tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46363627568419379562024-02-18T22:12:23.332-05:00I'm Having A LaughComedy essays inspired by my life experiences (and mishaps).Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-80587464845129474412020-11-01T18:10:00.000-05:002020-11-01T18:10:01.165-05:00The Day The Foggy Glasses Caught Up To Me<p>I knew that my foggy glasses would cause a problem for me eventually. I <i>knew</i> it.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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 <i>too</i> far away from where I need to be. I might as well get off the bus now.</p><p>I was, in fact, not too far away from where I needed to be, but also not too <i>close</i> 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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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 <i>that</i> 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.</p><p>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?</p><p>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."</p><p>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.</p><p>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.<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">¹ </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">¹ OK, that didn't happen. But I wish it had. It makes for a good ending to the story.</span></p>Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-31135022048862361022020-10-13T19:29:00.002-04:002020-10-26T21:48:35.895-04:00The Randomness Of Wireless Earbuds<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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 <i>still in my ears</i>, 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.)</p><p>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. </p><p>Turning <i>off</i> 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, <i>hard</i>. More ringing. I actually cursed out loud, which is rare for me, but all sense of propriety flies out the window when you're <i>thisclose</i> 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.</p><p>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?)</p><p>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 <i>random</i>. 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.</p><p>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. </p><p>But on the plus side, at least I get to hear 100% of the song, unlike with those wired earbuds I had.</p>Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-7350447557627341712020-09-07T10:23:00.019-04:002020-09-07T16:52:37.356-04:00Where Are You, Cardboard Me?<div style="text-align: left;">I've experienced <b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2019/12/flushing-we-have-problem.html" target="_blank">a lot of disappointment as a Mets fan</a></span></b> in my life — if you're a frequent visitor to the blog, you know <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/06/the-mets-lost-again-shoot.html" target="_blank">I've especially suffered in recent years</a></b> — but I discovered a new way to have my expectations dashed this season.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I bought a cardboard cutout. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.<span face="" style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px;">¹</span> 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. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/g-4-gLlF0uw" width="320" youtube-src-id="g-4-gLlF0uw"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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?"<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She took a look at the TV. Her skepticism was immediate. "How could you possibly tell?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, I <i>couldn't</i> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At least my cardboard cutout was smiling ... wherever it was in the ballpark.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face="" style="background-color: white;">¹ </span><i>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.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-15089891053236134232020-07-12T11:53:00.002-04:002020-07-12T18:38:53.160-04:00The Blogger Was A SpyMy 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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.)<br />
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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.<br />
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I waited the entire afternoon, until the owner of the car approached me, asked me what I was doing, and I ran off.<br />
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OK, obviously I'm exaggerating. I <i>did</i> 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.<br />
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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.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-82631746806469718322020-05-25T21:20:00.001-04:002020-05-26T10:36:06.361-04:00Yes, I Still Use HotmailContrary 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.<br />
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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, <span style="font-size: xx-small;">"I do,"</span> lowering my voice to a barely audible level, as if I should feel embarrassed.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?”<br />
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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?)<br />
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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>I wrote myself</i> 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.”)<br />
