There’s Always Ice Cream

I live just up the street from the local park and ball fields, and every day as I sit here at my desk I catch a glimpse of my past in the form of young ball playing aspirants walking home with their dads and sometimes mom’s.

I don’t mean the dads are sometimes moms…you know what I mean….but again…

Gotta be careful.

Anyway, I’ll focus more on the dads and sons here, since that was my experience when I was an 8 year old baseball novice. 

Nowadays they start even earlier...like 3, 4, 5 or 6. You can’t start playing baseball too early, you know. Can’t start instilling the value of self-esteem based on how well coordinated you are and your ability to concentrate on anything other than a Sponge Bob cartoon, too soon.

I mean who needs a well-adjusted kid?

What struck me about today's vignette was the sight of a particular young man, dressed in full uniform, maybe 9 or 10, walking about 6 or 7 steps ahead of his dad, who was barking instructions at him in regard to that day’s on field performance.

The kid, head down, trudged forward carrying the tell-tale weight of failure on his back.

Was it a team failure or a personal one, I wondered.  Judging from the dad’s remarks it seemed kind of personal. 

“I told you about keeping your front shoulder in and your back elbow up…”

“You’re still guessing instead of reacting….”

And from what I could see the kid wasn’t reacting, at all, at least to his dad. In fact it occurred to me that his dad’s voice was the last thing he wanted to hear.  Because if I were this little boy of 9 or 10, what I wanted to hear was, “Good game…let’s go get some ice cream.”

But I guess things are different now. 

When I was 8 we pretty much just showed up at the field in a pair of dirty jeans and whatever shirt we woke up in, along with either some hand me down dried out piece of leather, or a glove so new it still mooed and was impossible to bend let alone close. 

There we stood, gathered in a circle to hear some inspirational words from the coach, all the while wondering why his nose was so red. Then, appropriately inspired, we ran out to the field, screaming like banshees, who had a pretty good team themselves, and stood wherever we could find an open spot to stand.

One lucky kid was selected to pick up a bat and hit, which is what we all really wanted to do, while the coach soft tossed baseballs at him.

Mostly, the kid would swing valiantly at the pitch, usually miss and sometimes screw himself into the ground.

Meanwhile, the rest of us stood out at our self-appointed positions, made faces at our friends, scanned the sky for airplanes and picked our own red noses.

Occasionally the bat would find its way to the ball and, if you were paying attention, you would find yourself running towards said ball…along with about 20 other kids…some of whom weren’t even on the field at the time it was hit.

And in this way we learned to play the American pastime.

Eventually, as time went on and actual games were played, the herd thinned out as those who lacked the attention span, the desire or simply the love of the game went off to pursue other interests.

Our 6 inning contests rarely made it to completion as darkness would ultimately take hold, sometimes as early as the third inning after a good 2 hours of trying to hit the ball and get somebody out.

But there were plenty of walks and strikeouts and even a few caught balls…every now and then.

The best part was, after the game, completed or not, won or lost, there was always a cooler of soda and sometimes a trip for ice cream.

Eventually, our bodies caught up with our aspirations and our dreams advanced with our eye/hand coordination. 

We played catch with our dads, just cuz we liked it, and pitched in the World Series of our imagination as we bounced a super ball off the front steps. We watched games on TV, played in backyards, playgrounds and even in the street. 

Some had a natural instinct and ability for the game and naturally found their positions, while others, myself included, had no natural position, let alone ability, other than an instinct to get dirty from head to toe.

The truth is, if you had to name my best position I guess you would have to call me a designated walker/base runner who was an expert at pop up sliding, having practiced the art for hours on my living room carpet.

As the competition increased and we advanced through the leagues, the best of the best stood out above the rest and even more of us dropped out.

But there was no sense of failure or loss in any of that.  We went as far as our abilities took us and most importantly, we had fun along the way.

We all worked at getting better and we all wanted to win. 

Sure, we suffered our losses and licked our wounds…but we turned the page quickly…and soon found the world was full of other games, most of which came with as many defeats as there were wins.

And once we understood that...we never lost again.

And besides...there’s always ice cream.

Lots and lots of ice cream.

