The Day The Foggy Glasses Caught Up To Me

I knew that my foggy glasses would cause a problem for me eventually. I knew it.

After seven months I still haven't figured out a way to prevent condensation on the lenses of my glasses while wearing a face mask outdoors. I've read articles, I've raised the mask, I've tightened the mask. Nothing works.

I've even once tried removing my glasses from my face, carrying them in my right hand to allow them to defog as I walked. This approach seemed to work at first. Then I crossed the street and came within two inches of walking into a lamppost. I put my glasses back on. Two minutes later, they were foggy again.

Still, the fog on my glasses had mostly been a minor nuisance until the other day, when I rode the bus to Hoboken to meet my wife. I wasn't exactly sure which stop was mine; once we exited the tunnel on the New Jersey side and a passenger rang the bell, I panicked a little. I thought to myself, OK, we're in Hoboken now, this is the neighborhood I want, I can't be too far away from where I need to be. I might as well get off the bus now.

I was, in fact, not too far away from where I needed to be, but also not too close to where I needed to be, either. I was 12 minutes away, by foot, from where I needed to be, I discovered on Google Maps after I exited the bus. However, this was an easy 12 minutes: several blocks straight ahead, a left turn followed by several more blocks, and you have reached your destination.

Easy, that is, if you can read Google Maps correctly with glasses that are not foggy. My glasses were foggy, and wet, too, from the steady rain that was falling. As far as I knew, I was walking in the right direction, but what I didn't realize at the time was that there was an overpass with a pedestrian sidewalk I was supposed to take. But I didn't take it; I instead walked parallel to the overpass, through a somewhat-dark parking lot and to a chain-link fence marking the end of the street. 

You would suppose that Google Maps would have said, "Rerouting" or, "You know you missed the overpass, right?" or, "You're in a parking lot, idiot." But it didn't say any of these things. Perhaps this will be addressed in the next update. But at no point did the app indicate that I was moving in the wrong direction. 

Here I was, in this parking lot, and I could not see through the fog and raindrops at all. I took off my glasses and considered my options: I could retrace my steps and attempt to figure out where I went wrong; I could call an Uber; or I could stand there, in the rain, and cry.

After wiping away my tears, I walked back a few blocks and called the Uber. I squinted at my phone and entered the passcode to unlock it. It's funny how my phone's Face ID doesn't recognize me without my glasses. Every morning when I wake up I attempt to unlock my phone to check my email, and every morning the phone refuses because I haven't put on my glasses yet. I don't look that much different without them, Apple. I'm the same person, inside and out, behind these frames. Perhaps this will be addressed in the next update.

Anyway, I called the Uber and a few minutes later I received a text message letting me know the car had arrived. Only, I was now on a busy street and it was hard to tell exactly which car it was, because I couldn't read the license plates. I cautiously approached a few vehicles, attempting to read the plates as if I were reading an eye chart. What is that? W? 3? Backward E?

I eventually spotted a car that seemed to fit Uber's description. I asked the driver, "Is this for Shane?" in that awkward, unassured way I do whenever I order an Uber. I don't know why I ask this question, generally speaking. What if the driver said no, just to mess with me? What would my response be? "Well, this looks like the car, he looks like the driver, the license plate matches, the text message says it's the right car, but he says it's not for Shane, so I guess I'll just continue to wait here."

I received confirmation that this was my ride, and I spent less than five minutes in the car before we arrived at the destination. Turns out if I had just waited on the bus for one more stop, I would've been fine, or, at least, not ended up in a dead-end parking lot.

I thanked the driver and I exited the car. I closed the door, turned around, walked a few steps and ran right into a lamppost.¹ 

¹ OK, that didn't happen. But I wish it had. It makes for a good ending to the story.

The Randomness Of Wireless Earbuds

For the longest time I resisted buying wireless earbuds. I much prefer wired earbuds, mostly because ... they have wires. I never had to worry about them falling out of my ears and onto the ground. They would fall out from time to time, but they would dangle at my hip, sort of like a stethoscope dangling on a doctor, only instead of being able to listen to a heartbeat with the earbuds, you'd hear Weezer or the Foo Fighters instead.

