Frozen

     

STAINED GLASS: Looking out my front door

I never have to worry about writer’s block while living in New England. People love talking about the weather in our little neck of the global woods. And this winter there’s so much to talk about.

     January 2015 was cold, but that's to be expected. Nothing unusual happened on the weather front other than we almost made it through the entire month without any significant snowfall. At the end of the month, the snow finally arrived. Boy did it ever. And now there is no end in sight.

     The January 27th blizzard dumped around 25 inches of snow on Stoneham. At work, I was already on the schedule for vacation days on Monday and Tuesday. My timing couldn't have been better. With the state-of-emergency travel ban in place, I wasn’t going anywhere anyway. Like everyone else that day, I spent most of my free time shoveling and clearing snow. It was hard work but by Wednesday life was more or less back to normal. Okay, less. But somehow we survived.

     One week later, another storm struck and another foot of snow blanketed our area. When added to the previous accumulation, the amount was staggering. I took a rare spontaneous vacation day to enjoy more shovel-time with my wife. I wish I could say we had fun. Not even close. The pressure may have been dropping in the atmosphere but it was skyrocketing in my driveway. Just ask the neighbors.

     Snow removal is an enormously difficult challenge, for homeowners as well as the DPW. Driving through town feels like training for an olympic luge event. Nosing my car out of a corner side street is a complete game of chance. I call it Extreme Whack-A-Mole. The record breaking, back breaking snowfall has taken its toll on everyone. People are exhausted before they arrive at work. Everyone looks strung out and defeated. At least the Patriot’s Super Bowl victory gave us something positive to focus on for a few moments.

     I just heard the extended forecast and there's more snow coming. It is winter, so I’m not surprised. I have a few choice words for Mother Nature 2015, besides “relentless” and “vicious”, but I’ll keep them to myself so as not to disturb the weather gods. I don't want to make them any more angry than they already are. I’ve gotten used to trudging through the snowdrifts, tiptoeing on black ice, and layering my clothes to combat the arctic wind chill. Hearty New Englander? More like Apocalypse Survivor. That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, so call me Superman. Maybe that’s just my white-out delirium talking.

     Winter 2015 continues to stomp its way toward the ever elusive spring season. Spring is under a lot of pressure this year to be extra-spectacular – or else. For now, I'm living in the moment. I’m happy my home has a full tank of heating oil, some Duraflame logs, and electricity to make the harsh winter days and nights comfortable (or at least bearable). Give me a hot cup of tea and a computer keyboard and I’m a happy camper. The temperature may be sub-zero outside, but it's warm inside sitting by the glow of my laptop fueled by the fire of my imagination.

It's a Tie

Knot's Landing...

Last month when I opened my Christmas gift from my sister-in-law and her husband, I was expecting a wallet. I’m a good gift-guesser, which infuriates my family. Inside the box, instead of a wallet, I found something unique that forever changed my life. A real bow tie!

I was last seen wearing a bow tie in my kindergarten graduation photo, and that one was a clip on. The bow tie I received this year is the real deal. It was love at first sight. Black and white, reversible patterns, – a perfect match for most of my wardrobe. There was only one problem. I never tied a bow tie in my life.

How hard could it be? My father taught me the proper way to tie a neck tie when I was a youngster. And not just a regular knot, a majestic Windsor knot. The kind of knot that sends a message. Thanks, Dad!

Without my father here to share any bow tie knowledge he may have had, I consulted the next best thing – the Internet. Google has the answer to everything. I searched “how to tie a bow tie” and eagerly awaited the results. The search found more information than I could ever use. There were charts and graphs galore, but I thought a YouTube video would be the best place to start.

I sat at my computer, bow tie in hand, and watched the first video. I rewound the instructions several times, but I couldn’t get past step two. Twenty minutes later, I Googled “easy-way-to-tie-a-bow tie”. The videos that surfaced were similar to the first ones, equally confusing and frustrating. One demonstrator suggested, “It’s like tying your shoe.” (It's not). Another instructor shared a tip: practice tying the bow tie around your leg until you get the hang of it. That’s fine if you like the 1982 Joanie-Loves-Chachi “leg bandana” look. After spending forty nonproductive minutes in front of the mirror, I gave up for the night.