____________________________________________________

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I’m a Baker’s Cousin

About a year ago I discovered that my cousin Jim opened a bakery, right smack in the middle of trendy lower Manhattan.

This was a surprise to me since, up until that point, I wasn’t sure my cousin had even opened a can of tuna...and now he was opening entire bakeries.

So it really goes to show, every time you think you know a person, you find out you don’t…and then they go and open a bakery.

And not just a bakery, but a very successful bakery that caters to everyone from students to movie stars…construction workers to internet wizards and everyone and everything in between.

But not Hobbits.  The Hobbits refuse to wear shoes so they’re not allowed in the store. So that’s another plus.

Some notable celebrities, known for their unadulterated views, have even gone on national late night talks shows and talked about how they fill their bathtubs with their butter cream icing, or something like that…I’m not sure.

The name of this place is called Empire Cake and can be found on 8^th Avenue, between 15^th and 16^th street.  I was there this past weekend, and even at 11 PM there was a steady stream of people coming in and out to snatch up a box or two or three of their version of Snowballs and Twinkies, and other assorted goodies, which is exactly what that hour on a Saturday night in NYC calls for. 

People passing by would actually stop and take pictures of the cakes and cupcakes featured in the windows, as if they were documenting a gallery of fine jewels on display at Tiffany’s.

Only this is better because you can’t get a cake made into a life sized replica of Mitt Romney, if you’re so inclined, at Tiffany’s.

So people can fool you, especially me…and usually do.

This particular cousin was born about a year and a decade after I arrived, along with his older brother, who was more like my twin bro than my cuz, growing up.

Since Jim was the first human being that either of us had experienced from baby to baker, you can imagine the delight we took in experimenting in how to make his young life somewhat…difficult.

Nothing major, just little things like throwing a wayward foot out in front of him as he was happily mastering the art of walking. Something, he claims, to this day, led to his extreme bowlegged stride.

Bygones….

Years later we became close in a way that cousins become brothers, and brothers become friends, by doing odd jobs together for his mom’s, my aunt's, market research business.

Aside from assignments such as peering into people’s cars to see if they were wearing seatbelts, or spying on bank tellers and grocers, we spent most every Saturday night through the 90s in various Manhattan movie theatres handing out and compiling surveys to determine for the Hollywood crowd if their paying customers would “definitely recommend” a film to their friends.

Unfortunately, but happily, we spent most of our evening pay frequenting nearby bars in-between screenings, drinking beer and consuming hot wings and burgers by the bushel. But mostly we talked and we talked and we talked…about life and about living…and in this way we came to appreciate and know each other beyond the bonds and bounds of family.

However, time keeps rolling and as in all things real, people move on to chase other endeavors and dreams and vanish for a while into their own worlds.

But not forever. 

Sooner or later we all resurface, come up for air, reconnect and return to that last second in time you hung out together; a moment deferred much longer than you would have ever thought possible.

Then you open your mouth to bridge the gap and the first words you say are:

“Will I get a ticket out there?”

And the response is:

”Why are you asking me?  You have to read the signs!”

And magically, just like that, 7 lost years are found.

And if that includes a bakery in the process, all the better because I’m telling you those Snowballs and Twinkies are to die for.  Well, maybe not to die for, because really, what is…but certainly to risk a serious bruising. Still, it’s close….

And did I mention the Black & White cookies, cupcakes, specialty cakes, scones, cinnamon buns and everything else you would expect to find in a trendy lower east side bakery that my cousin Jim opened with his pal and baker partner Eric, who may or may not have actually opened a can of tuna at one time or another. But Eric’s a lawyer so there were probably loop holes and we can’t really be certain. 

Check them out if you find yourself wandering 8^th Avenue between 15^th and 16^th looking for something fun to ruin your dinner.  Plus they’ll probably make you laugh.

And if you mention The Freelance Retort, they might serve you anyway….

I'm a Baker's Cousin.

The Baker & Me

You think you know a person....

Empire Cake -  http://empirecake.com/

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Summer Solstice is Canceled

I’m afraid we’ve had to cancel Summer Solstice this year.