There's no such safety net with wireless earbuds. If they were to fall out of my ears, they'd end up on the sidewalk, or the subway platform, or any other number of surfaces in this city I would never want my ears to come in indirect contact with. I'd have to burn the earbuds or toss them into the Hudson and then buy a new pair, and that would be too costly and time-consuming and possibly not great for the environment.

But I shifted my opinion a little after my most recent pair of wired earbuds started to fizzle out. At first, the right earbud went dead, which wasn't ideal. I'd rather not listen to 50% of a song; I'd rather listen to 100% of a song, in both ears, as music was intended to be listened to. 

The more significant problem was that the microphone on the earbuds would often stop working. So, if I was on a phone call, I could hear what the other person was saying, but they couldn't hear what I was saying. Again, not ideal. For four months I was walking around the city having phone conversations that would begin with, "Are you there? Hello? Yeah, I can't hear you too well." I'd have no choice but to disconnect the earbuds from the phone and hold the phone to my ear, like it was 2009. (I would then resume the call while the earbuds were still in my ears, which I'm sure was confusing to the others on the sidewalk. I just thought it would be easier than holding the phone to my ear while wrapping up the earbuds. Seemed too difficult of a task.)

So, over the summer, I bought my first pair of wireless earbuds. The experience has been a mixed bag so far. Obviously there are positives — no tangled wires, for one, and, thankfully, they haven't fallen out of my ears yet — but I'm still in an adjustment period. I'm not exactly sure how to turn them on. Sometimes I need to hold down the button on both earbuds for three seconds; other times they turn on automatically as soon as I insert them into my ears. Do you know how I turned on my wired earbuds? I plugged them in. It was that easy. No confusion whatsoever. 

Turning off the wireless earbuds is an even greater challenge. My understanding is that I'm supposed to tap the button on both earbuds for a second. And usually that does the trick. But then other times that just causes the earbuds to do whatever the heck they want. One time, I tapped the buttons and the earbuds started calling someone I haven't spoken with on the phone since my sophomore year of college. I swear, I don't even know how the number made it into my contact list. I was so panicked. I started pressing the buttons again, hard. More ringing. I actually cursed out loud, which is rare for me, but all sense of propriety flies out the window when you're thisclose to being forced to reconnect with an old schoolmate. After 10 agonizing seconds I was finally able to end the call on my phone's touchscreen.

Why did the earbuds make a phone call? Why did they call someone I haven't spoken with in 20 years? I have no idea. (If the schoolmate happens to be reading this: Why didn't you answer? I finally call you after 20 years and you don't pick up?)

That was a freak occurrence. But there have been several times lately when I've tried to shut off the earbuds and instead they play a song from Spotify at random. Emphasis on random. The last song they played: Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent." I'm not sure I've ever listened to "Miss Independent" on Spotify of my own volition. Don't get me wrong — it's a quality song. But when I'm trying to turn off my earbuds and the earbuds tell me, "No, wait a minute, before you go, you need to hear Kelly Clarkson's single from her first album," well, that's strange.

Another time not too long ago, I tried to turn them off and heard, "You ... change your mind ... like a girl ... changes clothes ..." Katy Perry, "Hot N Cold." My earbuds love 21st-century pop music from female artists whose first name starts with K, apparently. It's a very specific obsession. 

But on the plus side, at least I get to hear 100% of the song, unlike with those wired earbuds I had.

Where Are You, Cardboard Me?

I've experienced a lot of disappointment as a Mets fan in my life — if you're a frequent visitor to the blog, you know I've especially suffered in recent years — but I discovered a new way to have my expectations dashed this season.

I bought a cardboard cutout. 

I'd assumed that, when I bought the cutout before opening day, I would see myself on television —  my cardboard self, the one wearing sunglasses, a blue-and-orange T-shirt, and a huge smile across its face.¹ I didn't know where it would be in the ballpark exactly (I wasn't told) but I figured: Thirty home games during this abbreviated season, nine innings per game — surely it would appear on camera after a foul ball, or after a home run, or coming out of a commercial break as the announcer warns us that any rebroadcast, retransmission or account of the game without the express written consent of Major League Baseball is strictly prohibited. 

