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.