Not the actual Solstice; that’s still going to happen…tonight at 7:09 PM EDT...although why it would want to is beyond me.

No…I mean our annual Summer Solstice party is canceled.

We’ve had it ever since we built the deck on the back of our house, shortly after we moved in some 10 years ago.

But not this year.

Not that I wanted to cancel it…I didn’t.

But, like everything else, it’s just turned into such a big hoo ha that the whole point of the celebration has been lost and people are just out to make a buck.

Do you know what the Druids are asking for this year?

I won’t even say… but it’s certainly not very Druid like if you ask me.

Even the second tier Druids, the one that don’t clean up after themselves, are looking to cash in.

I know….

So that left me scrambling for replacements.

At first I thought...why not ask the Zombies across the street if they’d like to do it?

I mean they have a lot in common with the Druids.  Throw a hooded cloak on them and who would know, except for the smell.

And I could probably cover that up pretty easily with the bratwurst and sauerkraut.

But they weren’t interested.  They're having their own little shindig with all of their decrepit ghoul friends.

I guess it’s just as well.  They’re not the liveliest bunch. I went to one of their summer BBQs once and it was pretty dead…or I guess un-dead is the better word.

Plus Zombies don’t handle the heat very well. Anything over 75 degrees really accelerates their rate of decomp.  And there’s not enough bratwurst and sauerkraut in the world to hide that, especially with a large group of them.

Of course the Witches next door are working their own events. Hannah, the smaller of the two witches, at least as witches go, told me they were brooming to four separate gigs all over town.

So scratch that.

By the way…never say “scratch that” to a witch.

Don’t ask…just trust me.

The Vampires down the street, for obvious reasons, don’t want anything to do with a sun worshiping event.

They tend to burn the second they walk into the light.

Plus they can’t keep their fangs to themselves once they start imbibing.

I was even desperate enough to consider the Werewolves.

Yeah, I know…my snobby neighbors would be howling themselves if I had anything to do with the Werewolves. 

But come on…how long is this going to go on…just because of one little over-salivation incident on a Halloween, years ago?

Sure, Werewolves, like everyone, make mistakes.  But most of the time they’re sane, normal human beings, just like the rest of us…except once a month.

How’s that different from being married?

I already canceled the Morris Dancers, which kills me because this year I was able to get the good ones with the cool hats.

Plus I lost my deposit.

So it’s just as well; I guess things run their course and you move on.

My neighbor had already told me he wasn’t going to let me use his upstairs bedroom for the southeast corner of the mystical labyrinth, this year, anyway.

Such a buzz kill.  Where would I put the goats?

And to be honest, most of my friends are getting a bit long in the tooth—vampires aside—for the naked fire dancing.

Hard to watch, even with the dim lighting.

Plus most of them are only interested in munching on Fritos and dip while they sit and gab with each other about the most inconsequential of things, especially on a solstice.

Last year, I don’t think a single one of them took more than a quick glance at the human sacrifice.

So Summer Solstice is canceled.

But I hope not for you….

Yeah…I know….

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Beach Fundamentals

I took my first all day trip of the season out to the local beach the other day.

It was a great day, except for the guy trying to dunk me in butter on the way out….

Think about it….

It’ll come to you….

Eventually….

First beach days have a bit of a learning curve thing attached to them.

You wouldn’t think it was a big deal, but it’s been about 8 months, so things have to be re-learned.

Like remembering to put on your bathing suit.

Locate your beach permit.

Pack your iPod.

Find your lunch cooler.

Pack your lunch cooler.

Find your lunch.

Dig out the Coppertone # 4 that you’ve been nursing for the last 20 years.

Not to mention towels, chairs, umbrellas, hats…

And finally, figuring out that your bathing suit is the one that doesn’t have a top.

But that’s an easy one cuz the guy in the parking booth usually can’t hide his smirk.

Once the car—the brand new car— is neatly settled in the furthest space in the furthest corner of the lot, safe from wayward beach chairs and coolers, I saunter up to the gate, present my beach card to the same semi-polite, off from college girl, working her way through yet another summer—still reading the same book about thoughtful vampires—who wraps another one of those ridiculous neon wrist bands around my wrist…again, for yet another season.