I took my bow tie with me to work the next day, determined to wear it. I consulted a bow tied co-worker who moonlights as a cellist for the Cambridge Symphony Orchestra. I knew he’d have some helpful hints. He shed some light on the mystery of tying the knot. I headed to the rest room hoping it was empty so I could have the mirror to myself. In the privacy of the fluorescent lit bathroom, I tried to remember all the steps I learned to appropriately tie this accoutrement around my neck. I tied and re-tied without success.

On my last attempt, something clicked. Instead of looping right, I looped left. I found success by overlapping and underlapping in the opposite direction. Tying the bow backwards in the mirror was a real brain teaser. Just when the bow looked almost perfect, I pulled the wrong end and all my hard work unravelled. I was running out of time and patience. I headed back to my desk with the tie hanging around my neck like a wet noodle.

At the entrance to my department, I ran into two co-workers, Shirley and Natalie, who were leaving for a sales call. They commented on my unstrung tie. I couldn’t hide the frustration on my face.

“I almost had it. I can’t get past the last step. Watch this,” I said as I proceeded to demonstrate how to tie the tie. I flipped the fabric around, up, over and down, back up and...oh so close. I held the pieces in place as the two women tried to analyze the knot situation.

“This end needs to go to point A and this end needs to go to point B,” I said.

“It’s like tying a ribbon,” Shirley said as she took one end and tucked it through the loop in the back of the tie. Natalie pulled the end through and looped it behind the other end to form a bow.

“It almost looks like a bow tie now,” Natalie said. Almost being the key word.

I thanked them and did a u-turn back to the rest room to do some fine-tuning. My bow tie was complete and it only took three people!

My tie received a few compliments as the day progressed. I like the look, although it seems too high-maintenance for everyday wear. I suppose the more I practice, the better and faster I’ll get at it. I need to buy a few more so I can introduce them into my everyday wardrobe.

I’d love to adopt the bow tie as my signature look although I’m afraid of the separated at birth comparisons that might pop up between me and Orville Redenbacher. And the Pee Wee Herman references I could do without.

For now, I’ll occasionally tie one on to mix things up in the wardrobe department. Who says men’s fashion can’t be fun? Not us risk takers. Once I get good at constructing the perfect bow tie, they’ll be no stopping me. It’s just knot going to happen any time soon.

Je Suis Charlie

   

Papa est parti pas Wolinski

 Terrorism can happen so far away and yet hit so close to home. I was shocked when I learned of the slaughter of twelve innocent journalists on the staff of the French political satire cartoon magazine called “Charlie Hebso”. 

     A band of militant extremists assassinated twelve people on the magazine’s staff because their religious beliefs differed with a cartoon the periodical ran on it’s cover. The terrorists exposed their true colors by striking at personal freedom, thus showing the rest of the world what will happen to freedom everywhere if these savages are allowed to come into power. In targeting a small band of cartoonists, these terrorists have managed to spotlight the horror and intolerance behind their agenda.

Watching the news, I was outraged along with the rest of the world. As a cartoonist, I was saddened on a deeper level. A close bond exists between the brotherhood and sisterhood of cartoonists in the world. Only a small number of us are chosen by this unique vocation, so the loss seems even more compelling. 

     Cartooning is a strange and lonely profession. It is done solitarily, by one person with one pencil and one sheet of paper, but its simplicity brings joy to many. Cartoons are an ephemeral art form with a short life span. They are meant to be looked at, read and absorbed in an instant, offering a brief chuckle or a perplexed smirk, depending on their content (and depending on the reader's state of mind at the time). Then the page is turned and they evaporate into the ether. A good cartoon strikes a familiar nerve with the reader and finds a home on a cubicle wall or a refrigerator door, where its shelf life lingers a little longer. Most cartoons are disposable, making a quick point and moving on its way with the rest of the day’s information, usually never to be heard from again. And certainly not cause for a reaction extreme enough to warrant the murder of the artist who creates it. Although cartoonists work alone, we share a common bond that can’t be defined, and can’t be broken.

