before they're called out, but if they see 4 bad pitches, called "balls," then they can advance safely to the first of four "bases," the last of which is the same plate where they started. The defense has 9 players in different places who... oh, never mind!
It's easy to see why Emmett was a bit lost in his first day of this new sport. He and I have only recently begun to play catch, and we almost never watch baseball on tv (he's only seen parts of a few games). He'd never hit a ball with a bat until last month. But the kid can throw a mean frisbee and is the youngest unicycle-rider on the east coast, as I reminded him several times recently. If those other kids give him a hard time, he can just ride his uni for them and they'll be quite impressed. Which gives me an idea about tomorrow's drop-off....
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Hydrant!
I got an old fire hydrant today! I'm so psyched.
We take our trash and recycling to the town dump. A few weeks ago, I decided to see what was lurking near the big pile of metal objects off to the side of the dump. Usually it's just old, rusty bikes and some refrigerators in the "grizzy attitudes of death." * In the past, I've gotten some cool stuff there, including a stop sign, but when I noticed the hydrants, I decided that I had to have one. There was only one problem. They're heavy as hell.
Hydrants are made of cast iron. I guess that's a safety issue; perhaps it's so that they don't break when someone backs into them with a car, or maybe it's becuase they have to be really solid to handle the high water pressure coursing thru them at times (or both), but I kid you not: That thing weighs at least 200 pounds.
When I first spotted the discarded hydrants, I figured I'd just take the nicest-looking one, which also happened to be the smallest. I gave it a push with my foot, and the thing didn't budge. I pushed harder, and it tipped back about a centimeter. That's when I realized that I might not be able to get the thing home on my own. I spent a few minutes at it before resigning. I was sad: I knew I couldn't make it back for at least two weeks and guessed that it would be gone by then. I didn't even check back a few days ago when we returned from our trip, and I wasn't going to check today, either, but I decided to take a peek just in case.
Again I was faced with the prospect of getting the damn thing into the back of my car. Luckily mine's a hatch-back with a fold-down door, so I knew I only had to raise the hydrant about 2.5 feet, but still, I hadn't had any luck two weeks ago, how could I possibly.... And then I spotted some metal poles in the rummage pile. I propped them from the ground to the car, positioned the hydrant, and rolled. It wasn't easy (and it kept threatening to roll back onto me or worse, to fall suddenly onto my foot!) but I finally managed to get the thing into the trunk. Then, knowing I'd have the same struggle to get it back out of the car, I took the metal poles with me. Back at home, I used the poles to help roll the thing out of the car (jumping to the side to avoid a broken foot when it finally slipped) and placed it in the garden.
The hydrant is in sad shape. The many layers of paint are peeling and some of the metal has rusted a bit. Worse yet, the peeling paint might be lead-based. I'll have to remove the paint (carefully!) and give it a fresh coat. Then I have to dig a small trench for it so that I can bury it a foot deep in the garden so that it won't tip over onto a foot (or a kid!). It'll make an excellent garden gnome.
_____________________________
* Dom DeLillo, in White Noise
We take our trash and recycling to the town dump. A few weeks ago, I decided to see what was lurking near the big pile of metal objects off to the side of the dump. Usually it's just old, rusty bikes and some refrigerators in the "grizzy attitudes of death." * In the past, I've gotten some cool stuff there, including a stop sign, but when I noticed the hydrants, I decided that I had to have one. There was only one problem. They're heavy as hell.
Hydrants are made of cast iron. I guess that's a safety issue; perhaps it's so that they don't break when someone backs into them with a car, or maybe it's becuase they have to be really solid to handle the high water pressure coursing thru them at times (or both), but I kid you not: That thing weighs at least 200 pounds.
When I first spotted the discarded hydrants, I figured I'd just take the nicest-looking one, which also happened to be the smallest. I gave it a push with my foot, and the thing didn't budge. I pushed harder, and it tipped back about a centimeter. That's when I realized that I might not be able to get the thing home on my own. I spent a few minutes at it before resigning. I was sad: I knew I couldn't make it back for at least two weeks and guessed that it would be gone by then. I didn't even check back a few days ago when we returned from our trip, and I wasn't going to check today, either, but I decided to take a peek just in case.
Again I was faced with the prospect of getting the damn thing into the back of my car. Luckily mine's a hatch-back with a fold-down door, so I knew I only had to raise the hydrant about 2.5 feet, but still, I hadn't had any luck two weeks ago, how could I possibly.... And then I spotted some metal poles in the rummage pile. I propped them from the ground to the car, positioned the hydrant, and rolled. It wasn't easy (and it kept threatening to roll back onto me or worse, to fall suddenly onto my foot!) but I finally managed to get the thing into the trunk. Then, knowing I'd have the same struggle to get it back out of the car, I took the metal poles with me. Back at home, I used the poles to help roll the thing out of the car (jumping to the side to avoid a broken foot when it finally slipped) and placed it in the garden.
The hydrant is in sad shape. The many layers of paint are peeling and some of the metal has rusted a bit. Worse yet, the peeling paint might be lead-based. I'll have to remove the paint (carefully!) and give it a fresh coat. Then I have to dig a small trench for it so that I can bury it a foot deep in the garden so that it won't tip over onto a foot (or a kid!). It'll make an excellent garden gnome.
_____________________________
* Dom DeLillo, in White Noise
Technicolor Tute
A first in my 14 years of tutoring: a student threw up during a session.
Poor kid, it was our first session, and his mom had warned me that he had been complaining of a mild stomach ache. He asked if we could ltake a small break, then asked for some ginger ale, and the next thing I know, there are bowtie noodles coming out of his nose. Good thing I'm a dad of three; nothing fazes me. I made sure he got everything out, cleaned everything up, and a few minutes later we were back to our lesson. He did quite well despite his wooziness, too.
I've thrown up during a session, too. It was nearly a decade ago, and I guess I was a bit dehydrated. I excused myself, walked to the bathroom, and barfed into the toilet (quietly, so as not to disturb my young charge). Then I brushed my teeth and headed back to the office, where I explained that she should probably call her mom for an early pickup so that I could rest and recover. I was feeling pretty faint, but the next day, I was fine. I hope today's student will be fine by tomorrow, too.
Poor kid, it was our first session, and his mom had warned me that he had been complaining of a mild stomach ache. He asked if we could ltake a small break, then asked for some ginger ale, and the next thing I know, there are bowtie noodles coming out of his nose. Good thing I'm a dad of three; nothing fazes me. I made sure he got everything out, cleaned everything up, and a few minutes later we were back to our lesson. He did quite well despite his wooziness, too.
I've thrown up during a session, too. It was nearly a decade ago, and I guess I was a bit dehydrated. I excused myself, walked to the bathroom, and barfed into the toilet (quietly, so as not to disturb my young charge). Then I brushed my teeth and headed back to the office, where I explained that she should probably call her mom for an early pickup so that I could rest and recover. I was feeling pretty faint, but the next day, I was fine. I hope today's student will be fine by tomorrow, too.
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