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The junk folder in general can be an interesting read. I once wrote a blog post about how I found <span style="color: blue; font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2016/06/shane-imbecile.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">an email in there with the subject line "Shane, The Imbecile."</span></a> </span>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-23561766043906549302020-05-18T20:38:00.001-04:002020-08-16T13:22:33.482-04:00Three Easy (And Possibly Unconventional) Meals You Can Make At HomeOver 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 <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2016/02/the-challenge-of-moving-cereal.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Rice Krispies</span></a></b> and Froot Loops in the same bowl. (It's a delicious combination, by the way.)<br />
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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. </div>
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<h2>
Avocado toast </h2>
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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 <i>squeeze</i>. Squeeze it from the bottom, like a half-used tube of toothpaste. And <i>push </i>it, like a Push Pop. Right onto the slice of bread.</div>
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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.<br />
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<h2>
Eggs</h2>
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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 <i>POP</i> sound, letting me know that the top of the container had flown wide open from the steam.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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Pasta Sandwich</h2>
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I devoted <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2016/03/an-argument-for-pasta-sandwich-really.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">an entire entry to the pasta sandwich four years ago</span></a></b> 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.<br />
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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 <i>on top</i> of the bagel, rather than <i>inside</i> the bagel, to save time), but those are recipes for another day.</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-64664017157810590622020-05-11T20:34:00.000-04:002020-05-13T12:10:21.779-04:00A Strong Young Man? Me? HardlySomehow, 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."<br />
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If you were to take a look at me — I mean a <i>real good</i> 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 <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2020/03/wheres-waldo-here-i-am.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">stringy young man</span></a></b>, but not a strong young man.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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My arms hadn't shaken that much since the time in high school gym class I was forced to attempt pull-ups for the <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-v-sit-reach-is-my-greatest-skill.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Physical Fitness Test</span></a></b> and I just hung there for 10 seconds before letting go. I was sore for the entire four-hour flight.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Basically, I thought this would happen:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="giphy-embed" frameborder="0" height="271" src="https://giphy.com/embed/16AnYIM3yiLte" width="480"></iframe><br />
<a href="https://giphy.com/gifs/kevin-malone-16AnYIM3yiLte">via GIPHY</a><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-18901110227360215312020-04-12T12:54:00.000-04:002020-04-12T12:58:35.494-04:00Does 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?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Can this wait until after the defense rests?" I asked.<br />
<br />
OK, so that's not exactly how it played out. I was asked the question during a lull in the day's session.<br />
<br />
No, I hadn't been told I look like Martin Scorsese. (I assumed he meant a <i>much younger</i> Martin Scorsese.) I hadn't really been told I look like <i>any </i>celebrity, up until that point.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
A few examples:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>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 <i>look </i>like him, not that I'm <i>funny </i>like him. Those are two very different things.</li>
<br />
</ul>
<ul>
<li>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."</li>
<br />
</ul>
<ul>
<li>And this year I've been told I look like Waldo, which <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2020/03/wheres-waldo-here-i-am.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">I wrote about recently.</span></a></b></li>
<br />
</ul>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The second encounter was just a few months ago, at the airport. We were in the same terminal. Again, we made eye contact. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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 <i>he</i> looks like <i>me</i>. Do celebrities wonder these sort of things? I wouldn't know, since I'm not a celebrity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.<br />
<br />
I could also ask him if he thinks he looks like Martin Scorsese, John Oliver, Mr. Bean or Waldo.</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-6289811553337288572020-03-22T13:13:00.000-04:002020-03-23T11:58:19.589-04:00Where's Waldo? Here I AmFor 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.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/91s3I0nnukL._AC_UL320_SR246,320_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="246" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/91s3I0nnukL._AC_UL320_SR246,320_.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I look like Waldo in this sweater.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On some small, microscopic level, I can understand the comparison:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>I wear a red-and-white-striped sweater. Waldo (or Wally, for my readers overseas) wears a red-and-white-striped sweater. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I often wear jeans with my sweater. Waldo often wears jeans with his sweater. (And the J. Crew model wears jeans with <i>his </i>sweater. Are people telling <i>him </i>he looks like<i> </i>Waldo?)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I wear black glasses. Waldo wears black glasses.¹</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-awkward-things-that-happened-on-my.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">I like to travel</span></a></b>. Waldo likes to travel.</li>