But no! No face time for my cardboard face yet. And believe me, I've looked. I've watched most of the games on TV, repeatedly rewinding and pausing the broadcast whenever a ball was hit out of play. And when I couldn't watch a game, I pored over the highlights later. Hours and hours spent watching baseball footage. I've studied more Mets game tape than their opponents this season.

And I have little to show for it. I mean, do you have any idea how many times I've seen cardboard cutouts of dogs during that time? Dogs! How about the broadcast throw me a bone?

I thought I'd made a breakthrough the other day. Pete Alonso hit a walkoff home run to left field, and while I was excited that the Mets had won the game, I was even more excited to spot a cardboard cutout that I thought may have been mine. It was of someone wearing a blue-and-orange T-shirt in front of a white background, not far from where the ball landed. Never mind that it was surrounded by approximately 100 other cardboard cutouts of fans wearing a blue-and-orange T-shirt in front of a white background ... I had a feeling this might be the one. 

I rewound the game, watched the home run, paused ... rewound the game, watched the home run, paused. Rewound, watched, paused, rewound, watched, paused. I did this for three minutes, without coming to any sort of conclusion. The paused image wasn't sharp enough. I needed a second opinion.

I called over to my wife, still squinting at the image on the TV: "Can you come check this out, please? I think that's my cutout. Is that my cutout?"

She took a look at the TV. Her skepticism was immediate. "How could you possibly tell?"

Well, I couldn't possibly tell. I could have rewound, watched and paused over and over again, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Chastened, I turned off the TV, let down for another day.

At least my cardboard cutout was smiling ... wherever it was in the ballpark.

¹ I should point out that the purchase of the cardboard cutout benefited charity. I'm not sure I would've shelled out the money for a season ticket for my cardboard self otherwise.

The Blogger Was A Spy

My new favorite spot in my neighborhood is the little library two blocks away from my apartment. I hadn't noticed it until a couple of months ago, but I'm glad I did. I make a point of walking past it several times a week. It's like a little treasure hunt. You never know what you'll find.

For example, I was on my way home from a long walk recently when I came to a stop at the little library, squinted through the plexiglass, and saw a book I'd wanted to read for a while: "Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine." And it was free! A Reese Witherspoon book club pick!

I've read at least seven of Reese Witherspoon's picks and I really enjoyed them all. I just looked up her IMDb page, and it turns out I've seen fewer than seven of her movies. So if there's a "Reese Witherspoon movie" club that I should be aware of, please let me know.

It's suggested that if you take a book, you leave a book in its place. So a few days later I returned to the little library during a morning walk and shared my copy of "The Catcher Was a Spy." Not to brag, but it was easily the best book in the box. The competition was not stiff. Among the titles: a 2007 guidebook for Spain and a textbook for Algebra 1. Reese Witherspoon book club picks, these were not.

I was curious as to how long it would take for someone to grab my book. Why? I don't know. Because I wanted to know if there was someone in my neighborhood with similar reading interests? Because I'm nosy? Because I had too much free time on my hands? A combination of all three? Who could say?

An hour after I left "The Catcher Was a Spy" in the little library, I went back. The book was still there. Even though not much time had elapsed since I'd dropped it off, I was still surprised. "The Catcher Was a Spy" ... come on. A bestseller. "Relentlessly entertaining," according to The New York Times. Adapted into a feature film starring Paul Rudd. Sold more copies in the last year than "Spain 2007." (This is an assumption I'm making; I haven't verified this.)

I headed home. Four hours after that, I returned. Only this time, I stationed myself across the street, behind a car, with binoculars in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. It's the closest I've come to a stakeout on the level of what Jerry, Kramer and Newman did in the “Seinfeld” episode "The Sniffing Accountant," though mine was a solo mission.

I waited the entire afternoon, until the owner of the car approached me, asked me what I was doing, and I ran off.