     The terror attack in Paris only makes the need for free speech stronger. As an artist, I never underestimate the power a cartoon can have. Cartoons may look like a few quick strokes of ink on paper, but the simple combination of words and pictures can cut deep into the reader’s soul, eliciting a response from the inside out, as the warmth of humor or the cutting edge of satire spread from the brain to the heart, causing an instant flood of  endorphins to wash over a person’s psyche. Good cartoons are powerful things. Just for an instant, they make the reader feel something. Humor. Laughter. Enlightenment. Not only do cartoons make us feel, they make us think. They make us reflect on the human condition and make us realize we are not alone on our journey through life.

     Attacks on freedom of speech will never be tolerated by the masses. Cartoons, like freedom, can’t be contained. At least not while people can still think for themselves. Hopefully the majority of people will feel that way for a long, long time. This tragedy brings new meaning to the old saying “the pen is mightier than the sword”. 

     I will continue to fight for personal freedom as long as I can scribble words and pictures on paper that make people smile, and once in awhile, make people stop and think. Je Suis Charlie.

Tabula Rasa

     

     Dictionary.com defines the term “Tabula Rasa” as anything existing undisturbed in its original pure state. It’s origin is from the Latin words meaning scraped table, or more commonly translated as “clean slate”. I learned this phrase from a high school writing assignment my son brought home from his English class a few years ago. I liked the sound of the phrase, and more importantly, I liked the meaning behind it.

     With a new year upon us, I’m adopting Tabula Rasa as my catch-phrase for 2015. Imagine the year stretched out in front of you, a virtual blank slate for you to shape into anything you want. New beginnings. A fresh start. Unlimited possibilities. A white canvas, full of nothing, waiting for me to paint it with colors I choose. The possibilities are endless.

     Tumultuous 2014 was a trying time for the entire world. Disease, terrorism, civil unrest – it was hard to find a glimmer of positivity as the year wore on. On a personal level, my year was eventful as well. My roller coaster ride through life continued at break-neck speed. The high point was my son’s wedding last January; the low point was biting my fingernails while waiting approval for student loans so my youngest son could continue his education at Berklee College of Music. Sandwiched in between were the usual medical dramas and days full of life’s little surprises that always catch me off guard no matter how prepared I think I am.

     2015 feels different already. I’m approaching the calendar as a year of opportunity and change. My own personal philosophy is that each one of us creates our own reality. Make sure you create a reality to your liking. Combine these thoughts with my “tabula rasa” mentality, and I am not intimidated by the year to come. I am looking forward to shaping my life the way I want it to be.

     Easier said than done. I’m taking small steps, one day at a time, to make things happen the way I want them to. There will always be things beyond my control, but the way a person handles situations that arise is a true test of inner resolve. We can’t control adversity, but we can control our reaction to it.

     I see big changes on the horizon. My son is expecting his first child, expanding our family tree into the future. I'm happily moving up a notch to make room for the next generation.

     I'm ready to open myself up to the waiting arms of the universe and let it take me headlong into infinity. And I’m ready to explore each and every experience my universe has to offer. Bring on the blank canvas of 2015 and let me paint the best and brightest picture I can with what I have to work with. Let me mold my experiences to make things better for everyone I come in contact with. This year, if I’m the only person I encounter who has a positive attitude, that’s enough for me. 

Deck the Hallmark Channel

Fa la la la la, la la la, blah.

     I’m all about festive movie viewing for the holiday season. Classics like It’s A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol are a holiday staple in my home, as well as new classics like Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation and Bill Murray’s Scrooged. They should be watched in small doses, sprinkled sparingly throughout the holiday viewing season like treasured sweets. Instead, the Hallmark Channel's force fed film feast has me running for the Pepto Bismol. Every movie my wife watches on the Hallmark Channel's 30 Days of Christmas Marathon is driving me out of my mind (and out of my living room). There’s only so much Christmas magic I can take.