I step onto the sand, breathe in the salt air and make my way up the beach past the life guard shack, past familiar faces, already tanned, until finally I settle onto my own personal patch of water front property, staked and claimed more than a few decades ago.

The first thing I do is to remove the ridiculous wristband so as not to mar my impending perfect tan. I’m a beach anarchist that way…what can I say.

Don’t tread on my tan line is my motto.

Again, being the first beaching day of the season, it takes me a while to re-work my routine, one that I’ve repeated countless times.

Yet, every year is a new year, and who knows, maybe this year I’ll use the blue towel instead of the green to cover my chair…or dare I say it…maybe even switch to the monkey towel.

So you can see why this is a process.

In the end I stick with what’s worked in the past.  Why fix what’s not broke, I say.

I may be a beach anarchist, but I’m not crazy.

Sitting back now, I scan the shore line and notice that the row of break rocks that separate the two beaches seems a bit off this year. While it may not seem like a big thing to you, it’s a little unsettling in a place that’s been essentially frozen in time for most of my life.

Oh wait…I see what it is…they added a “Please” to the “Keep off the Rocks” sign.

I guess I can live with that….or at least try to avoid looking in that direction.

Another, less disturbing, change, I notice, is that the woman with the furry toes, who wanders up and down the beach all day, is singing a different Village People song this year.

She’s switched from the comfortable strains of “YMCA” to the more controversial “In the Navy”.

Who am I kidding; this is even worse than the added “Please”.

So I pop in my earplugs and put my own brand of music on shuffle and settle back to begin another summer of sun soaking.

But again, something’s off.  I apparently screwed something up when I was syncing my iPod and erased everything but my podcasts of “Garrison Keillor Sings Songs of Lutheran Inspiration”…all 50 volumes.

Not that I have anything against Garrison Keillor or songs of Lutheran Inspiration, it just wasn’t what I was expecting.  I usually start my summer off with “Don Rickles Does Dinosaurs.”

Yeah…I know.

So there’s only one thing left to do…take my traditional first dip in the Sound, which, while still a bit on the chilly side, at least for my taste, I know will be exactly the same as I left it last year.

But wait…something’s off here as well. The horseshoe crab that usually habitats the spot just to the left of the floating seaweed is missing.

The horseshoe crab that usually habitats the spot just to the left of the floating seaweed is never missing….

Oh but wait…I see what’s wrong.

The horseshoe crab that usually habitats the spot just to the left of the floating seaweed isn’t missing at all.

I just walked into the water a bit to the right of the starfish that sits in the puddle, next to the one armed crab, during low tide.  I just had to slide over about five feet and there he was.

Crazy…Right?

Like I said, first day at the beach is a bit of a learning curve no matter how many times you go through them.

Luckily it’s a long summer and things seem to always find their way back to normal.

It’s how summers are meant to be.

Don’t worry…be happy.

Searching for my lost shaker of salt….

________________________________________________

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The Greenwich Black Bear…What Next, Moose?

There’s something about this time of year that brings wild animals into the area and, no…I’m not talking about the transient human variety that habitat some of the downtown clubs on any given night.

The wild animals I’m taking about would never think of stepping over one of their own, rifle through their pockets and leave them passed out, lying on the street.

Sure, they might eat them, but they’d never take their watch.

First it was a rash of coyotes spotted all over the area. 

Then, last year, the Mysterious Greenwich Mountain Lion...and now it’s black bears.

What’s next….Moose?

Imagine waking up one morning and finding a Moose munching on your tomatoes.

That might seem pretty cool, but Moose are known for their erratic behavior.

One day they invite you to lunch, then the next day they cancel. Invite…cancel. Invite…cancel.

So you don’t want to get involved with a Moose if you can avoid it.

As I said, now it’s black bears, spotted recently in Armonk, Rye Brook and also in the Chickahominy section of Greenwich, which I believe was named after a line from a Three Stooges movie.

It’s not known whether the NY bear and CT bear are one and the same bear. The NY bear was said to have a cub in tow, while the CT bear was alone and said to be heading towards the singles bars on Greenwich Avenue.