OK, obviously I'm exaggerating. I did return to the little library that afternoon — so yes, I went to the same little library three times in the same day — and, I'm pleased to report, someone did take my copy of "The Catcher Was a Spy." Take that, Algebra 1.

Epilogue: Just to underscore how random the mix of selections in the little library can be, I walked by the box this weekend, after I'd written the draft of this blog post, and I found a 2007 guidebook for Italy in there. So if you're planning a trip to Europe in 2007, you ought to visit my local little library.

Yes, I Still Use Hotmail

Contrary to popular belief, there are actually three things that are certain in this world: death, taxes and friends making fun of me for using Hotmail.

I've had friends laugh — not in the "LOL"-over-text-message sense, but in an actual laugh-out-loud-in-person sense — over the fact I own a Hotmail account in the year 2020. "Who uses Hotmail anymore?" they’ll ask. "I do," I'll respond. Or, rather, "I do," lowering my voice to a barely audible level, as if I should feel embarrassed.

But the truth is I don't feel embarrassed. I'm actually proud of myself for sticking it out with Hotmail after all these years. We've been through a lot together.

I created my Hotmail account back in the summer of 2002, after I graduated from college. The only email account I had at the time was the one my college had issued to me. The email address was complicated; it was more like a string of 25 characters with no real purpose, best as I could tell. I had no say in it. The admissions office didn't ask me, "Hey, do you mind if we attach a ‘2’ to your name in your email address? How about five periods and an 'uno' at the end?”

So I chose Hotmail. The way I remember it, I searched around and found that Hotmail was one of the more popular options. Remember, Gmail didn't exist in 2002. Every now and then I'll dig into my Hotmail archives. It's like reading an old journal. It brings back so many memories. Here are a few examples of emails from 2003-2004 I still have saved: notes from several former classmates congratulating me on my first job; a Ticketmaster receipt for Jerry Seinfeld in concert; and a message confirming I'd registered for LiveJournal. (Have you read my blog on LiveJournal lately?)

Like any long-term relationship, I've experienced some ups and downs with Hotmail. I've seen perfectly legitimate emails sitting in the junk folder. I've seen emails that I wrote myself sitting in the junk folder. No exaggeration. A few times I fired off an email to a Yahoo Group of mine and had a copy land in the junk folder. Hotmail rejecting itself, essentially. (Stay tuned for my next blog post, “Yes, I Still Use Yahoo Groups.”)

The junk folder in general can be an interesting read. I once wrote a blog post about how I found an email in there with the subject line "Shane, The Imbecile." It was reassuring to know that Hotmail considered it spam, but at the same time it would have been even more reassuring if Hotmail had just blocked it altogether.

The funny thing is I have a Gmail account now but I almost never use it. I'd still rather use Hotmail. What can I say? I'm loyal.

And, if I'm being honest, I can't be bothered to contact everyone in my life to let them know my email address has changed. Knowing Hotmail, it would probably filter the message into my junk folder anyway.

Three Easy (And Possibly Unconventional) Meals You Can Make At Home

Over the past year or two, I've taught myself how to prepare some simple meals. I figured that since I'm in my late 30s, it was long past time to maintain a more balanced and varied diet. In the past, my idea of a varied diet was mixing Rice Krispies and Froot Loops in the same bowl. (It's a delicious combination, by the way.)

There are three meals in particular that I often make. I learned to make them on my own — no instructions, no YouTube tutorials. Now, I should point out that my wife is far more experienced with food than I am, and she generally disagrees with my methods, but I consider them to be logical and easy to follow. I thought I'd share with you how I prepare these meals, in case you might benefit. 

Avocado toast  

This is so simple and so tasty. First, pop a slice of bread into the toaster. Once it's nice and crispy, lay it on a plate. Now you can slice the avocado. There are many ways you can slice an avocado, but I prefer my approach: Slice the top of the avocado and squeeze. Squeeze it from the bottom, like a half-used tube of toothpaste. And push it, like a Push Pop. Right onto the slice of bread.

Occasionally I will slice an avocado in half, remove the pit and scoop out the avocado onto the bread, but I find the squeeze/push method to be less work and more fun. The presentation might be a little messier, granted, but it's not like I'm telling you to post a photo on Instagram.