     These uplifting holiday made-for-TV movies are overflowing with 1980’s celebrities hoping to recapture some of their lost limelight (or at least pick up a paycheck). Over the past few weeks I’ve seen Crystal Bernard from the TV series Wings, Dean Cain from Lois & Clark and the omnipresent Candace Cameron of Full House fame. These long lost souls have been welcomed back into my living room for the holidays like homeless people with no place to go.The movie plots are another story. The titles say it all: The Christmas Secret, An Old-Fashioned Christmas, A Christmas Visitor, Merry Ex-Mas, A Royal Christmas, A Boyfriend For Christmas – and the list goes on.I’ve been inspired by these films to submit an original movie script of my own for next season entitled “Happy Holly Days”. Here’s a synopsis:

     Los Angeles advertising executive Holly Davis, who never experienced Christmas as a child, takes a job in Alaska to take her mind off the depressing holiday season. Thanks to a magical encounter with a Christmas angel while she’s picking out her Christmas Tree, she meets her second grade boyfriend, Brent, who is now the owner of a small company on the brink of collapse because an off-shore oil drilling contract is forcing his business to close. Holly rallies the quirky Alaskan townsfolk to band together to stop the pipeline and save her boyfriend’s business. During the victory celebration, Holly's boyfriend Brent is revealed to be the son of Saint Nicholas. He will become the next Santa Claus only if he marries his one true love, who just happens to be Holly. Fade to a white wedding winter wonderland in the North Pole where Holly and Brent live happily ever after, and Holly now has the kind of Christmas she’s always wanted. Fade into a long shot of Brent and Holly flying in a magical sleigh lifted up to the sky by magical reindeer. Zoom in as they kiss in silhouette against the bright full moon in the dark winter sky. Fade to black.

    Unfortunately, after reading my outline, my wife noted this movie has already been made. The plots of these cookie-cutter movies all blend into one another.  I can’t keep the stories straight.

     Me: “Why is Candice Cameron in an ice-fishing hut with a lumberjack? I thought she was engaged to the singing cowboy.”

     My Wife: “That's a different movie. This is Christmas Under Wraps.”

     Me: “Does Alan Thicke play her rich father?”

     My Wife: “No, that was Let It Snow. Stop asking questions.”

     Me: “I need more spiked egg nog.”

In the midst of all this artificial holiday cheer, one blatantly bad movie shines through the darkness like the North Star – “Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever.” It even has “Worst” in the title. Talk about truth in advertising. In the words of Ebenezer Scrooge, “Bah, Hallmark!”

Age before beauty

That Seventies Show

     The tell-tale signs of aging are making themselves known to me, but I choose to ignore them (or maybe I just can’t see them through my tri-focal glasses. Now, where did I put them?).

     For a long time, I was the guy who looked eternally young. A virtual Portrait of Dorian Gray. Maybe it was my red hair or my youthful exuberance. “You’re how old? No way. You can’t be. You look so young.” Yeah, I used to get that a lot. 

     In my younger days when I ordered something in a drinking establishment I was routinely asked for my ID by waiters and waitresses young enough to be my children. I remember celebrating my sixth wedding anniversary with friends at the Spinnaker Lounge in Cambridge. The waitress singled me out saying, “I only need to see your driver’s license. Everyone else is obviously of age.” I was equally embarrassed and flattered. Yeah, that hasn’t happened to me in a long time. A very long time.

Recently, I was in the passenger seat as my wife bought coffee for us at a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru window. My wife noticed the total on the cash register was different than the amount the cashier asked for when she handed us our coffee. 

     “Oh, that’s because of the senior citizen discount for the gentlemen,” the cashier said cheerfully. 

My wife gave me a sideways smile. I was equally embarrassed and perturbed. I didn’t dare ask what the age is for that particular discount. I wanted to toss a quarter inside the drive up window and say,      “Keep your discount, you young whippersnapper!” I kept my hurt feelings in check as the sudden realization of my escalating age sunk in.

     This year my wife and I celebrated our 34th wedding anniversary. We were out for dinner with the same couple we’ve celebrated with every year, who share the same anniversary date with us. I wasn’t carded at the table when we ordered drinks. I felt my age as the young waitress enunciated the nightly dinner specials to us as if everyone at our table was hard of hearing. The four of us craned our necks as we strained to hear what the waitress was saying. We tried to read her lips as we looked at her quizzically. We declined ordering any of the specials because A.) we couldn’t understand what she said, and B.) we couldn’t remember what she said. To be fair, the background noise in the restaurant was fairly loud. And there was a draft coming in from the front door And none of us brought our shawls. 