Of course it could have been one and the same bear; possibly a Rye Brook “nanny bear” on its day off hoping to meet a rich doctor, preferably a surgeon…preferably with a pool.

It’s also possible that the bear had tried to gain access to Byram Shore Park earlier in the day but was discouraged by the prohibitive non-resident parking fees and left, much the same as the Mountain Lion last year.

Deterred by this veiled “screening” tactic, the bear briefly considered heading south down 95, towards Rye Town Park, but thought better of it as their fee policies were not much better…plus they required patrons to wear a tacky paper wristband at all times.

Its plans thwarted, the disconsolate bear apparently wandered north and took refuge in a neighboring backyard tree where it became lost in its thoughts of successful Greenwich Professionals with hot tubs, both indoor and out.

Unfortunately, for the bear, and possibly successful Greenwich professionals, it was discovered by CT. state conservation officials who subsequently tranquilized it and took it away to a park in a remote area of the state.

Not how the bear had envisioned it’s day when it woke up in its nanny apartment, earlier that morning.

Before the sedated bear was removed, however, it was examined and found to have been originally from New Jersey, where bears are said to be plentiful, often found hanging with the Jersey Shore crowd, which was evident from it’s “I luv Snooki” tattoo.

Environmental Officials in NJ say they have more black bears per square mile than any other state in the country, a fact, which they say, surprises people…especially if they happen to be standing in the middle of that particular square mile.

The bear is thought to have swum across the Hudson on its trek eastward, mostly because the traffic on the Tappan Zee has been horrendous, plus it was not about to pay the two way toll for a one way trip.

While officials contend that black bears are relatively harmless to residents and their pets, they say there are some precautions that should be taken if you encounter one...you know, in case the bear didn’t get the memo.

First and foremost, never give out your e-mail address…you’ll be barraged with bear spam from on-line dating services.

Second, don’t run from a bear unless safety is nearby and you're sure you can reach it, because bears can run up to 35 miles an hour. Of course if you’re with someone else, all you have to do is run faster than the other person…so use your own discretion.

If a bear walks toward you, the experts suggest waving your hands over your head to identify yourself as a human and talking to the bear in a low voice, somewhere a bit above the range of Barry White. Just don’t ask the bear what it does for a living because unemployment is rampant in the bear community, as well as everywhere else, and the last thing you want to do is create an awkward social situation.

Other recommendations are to not make eye contact with the bear when trying to scare it away, and don't refer to the bear as "bear", which they consider rude since they would never think to refer to you as “human”.

Finally, bear experts say if you come upon a cub, be wary. In fact they go on to say, if someone sees a cub, they should move out of the area as fast as they can, despite the downward trend in home sales.

Some of us have enough frustration being Met fans, the last thing we need is to adopt the Cubs.

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Car Wars Episode II: The Dealer Strikes Back

(Episode I)

In our last episode, Barry our faithful car salesman had dragged Z and me into the “Dungeon of the Doomed”, to supposedly show us our potential new ride.

And while I would love to create some bizarre scenario for your entertainment pleasure, I’m a little short on time…so basically that’s what he did…once he was able to find it…which wasn’t easy.

But, eventually he did, and while it was certainly nice, it wasn’t really my first choice as far as colors go, which is usually blue.

Since our current car, soon to be our second car, is blue, Z felt it would be confusing to have two blue cars.

She said if one of us told the other to take the “blue car”, we could potentially end up standing in the driveway for a half hour wondering which blue car was the “blue car” they meant.

Sounds silly, I know, but we don’t like to disappoint.

Also, as I said last time, part of my “great deal” was to agree to buy from inventory, rather than having Barry spend an afternoon trying to find the “Sartorial Salmon” I fancied, at another dealer.

Having said that, plus a lot of other stuff I can’t recall at this time, the color Barry showed me was, happily, more than acceptable…something less than grey, but more than silver.

I didn’t experience a single one of those government agency vehicle PTSD flashbacks that I was concerned about.

Of course I had to act less than thrilled in order to maximize my dissatisfaction quotient, which could lead to some further price reduction down the road.