Eggs

In my bachelor days I owned a plastic container with which I cooked eggs in the microwave. It was an imprecise way to cook eggs. I basically left it in the microwave until I heard a loud POP sound, letting me know that the top of the container had flown wide open from the steam.

I know what you're wondering: Why didn't I just cook eggs on the stove? Because I didn't have a stove. Not an operational stove, I mean. I had asked the gas company to cut off service. It's a long story, but it had repeatedly been charging me for gas I wasn't using, and I never used the stove anyway, so what was the point in having service?

I had the service reconnected when I got married because, like many people, my wife believes it's nice to have a stove you can turn on.

Since I have a workable stove now, I've adapted and have been cooking eggs on there. It's a no-fuss method, really. First I crack two eggs into a bowl. The kind of bowl doesn't matter. I've used large bowls, small bowls.

I preheat a pan on the stove, and after I pick out the eggshell pieces from the bowl (make sure you wash your hands first!), I pour the eggs into the pan. I leave the eggs in the pan until they appear fully cooked or until I hear my wife say from the other room, "You overcooked your eggs." Whichever comes first. 

Pasta Sandwich

I devoted an entire entry to the pasta sandwich four years ago so I won't repeat myself, but it boils down to this: Warmed-up frozen Trader Joe's linguine in between two slices of bread is a brilliant idea and I make no apologies for it.

There are other kitchen secrets that I could share with you, like the coffee water (make the most of your empty iced latte glass by pouring water into it to maximize the ice cubes) or the buttered bagel (put the butter on top of the bagel, rather than inside the bagel, to save time), but those are recipes for another day.

A Strong Young Man? Me? Hardly

Somehow, early on in my adult life, I earned a reputation as a strong young man. I've heard it so many times in the past 20 years: "You look like a strong young man."

If you were to take a look at me — I mean a real good look at me — you would not mistake me for a "strong young man." I am, by any reasonable measure, not a strong young man. Perhaps I'm a stringy young man, but not a strong young man.

I've had a gym membership for three years and have yet to lift weights. I always use the elliptical machine or bicycle so that I can simultaneously watch sports on the built-in monitor and "Bachelor" reruns on my phone. That's my level of strength.

And yet some people say I'm a strong young man. They usually don't say this to pay me a compliment. They say this because they need some sort of favor.

As an example, a few years ago I was boarding an airplane and an older woman needed a hand with placing her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment. She turned to me and said, "You look like a strong young man. Would you be able to help me?" I replied, only half-jokingly, "Oh, I'm not a strong young man, but sure I can help." She laughed as I grabbed the handle of the bag  — it must have weighed 35 pounds, at least — struggled to lift it over my head, and slid it into the overhead, beads of sweat forming on my face.

My arms hadn't shaken that much since the time in high school gym class I was forced to attempt pull-ups for the Physical Fitness Test and I just hung there for 10 seconds before letting go. I was sore for the entire four-hour flight.

Had I known I would be asked to place a carry-on bag in the overhead, I would've lifted some weights at the gym.

As challenging as it was to lift that bag over my head, it didn't compare to all those times I had to change the plastic jug of water at the water cooler at my old office. I sat no more than six feet from the water cooler, and inevitably the water would run out and the jug would need to be replaced. I avoided this responsibility for the longest time because I had visions of dropping the replacement jug on my foot, or spilling five gallons of water on the floor, or both.

Basically, I thought this would happen:


via GIPHY

Eventually I rose up to the challenge, partly because I'm a team player, partly because I was very thirsty, and partly because I was pushed into doing it. I swear the jug weighed more than I did. I uncapped a new jug and wrapped my arms around it, giving it a great big bear hug as if we were two close friends who had been separated for years and had finally been reunited. I waddled over to the water cooler and, against all odds, managed to install the jug with minimum spillage. I went on to replace the jug several more times later on, too.

I consider this one of the most notable accomplishments of my career. I'm considering giving a TED Talk around it on the theme of overcoming adversity in the workplace.