</ul>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61S37aKTCAL._SX407_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="409" height="200" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61S37aKTCAL._SX407_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As of this writing, there have been <br />
no books titled "Where's Shane?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
At the least, I don't get why no one's comparing me to the J. Crew model instead.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">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 </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-snorkeling-photo.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">the shirtless snorkeling photo I wrote about in a recent post</span></a>.</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> I choose not to share that, either. But I promise you th</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">is: If I ever wear the J. Crew sweater </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">and </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">the snorkeling mask at the same time, I will upload the photo. </span></div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-57918035793050043712020-03-15T10:16:00.000-04:002020-03-15T11:40:22.008-04:00Say No To Politics At The Farmers MarketI 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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, <b><a href="https://youtu.be/95_DB6GgLQs" target="_blank">Mayor Goldie Wilson</a></b>.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>three more volunteers</i> 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.<br />
<br />
"Are you registered to vote?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Are you voting Goldie?"<br />
<br />
"No! And I hate dogs!"<br />
<br />
I ran home the rest of the way and made myself some eggs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">² I can 100% take credit for this line.</span>Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-67745012613662558882020-02-03T21:26:00.000-05:002020-02-03T21:26:56.897-05:00The Snorkeling PhotoSomewhere 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.<br />
<br />
Not what the internet was created for.<br />
<br />
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 – <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-sting-of-googling-sea-urchins.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">on our honeymoon in Hawaii</span></a></b> – I was a little too nervous to be in the water.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is, I actually <i>own</i> 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 <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2019/12/flushing-we-have-problem.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">my bobbleheads</span></a></b>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It would have been much better off just posting a photo of the Nemo fish.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-71995572057929468842020-01-04T17:35:00.000-05:002020-01-06T08:33:25.103-05:00An LSU Cap Has Made Me Feel So SpecialFour 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 <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/06/the-mets-lost-again-shoot.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">why she wouldn't want to</span></a></b>.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>will</i> win the national championship (against another set of Tigers, from Clemson).<br />
<br />
So this season I am <i>absolutely</i> an LSU Tigers fan.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
“3:30,” I answered.<br />
<br />
“Good luck!” the man said.<br />
<br />
“Thanks!” I replied.<br />
<br />
A few hours later, I returned to my building and a neighbor, whom I’d never met, said, “Enjoy the game!”<br />
<br />
“I will!” I said.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/06/the-mets-lost-again-shoot.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;"><b>have no idea why</b>.</span></a>)<br />
<br />
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!”<br />
<br />
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 <strike>if</strike> after LSU wins the championship. I might even watch the game for a few minutes.<br />
<br />
Geaux Tigers!Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-33363662294675378222019-12-23T23:04:00.000-05:002019-12-26T14:49:44.591-05:00Flushing, We Have A ProblemMy one lasting memory of the 2019 Mets season <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">—</span> more than the team missing the playoffs, more than Jacob deGrom winning the National League Cy Young Award, more than Pete Alonso winning the Rookie of the Year award <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">—</span> is the profound disappointment I felt when I attended a home game on July 27.<br />
<br />
I'd bought tickets for the game for two reasons: One, I'm <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/06/the-mets-lost-again-shoot.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">a Mets fan</span></a></b>, but two, the team was giving away a bobblehead. I'm hardly a collector of bobbleheads. I own four <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">—</span> two are accumulating dust on my work desk, and the other two remain in their original box, sitting on a shelf in the back of the closet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But for whatever reason, I was drawn to this one:</div>