     I’m going to ignore the signs of aging as long as I can. You’re as young as you feel. I think of that every time my knee joint pops and I pop and an Advil to numb the pain. I still identify with being a redhead even though my hair is gray (white? silver? I don't recognize the color anymore. Chalk it up to failing vision).

     I got some advice on aging from my mother who turned 89 years old this year. She’s still going strong – cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and shopping. She keeps up on current events, reads lots of newspapers and is a superfan of The Big Bang Theory sit-com. She told me age is part of the evolution of life. It creeps up on you slowly when you're not looking. I’m starting to realize how true this is as I gulp down another handful of Ibuprofen, secretly wishing to return to the days when I had red hair and I was being asked to show my driver's license when ordering an alcoholic beverage. I’ll take that embarrassment over the senior citizen discount any day.

Gym Dandy

Exercising my rights. And my lefts.

     I’m not a “gym” person yet I work out five days a week. Maybe “work out” is too strong a word for what I do at the fitness center. My daily routine consists mostly of pedaling the exercise bike while I catch up on my reading. My physical therapist suggested to avoid painful Cortisone injections every six months, I should find activities to keep my knee joints flexible. So far so good, although my gym experience leaves a lot to be desired.

     I'm a member of the fitness center in the building where I work. For only $20 a month I get to enjoy a telephone-booth-size locker room, complete with no towels. I don’t mind the towel shortage as I don’t sweat enough to need a shower after my so-called workout. The small changing area feels crowded when there are two people in it. With three patrons present, it's an uncomfortable, elbow-bumping game of Twister trying to maneuver into a space to tie my sneakers. I get more exercise changing my clothes at super-speed than I do during my official workout in the gym. I'm already out of breath before I start. 
     I do abdominal crunches while sitting on a large inflated workout ball. I try to balance as I put my hands behind my head and do as many half sit-ups as I can. Abs are over rated anyway. I prefer my six-pack from the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. 
     I hop on an empty stationary bike, the perfect vehicle to keep my knee joints moving with little impact. While pedaling, I'm also exercising my mind by reading books. The hardest part is ignoring the wall of televisions in front of me. Although the volume is muted, the closed-captions blare. Most of the

screens are tuned to sports channels broadcasting the latest game highlights and player scandals. On any given day you can see a bright-eyed Tom Brady and a stone-faced Bill Belichick recapping their latest triumph on the field. The other televisions broadcast soccer games and soap operas. Something for everyone. It’s all I can do to keep my nose in my book as I concentrate on reading and pedaling (in that order). 

     After thirty minutes of cycling through a couple of chapters, I move to the intimidating free weight area. I lift some weights while looking at the television’s backward reflection in the mirrors in front of me. Anything’s preferable than making eye-contact with myself in the mirror. I prefer not to watch myself lift light weights that shouldn’t be a struggle, but they are. I think it’s genetic, not lack of effort. In the mirror, I focus on the backs of the joggers on the treadmills as they run nowhere fast, trying to get ahead of themselves or trying to burn calories or trying to stay healthy. In reality, they are literally on a treadmill speeding headfirst into a wall of muted television screens filled by giant Dr. Phil heads and General Hospital’s drama of the day.

     I move to a flat mat on the floor to begin my self-created leg stretching exercises. I use a broken heavy-duty rubber strap that has been tied together after some sort of gymnasium mishap where someone definitely lost an eye when the device snapped. I wrap the band around the bottom of my sneaker and stretch my leg as high as I can. I pray the makeshift knot holding the strap together remains tied until I finish. As I stretch my legs I tell myself it's good pain.

     I end my workout with a series of leg presses. I pull out the pin from the bottom of the large rack of flat weights and move it up to a more manageable (lower) number, lowering my self esteem in the process. I ignore the crunching sound my joints make. By now my knees are killing me, my legs ache, and I wonder if a painful Cortisone injection is preferable to what I’m putting myself through during my daily routine. Finally, I’m off to the locker room, hoping I’ve timed my workout around the other people’s workouts so I can change my clothes and get out of there before the crowd. 

     I’ve had conversations with people who make the gym part of their life. They tell me no one likes exercising, but they like the results. For whatever reason, I will keep plugging away with my daily routine. I may be reaping benefits without even knowing it. If nothing else, I’m getting lots of reading done. I may not have the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I bet my brain is in really good shape.