But just so we're all on the same page: I'm not really a strong young man. I might not be your best option if you need a carry-on bag placed in an overhead compartment or a water jug replaced on a water cooler. Or if you need someone to do a pull-up.

Does Fred Armisen Think He Looks Like Me?

Ten years ago, while serving jury duty, a man sitting to my right turned to me and said, "Has anyone ever told you you look like Martin Scorsese?"

The timing was odd, considering we hadn't really had much of a conversation prior to this exchange. Also, the defense was in the middle of presenting its case in an armed robbery trial.

"Can this wait until after the defense rests?" I asked.

OK, so that's not exactly how it played out. I was asked the question during a lull in the day's session.

No, I hadn't been told I look like Martin Scorsese. (I assumed he meant a much younger Martin Scorsese.) I hadn't really been told I look like any celebrity, up until that point.

But, strangely enough, virtually every year since, I've been compared to a different celebrity. They all have a somewhat similar profile: taller than me but dark hair, handsome face and, not insignificantly, black glasses.

A few examples:

• In 2014, I was told I look like John Oliver. That was the year that his HBO show, "Last Week Tonight," premiered. I should emphasize that I was told I look like him, not that I'm funny like him. Those are two very different things.

• In 2018, I was told I look like Mr. Bean (who, best as I can remember, doesn't wear glasses). This happened on the subway. The stranger also told me he thinks "Rat Race" is a funny movie, which I can't argue with, though if I were to tell someone they look like Rowan Atkinson, the first credit I would cite would be "Mr. Bean" the TV series, or the movie "Bean," or any other project with the word "Bean" in the title. I might actually cite "Johnny English" before I would cite "Rat Race."

• And this year I've been told I look like Waldo, which I wrote about recently.

But I've been compared more to Fred Armisen than any other celebrity. His name has come up many times over the years. I've actually seen him twice in person. The first encounter was sometime around 2009; he was leaving a Starbucks as I walking in. Our faces couldn't have been more than two feet apart. We made eye contact.

The second encounter was just a few months ago, at the airport. We were in the same terminal. Again, we made eye contact. 

Two times, Fred and I have looked directly at one another. I know several people think I look like him, but now I wonder whether he's given any thought to whether he looks like me. Do celebrities wonder these sort of things? I wouldn't know, since I'm not a celebrity.

Perhaps at some point in our lives we'll cross paths again, make eye contact again —  maybe even have a conversation and come to some sort of agreement on whether we look alike.

I could also ask him if he thinks he looks like Martin Scorsese, John Oliver, Mr. Bean or Waldo.

Where's Waldo? Here I Am

For a couple of years now I've owned this men's striped crewneck sweater from J. Crew. Here, let me show you a photo, to your right.

Just so we're clear, that is not a photo of myself wearing the sweater. That's a photo of a model wearing the sweater, on the internet. His face is cut off, but I can tell he's a very handsome man.

So as I was saying, I've owned this sweater for a while now, and I'd never received any comments about it, positive or negative, until this past January. But now, I'm hearing comments about it all the time, and they're all some variation on the same theme.

I look like Waldo in this sweater.

On some small, microscopic level, I can understand the comparison:

• I wear a red-and-white-striped sweater. Waldo (or Wally, for my readers overseas) wears a red-and-white-striped sweater. 

• I often wear jeans with my sweater. Waldo often wears jeans with his sweater. (And the J. Crew model wears jeans with his sweater. Are people telling him he looks like Waldo?)

• I wear black glasses. Waldo wears black glasses.¹

• I like to travel. Waldo likes to travel.

As of this writing, there have been
no books titled "Where's Shane?"

But really, there are many more differences than similarities. I don't wear a beanie that matches my sweater. I don't walk with a cane. Waldo is noticeably taller than I am. 

And the large crowds. Man, I hate large crowds. I don't know how Waldo puts up with it. He smiles way too much for someone who spends as much time as he does in large crowds. I would be miserable in the places he's been.