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en">
<div dir="ltr" lang="en">
RT to enter to win a <a href="https://twitter.com/MrMet?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@MrMet</a> on the moon bobblehead! <br />
<br />
The first 25,000 fans this Saturday will get their very own. <a href="https://t.co/iXmLdNwjWp">https://t.co/iXmLdNwjWp</a> <a href="https://t.co/R2ObvdYv2w">pic.twitter.com/R2ObvdYv2w</a></div>
— New York Mets (@Mets) <a href="https://twitter.com/Mets/status/1153441618038591488?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">July 22, 2019</a></blockquote>
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>
<br />
Mr. Met on the moon! The bobblehead, as you may have realized, commemorated the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission. I wasn't alive in 1969 so I can't say with any degree of certainty that Mr. Met actually walked on the moon with Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, but ya gotta believe, right?<br />
<br />
The Mets were handing out the bobblehead to the first 25,000 fans in attendance. I was confident I would be one of those 25,000 fans, even though I would arrive late because of a prior commitment.<br />
<br />
I met my friend outside the ballpark 15 minutes before first pitch. We waited on the security line. We waited on another line to have our tickets scanned at the gate. We waited in a third line to receive a bobblehead.<br />
<br />
We saw an employee hand out one bobblehead from a large cardboard box, and then another and then another. As we approached him, we could see inside the box. It was empty. We looked to our left and to our right: Other employees had empty boxes, too.<br />
<br />
Flushing, we have a problem.<br />
<br />
The Mets ran out of bobbleheads. My friend and I were, quite literally, the 25,004th and 25,005th fans to enter the ballpark.<br />
<br />
I couldn't believe it. I was so close to owning a Mr. Met on the moon bobblehead. One small step and one giant leap away from owning a Mr. Met on the moon bobblehead.<br />
<br />
I'm really kicking myself over that one. That bobblehead would have looked so nice sitting in the back of the closet.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-5741435794901934482019-11-20T23:02:00.000-05:002019-11-20T23:02:02.239-05:00The Upside To Palming A Half-Deflated BasketballI'd like to share with you a recent experience I had on the street the other day, because it's one of those New York moments I love so much.<br />
<br />
Some background first: I was running errands in the neighborhood when I swung by Goodwill. I go to this Goodwill two or three times a month. I always find interesting items there. For example, during this particular visit I saw a PlayStation 2, a "Space Jam" jersey and a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine. If I had to summarize my life from ages 15 to 25 in 10 words or less, the words "PlayStation," "Space Jam" and "Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine" would absolutely make the cut.<br />
<br />
I didn't buy any of those items from Goodwill, but I did buy a basketball. I'd been meaning to buy a basketball for a while. I used to play every day as a teenager, when I wasn't busy making homemade sno-cones. As an adult, I've played five times, if that. There's a court near my apartment, though, and I've been itching to shake the rust off the ol' jump shot.<br />
<br />
So I left Goodwill with a basketball in hand. I should point out a few things: One, the basketball was half-deflated. I didn't mind since I have a bicycle pump at home; I could easily refill it. Also, the basketball had caved in <i>juuuuust </i>enough that I was able to palm it, and I got a real kick out of that.<br />
<br />
Two, I was wearing a hoodie and a pair of basketball shorts because I was planning to stop in at the gym.<br />
<br />
Here I was, walking around, palming a basketball in my hand, wearing a hoodie and basketball shorts. In 48-degree weather. In that moment, I was the most imposing 5'6" basketball player in the neighborhood. I could see it in others' faces. They were really impressed.<br />
<br />
I even had a spontaneous exchange with one person; it's the reason I'm writing all of this. A man walked up next to me, made eye contact and blurted out, "Who is the best basketball player of all time?" Completely out of the blue, only it wasn't <i>completely</i> out of the blue because I was palming this basketball and therefore must have had some insight on the subject that I'd be willing to share. I was flattered.<br />
<br />
My answer to the question was Michael Jordan. The reasons are obvious: I grew up watching him, he won six championships and 10 scoring titles, and, most importantly, he was the star of "Space Jam."<br />
<br />
The man chose Dr. J, who, for the record, tallied three championships, three scoring titles and zero appearances in "Space Jam."<br />
<br />
It's funny how I earned more respect palming a half-deflated basketball than I ever earned when I actually played basketball when I was younger. I may never inflate the basketball. I might skip the court entirely and just palm the ball around the block for a few laps every now and then.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-71334930511360243512019-11-03T16:30:00.001-05:002019-11-03T16:33:30.601-05:00The One Time I Ran The New York City MarathonThe New York City Marathon rolls through my neighborhood every year, and I find it to be a mixed bag. On one hand, it adds excitement to an area that's otherwise relatively quiet. I mean, how often does a world-class sporting event take place right at your doorstep?<br />
<br />
On the other hand, the marathon is a mess, quite literally. The amount of trash discarded on 1st Avenue by the runners is something to behold. It's a sea of paper cups, granola bar wrappers, sponges and more for miles.<br />
<br />