Z and I had worked out a secret signal with each other as to whether or not we liked the car, which makes sense, because to work out a secret signal with Barry would have been silly.

I immediately jumped on the ground and rotated my legs in the pre-arranged approval signature of the Weeki Whachee Mermaids. 

Z then returned the signal, as did Barry, who was amenable to anything in order to guarantee a sale.

It was at that point that I pulled out my pen and announced in my absolute best “Monty Hall” vocalization that if we could “bottom line” everything at $19,000.00…“Let’s Make a Deal!”

At least I thought I thought it was my pen, but as it turned out, it was my Donald Duck Pez dispenser, which wasn’t as effective.

Despite, the Pez, Barry said he had to run it by his manager but thought we were practically on the road already. 

We then returned to the showroom to discuss the final nitty gritty, where yet another huddle ensued, with, again, much the same over the shoulder peeking, but without the rock paper scissors. This time they used dice.

At this point, Barry’s manager, Pete, strode up to our table, much like Clint Eastwood in one of those old spaghetti Westerns, which I guess explained the out of place poncho he was sporting, and proceeded to explain the hard truths of the car selling business.

In fact, it was a wonder that they made any money at all.  He told me that Barry was incorrect, when he told me he could waive the $750 destination charge, plus, unfortunately, there would be other additional charges that they just could not avoid…but believe me they really wanted to.

Add it all up and we were right back at the original $19,121 we started out with before Barry made us his super duper great offer.

However….

Pete then took a slow drag on his cheroot, spit on the side of my foot, and drawled that he was willing to work with us and drop a few hundred more.

Since this was still considerably more than the Barry quote I popped in a Pez, provided by Donald, spit on the side of my own foot and squeaked, “I don’t think that will do us parder”.

Then I mentioned the so called “Loyalty Discount” that Gabriella, our original smiley face contact, assured us we were entitled to.

Pete was good—very good— but I detected a slight twitch in his left lower nostril that told me I now had the upper hand.

Again, another huddle spontaneously erupted, this time involving a game of Twister, which I found odd, since who plays Twister anymore.

I was then told by Pete, in sputtering stops and starts that there was no such “Loyalty Discount” offered any more and that Gabriella was mistaken when she told me that. 

A few additional words were then exchanged where I basically told them, in more words than this, that was not my problem and that maybe we should ask Gabriella herself what she was referring to. 

It was then that I noticed the shoes I had seen earlier, on Gabriella, sticking out through the opening of a wiggly burlap sack being place in the trunk of a brand new crossover vehicle.

Then a well coiffed gentleman named Bruno, whom I recognized as the owner of the dealership from his endless appearances on my TV screen while trying to watch ball games, came over and politely asked if he could sit down with us.

Z and I then huddled ourselves, and agreed.

Bruno said he was there to bridge the divide between us and make everyone happy. He told us that he was going to have to lay off several workers to make this deal, but he was willing to go down another couple of hundred dollars and meet us half way.  He then began to weep uncontrollably, which made me a little uncomfortable, and started saying something about forgoing the glute enhancements he had scheduled for next week.

Finally…an honest man!

Z and I looked at each other and passed the pre-arranged secret signal of agreement, which, this time,  was something I picked up from a Three Stooges movie.

This was then followed by some more back and forth that concerned my deceased but sainted mother-in-law and car mats, and sealed the deal by a lot of hand shaking and everyone spitting on the side of each other’s feet.

Some sort of car dealer custom I guess….

So now, a brand new shiny car that does all kinds of amazing things, including talking to me and making lunch suggestions based on whether or not I’ve lost or gained weight since my last drive, sits in my driveway, complete with its first little ding on the rear bumper, which I put there on the second day by backing into a car parked behind me. 

That’s my custom with brand new cars because who needs the pressure of wondering when that first imperfection will appear.

Now I can relax and enjoy my car without any worry.

The best thing is we’ve all become fast friends and everyone is coming over for a BBQ this weekend, including, thankfully, Gabriella.

I think she’s bringing cake.

But not my “Loyalty Discount”.

Apparently loyalty has been discontinued…..

_____________________________


Car Wars Episode I: Wheels and Deals 

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