Yet in spite of all this, I've had no less than five people call me Waldo or make some sort of Waldo reference to me since the start of the new year, most recently at a New York Islanders game, when a fan turned to his friends as I was walking to my seat and said, "There's Waldo."

I'm not sure why now, all of a sudden, I'm drawing comparisons to Waldo. All because of a red-and-white-striped sweater I've had for a few years. I don't get it.

At the least, I don't get why no one's comparing me to the J. Crew model instead.

¹ You may be wondering at this point whether I'll share a photo of myself in my sweater. The answer is no, mostly because I'm trying to avoid further comparisons to Waldo. Strangely, a number of friends have asked me to share the shirtless snorkeling photo I wrote about in a recent post. I choose not to share that, either. But I promise you this: If I ever wear the J. Crew sweater and the snorkeling mask at the same time, I will upload the photo. 

Say No To Politics At The Farmers Market

I hate to bother you with politics. Really. It's not what this blog is for. In my 10 years of writing blog posts I haven't once brought up politics, as far as I can remember.

Having said that, I've discovered an issue that I feel so strongly about, feel so passionately about, that I feel the need to speak up.

Every Saturday morning there's a farmers market a block away from where I live. I love it. I love buying my apples and my eggs there. I love how friendly all of the vendors are. I love the community vibe. It's a great way to start my weekend.

Over the past six months, however, just before reaching the start of the farmers market, I've been met by three or four volunteers for a presidential candidate whose name I won't mention. For the purposes of this story, I'll call him Goldie, after my favorite politician, Mayor Goldie Wilson.

Typically, two volunteers are standing to my left, and another two to my right, all holding clipboards. It's hard to slip by them without having to answer their questions. And oh, do they ask questions: "Are you registered to vote? Will you be voting in the primary? Will you be voting for Goldie?" For six months they've asked me these questions.

If CAPTCHA ever came to life in human form, this is how it would look. I'm surprised these volunteers haven't asked me to identify all of the traffic lights on the block before I can continue.

I find it all very annoying. I'm never in the mood to talk politics, but especially not on a Saturday morning at a farmers market. I am a firm believer in the separation of chard and state.¹

You may be wondering if I've taken any steps to avoid interaction with the volunteers. Not so much. Believe me, I would love to ignore these volunteers, as well as all the other volunteers around the city holding clipboards for others organizations, waiting to interrogate me. Every time I'm in a subway station and I'm asked, "Can I have a minute of your time?" I so desperately want to say no. But something inside of me says, no, wait, hear them out. And then "a minute" becomes several minutes and then I've missed the train, and I kick myself for it.

They are relentless, even if I try to speed up the conversation. One time a volunteer for some sort of animal rights organization approached me at my station and asked if I like pets. I answered, "No. I actually hate dogs." She smiled, said, "That's OK," and then continued with her spiel. It was ruff.²

I did try last week to be less sociable with the volunteers at the farmers market, just to see what would happen. I literally dashed between them as they were chatting with someone. I waited for an opening and took advantage of it, like I was Emmitt Smith running for daylight.

After buying my apples and my eggs, I walked across the middle of the street to the other side, specifically so I could avoid passing the volunteers a second time. Turns out the campaign had stationed three more volunteers there. I made a point to stare at my phone as I walked toward them. I made no eye contact whatsoever. It didn't matter.

"Are you registered to vote?"

"Yes."

"Are you voting Goldie?"

"No! And I hate dogs!"

I ran home the rest of the way and made myself some eggs.


¹ I can't take credit for this line. When I came up with the idea for this blog post I knew I wanted to make a "separation of church and state" joke but struggled to think of one. I reached out to a friend, a master of puns, and a few hours later he emailed me with "chard and state." We should all be blessed with friends who can turn around a great pun so quickly.

² I can 100% take credit for this line.

The Snorkeling Photo

Somewhere on Facebook, on a business page for a tour company, there's a photo of myself – shirtless, hairy chest exposed – smiling and wearing a snorkeling mask.

Not what the internet was created for.