Every now and then when I see litter on the street, I'll collect it and toss it into the nearest trash can. Litter bothers me. Sanctioned litter, which is what the waste left behind by the marathon runners really is, bothers me a little more. What if every runner picked up just one piece of trash on the route? That would be nice and thoughtful, wouldn't it?<br />
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Especially those runners who take their sweet time. If you're stopping every couple of minutes to wave and say hello to your friends and family, or to take photos, can't you grab that banana peel on the ground and carry it with you for a bit, while you're at it? Let's keep our city clean.<br />
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My other ongoing concern with the marathon is that it's a real challenge for residents to cross 1st Avenue in either direction. You're essentially sealed off from the other side for most of the day. This was a great source of frustration and stress for me a few years ago, when I was dating my now-wife.<br />
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I was supposed to meet with her for a walk to a friend's birthday party in the neighborhood. The problem was, I was on the eastern side of 1st Ave, and she was on the western side. I could see her from across the street, and I didn't know how to reach her.<br />
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This is the hidden cost of marathons that no one talks about. They split couples apart.<br />
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"I'll come over to you as soon as I can," I told her on the phone. "Don't move!"<br />
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Forty-five minutes later, after a long and slow walk up 1st Avenue through the crowd cheering on the runners, still with no idea of how I'd cross the street, I approached a police officer. I explained my situation.<br />
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"Officer, I need to get to the other side. My girlfriend is waiting for me and I have to get to her right away. I love her and my entire future depends on it," I said. OK, so I didn't say that last line, but I kind of wish I had, in retrospect. It sounds very urgent and Marty McFlyish.<br />
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"If you can find an opening, you can go for it. But make it quick," he replied.<br />
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He was suggesting I dash across the street in the middle of the New York City Marathon, which was not the solution I was hoping for. I don't know what I was hoping for, but it was not my preference to position myself in front of dozens and dozens and dozens of oncoming runners.<br />
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But that's what I did, because what other choice did I have? I zigged in front of one person, I zagged in front of another. I might've hopped over trash once or twice. It was "Frogger," "Paperboy" and "Mario Kart" all mushed into one.<br />
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I made it to the other side of the street in less than 10 seconds. Really, I ran the marathon in less than 10 seconds. Not in the correct direction, of course, but given how little training I had, it's still a remarkable achievement.<br />
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That was the one and only time I ran the New York City Marathon. And, fortunately, my future marriage remained intact.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-60935167181232700372019-07-31T21:56:00.000-04:002019-07-31T22:03:49.686-04:00The Know-It-All Health AppI've become a little too reliant on the Health app on my phone. It's embarrassing, to be honest. It knows more about my health than I do.<br />
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I don't even know <i>how </i>it knows. For example, it knows my blood pressure. I swear, I don't remember entering this into the app, but somehow it recalls that on Dec. 24, 2016, at 1:33:23 p.m., I recorded a blood pressure of 133/87. Evidently, it was a very stressful Christmas Eve for me.<br />
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For two and a half years, I lived with this data in my Health app. I would open it to check my steps and it would punch me in the gut: You've walked 10,000 steps, you've recorded 15 mindful minutes, and, oh, by the way, you suffer from prehypertension.<br />
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I went to Rite Aid last Tuesday just so I could use the blood pressure machine and update the numbers in the app, once and for all. I'm proud to say that, according to Rite Aid, my blood pressure is now 106/76. I was so thrilled that I bought two pints of Ben & Jerry's for $6. I realize I could've celebrated in a healthier way, but would <i>you </i>turn down a two-for-$6 deal on Ben & Jerry's?<br />
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A couple of days later I signed up for a blood drive, and here's where my complete lack of awareness regarding my health shined through. I assumed, based on the poster for the blood drive, that I would simply show up, give them some of my blood, and be out of there in 10 minutes. "Come donate blood and receive two tickets to a baseball game!" Sure. Easy-peasy.<br />
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No. Not easy-peasy. I <i>was </i>out of there in 10 minutes, but I didn't give them any of my blood. It turns out they had a few questions about my medical history.<br />
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Actually, more than a few, and I was ill-prepared. I had to fill out what was essentially a pop quiz about myself: What's your height? What's your weight? What's your age? Are you using prescription medication? For what? And what is the name of the medication, exactly?<br />
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What was this, a blood drive or a blind date?<br />
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I do use prescription medication, a cream, but I couldn't remember the name. I could only remember that it is a complicated name, something like 12 consonants and eight vowels. Fortunately, my wife was home and was able to send me a photo of the tube.<br />
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Unfortunately, she couldn't help me out with another question that stumped me. I received a measles booster earlier this year, which I noted, but then I was asked what kind of measles booster it was. There's more than one? I wondered. I don't know. The kind that prevents me from getting the measles?<br />
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"We really need to know," a nurse told me. "Is there any way you can find out?"<br />
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"Yes," I said. I opened the Health app. I searched for the tab in the app for my vaccinations. I discovered there is no such tab.<br />
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So that was the end of that. I had no choice but to leave the blood drive, with my head hanging in shame, having failed an exam on my own health.<br />
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After I walked out of the office I opened the Health app again. I checked my blood pressure. It was 106/76. I wasn't suffering from prehypertension. I started to feel better about myself.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-47525306697108820162019-07-07T23:07:00.000-04:002019-10-20T18:54:51.980-04:00The Awkward Things That Happened On My European Vacation<div>
I recently returned from a 10-day trip to Europe. Unfortunately, my wife couldn't make it, so I was on my own. It was liberating in a way: I was free to wake up when I wanted, eat meals when I wanted, visit the sights I wanted to visit. I was free to do what I wanted, when I wanted to do it. It was so much fun.<br />
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For the record, it would have been so much <i>more</i> fun had my wife been there with me and we could have set our own itinerary together, as a couple. I just wanted to make that clear.<br />
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Along the way, I had several socially awkward moments, mostly small, but mostly Shane. That's one of the lovely things about travel: You learn that awkwardness transcends borders.<br />
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I wish I had written all of them down in a travel diary, but I'd never actually kept a travel diary before so I didn't even consider to bring one. Here's what I remember, off the top of my head:</div>
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<h2>
Flying to Budapest</h2>
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It was not a smooth journey from Newark to my first destination, Budapest, which wasn't totally unexpected since I've had <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2016/06/canada-owes-me-donut.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">my challenges flying internationally in recent years</span></a></b>.<br />
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For reasons not clear to me, Newark International Airport did not have a PreCheck line. As someone who has PreCheck, I was deeply disappointed. Nothing brings me greater joy than the opportunity to enter a PreCheck line and walk right past all of the passengers in the longer line next to me. And Newark had the audacity to take that experience away from me? I couldn't believe it.<br />
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As I waited in the longer line and inched toward the X-ray machine, it occurred to me that TSA agents might actually force me to take off my shoes and belt. I had a feeling I knew what would happen next, but I asked an agent anyway, as kindly as I could: "Do I need to take off my shoes and belt?"<br />
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What I hoped he would say: "Do you have PreCheck? Yes? Well, then, of course not! You leave everything on and step right into the machine. We want you to feel as comfortable as possible!"<br />
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What he actually said: "Did someone give you a PreCheck slip?" </div>
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"No."</div>
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"Then you have to remove your shoes and belt."<br />
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So I removed my shoes and belt, alongside all of the passengers who did not have PreCheck. Sometimes in life we are tested in ways we cannot predict.<br />
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There were other setbacks on my way to Budapest. The flight departing Newark was delayed due to thunderstorm warnings, causing me to miss my connecting flight in Germany, and once I arrived in Budapest I had to wait an hour and a half for an airport shuttle to my hotel.</div>
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By the time I arrived to the hotel, it was raining — light enough that I could go for a walk, but heavy enough that I knew I'd get wet after a while. I'm not the type to sit around in a hotel while on vacation, so I pulled my umbrella out of my bag and hit the streets.<br />
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A half-hour into my stroll along the Danube River, my clothes were damp. However, as I walked across the famous Chain Bridge, with hilly and historic Buda in front of me and the iconic Parliament Building behind me on the Pest side, I thought to myself, this makes it all worth it: the frustrations, the delays, the absence of PreCheck.</div>
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And then a car drove onto the bridge and through a huge puddle, splashing water all over my pants.<br />
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<h2>
Iced Coffee In Vienna</h2>
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I drink an iced coffee almost every day. I loved a good iced coffee. It's cool, it's refreshing. I'm a little happier in life when I'm drinking an iced coffee.<br />