I'd totally forgotten about the photo until my wife reminded me of it a couple of weeks ago. We were in the Caribbean and the opportunity to snorkel came up. She was eager to go but she told me, in no uncertain terms, that I should stay behind. Apparently, the last time we'd snorkeled together – on our honeymoon in Hawaii – I was a little too nervous to be in the water.

I would argue that I had every right to be nervous because it's unnatural for a person to be in the middle of an ocean for an extended period of time. It's also unnatural for a person to have a curvy rubber tube sticking out of their mouth to help them breath in the middle of an ocean for an extended period of time.

The funny thing is, I actually own a snorkeling set, with a mask, a tube and fins. I bought it during the Hawaii trip. It's sitting in the back of the closet, right next to my bobbleheads. I haven't touched it in four years. If you've never been to New York you might find this hard to believe, but there aren't many opportunities to snorkel around Manhattan Island.

Anyway, my wife brought up the shirtless photo as an aside. She wasn't there when it was taken. This was a few years before we married. I was in Australia, and I figured that if I was going to travel halfway across the world, I should see the greatest barrier reef in the world, the Great Barrier Reef. So I did, with a tour group.

Despite my inexperience and my skittishness in the water, it was a lot of fun. I saw things I'd never seen before. I saw a Nemo fish; I realize that it's really called a clownfish, but the leaders of the tour group actually called it a Nemo fish, which I appreciated because I can relate to wildlife much more easily when placed in the context of a Disney/Pixar movie.

Afterward I was sitting on a bench on the boat when one of the tour leaders asked me to pose for a photo. I still had my snorkeling mask on because it was a prescription mask and I didn't have my glasses readily accessible at that moment. Imagine reaching a point in life where you have to wear a prescription snorkeling mask to get by. In a foreign country, no less.

I didn't have my shirt on because I'd just come out of the water and I hadn't anticipated that a stranger would want a photo of myself without my shirt on.

I smiled for the camera, the photo was taken. Less than 24 hours later, the photo was posted to the tour company's Facebook page. I feel badly for a tour company that believes a photo of a shirtless, masked me would help business.

It would have been much better off just posting a photo of the Nemo fish.

An LSU Cap Has Made Me Feel So Special

Four years ago I was gifted a purple-and-gold LSU football cap by a relative who lives in Louisiana. I hadn't been an LSU Tigers fan up to that point, but I appreciated the effort to convert me into one. I've invited my wife dozens of times to wear one of my Mets shirts when we go out and about, to no avail. I have no idea why she wouldn't want to.

I'd wear the LSU cap every now and then, but I still wasn't a fan. I'd know who the coach was, who the quarterback was. But I wouldn't know who the Tigers were playing, or the Tigers' record.

This season, though ... this season has been different. For the first time since I was given the cap, the Tigers are undefeated and are playing for the national championship. And, if you believe the odds, the Tigers will win the national championship (against another set of Tigers, from Clemson).

So this season I am absolutely an LSU Tigers fan.

I’ve worn my cap all over the city since the Tigers played rival Alabama in early November. That morning, as I was taking a walk in the park, someone noticed my hat and asked, “What time is the game today?”

“3:30,” I answered.

“Good luck!” the man said.

“Thanks!” I replied.

A few hours later, I returned to my building and a neighbor, whom I’d never met, said, “Enjoy the game!”

“I will!” I said.

I didn’t watch the game. However, I did check the score on Twitter two or three times. When LSU pulled off the win, I was such a proud fan.

I wore my hat again the next day, and the congratulations poured in. I accepted every “Nice game!” with a nod, a smile, a “Thank you very much!” It felt great. This was the kind of spontaneous pat on the back that I have never, ever heard when I’ve worn my Mets cap. (I have no idea why.)

And so it continued. When LSU won the SEC championship on Dec. 7: “Congratulations!” When LSU quarterback Joe Burrow won the Heisman Trophy the following week: “Congratulations!” When LSU won the Peach Bowl, a college football playoff semifinal game, last Saturday: “Congratulations!”

Turns out this LSU cap is the single greatest gift I’ve ever received. I’ve never felt so loved in all my life. And it’s only going to get better if after LSU wins the championship. I might even watch the game for a few minutes.

Geaux Tigers!