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It's very easy to find iced coffee in New York City. You can literally buy one on every block, whether from a coffee shop, a deli, a food truck, etc.<br />
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Conversely, it is very hard to find iced coffee in Central Europe. It's just not as popular there. I saw several Starbucks while in Central Europe, but beyond that most coffee shops I passed didn't list iced coffee as an option.<br />
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I was really itching for an iced coffee while in Vienna, a city famous for its coffee culture. At a fancy cafe, I asked my waiter if the cafe had iced coffee available. "No," he answered, "but we do have coffee with ice cream."<br />
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OK, well, I wasn't in the mood for ice cream, but ... why not? I was on vacation, right? I ordered the coffee with ice cream.<br />
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Here's what the waiter brought to me:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipmihyf-l6MoQbzpHwTnfNcDMiGzoqDQ_soVbhamlVvBoQjDUR_bCWoARYUAQ87JrZw5xh1Y2TovCXxEW0VD5zQ3DtlYZ6jW8VkUbP_5e4DhHZmMqnJoNEneG-FuiGdZ3_Up_ziTLPQ-o6/s1600/Iced+Coffee+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipmihyf-l6MoQbzpHwTnfNcDMiGzoqDQ_soVbhamlVvBoQjDUR_bCWoARYUAQ87JrZw5xh1Y2TovCXxEW0VD5zQ3DtlYZ6jW8VkUbP_5e4DhHZmMqnJoNEneG-FuiGdZ3_Up_ziTLPQ-o6/s400/Iced+Coffee+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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That's not coffee with ice cream. That's a Friendly's sundae on steroids. And that was in addition to the chocolate cake I'd ordered, which had a chocolate candy on top of it. In summary, this was a lot of chocolate.</div>
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And a lot of sugar. This is actual video of me leaving the cafe:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="giphy-embed" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://giphy.com/embed/Py1Yton9sPN6" width="426"></iframe><br />
<a href="https://giphy.com/gifs/seinfeild-caf-Py1Yton9sPN6">via GIPHY</a><br />
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Honestly, consuming all of that sugar messed me up for days. And once I finally recovered, I ate the "sugar cookie" in Bucharest.<br />
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<h2>
"Sugar Cookie" In Bucharest</h2>
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I met up with a cousin in Romania, where, I'm happy to report, we found an iced coffee at a coffee shop in Bucharest. I'm even happier to report it did not have ice cream, whipped cream or edible straws.<br />
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It did come with what I believed to be a small heart-shaped sugar cookie wrapped in plastic. It was adorable and, I assumed, delicious.<br />
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My cousin stepped away from the table for a minute. I finished my iced coffee, then tore open the plastic and popped the cookie in my mouth. It was tasty, but it had too much sugar, I thought.<br />
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As soon as my cousin returned he picked up his cookie and said, "Oh, they gave us a sugar cube in the shape of a heart."<br />
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Sugar cube? No wonder there was too much sugar in the cookie. It was <i>all</i> sugar.<br />
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A sugar cube with an iced coffee. That was completely foreign to me. What was with this continent and the sugar?<br />
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<h2>
<b>Rembrandt Face In Amsterdam</b></h2>
<b><br /></b>Months before leaving for Europe, I booked tickets for a Rembrandt exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. It's funny how much emphasis I put on visiting museums when I travel. I live in a city that's home to at least two of the most famous museums in the world, and I never go. I could easily walk to the Met if I wanted to, but I don't. And yet I'll fly thousands of miles to see paintings in other, arguably less famous museums. I have no explanation for it.</div>
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I liked the Rembrandt exhibition a lot, though there were many tourists doing touristy things that I don't care for, like holding their smartphones inches away from the paintings to take a picture. For the life of me I don't understand the logic behind this behavior. For one, it was blocking my view, but putting that aside, a smartphone photo of a painting will not do the painting justice. If you really want a photo of a painting, buy a postcard from the gift shop. Or, Google the painting; the smartphone has Google, you know.<br />
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Anyway, the Rembrandt exhibition was interesting. I got a kick out of the self-portraits, in particular this one. And yes, I took a photo of it with my smartphone, but only so I could text it to my wife and make a funny comment about it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivm9XqXJWUDo9cWnJiqaji-q02seiGpYOibxHIDXc8J_f59v5ehaBK3n-5XnTyxHx-8BjlIgtWM1oGJcaiYHJANvMCG8G6rRR9LSycwm8AKcRj_BSsOBJ8_MmEysrZXh4ssdx-eSwAj1cV/s1600/Iced+Coffee+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1418" data-original-width="1600" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivm9XqXJWUDo9cWnJiqaji-q02seiGpYOibxHIDXc8J_f59v5ehaBK3n-5XnTyxHx-8BjlIgtWM1oGJcaiYHJANvMCG8G6rRR9LSycwm8AKcRj_BSsOBJ8_MmEysrZXh4ssdx-eSwAj1cV/s400/Iced+Coffee+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I could relate to this piece of art more than any other in the exhibition, because I made the same exact face on many occasions during my trip: when the waiter at the Vienna cafe brought me the coffee with ice cream, when I almost missed my flight to Romania, when I needed to use a public WC but didn't have the proper change to enter the facility, when a woman winked at me through a store window in Amsterdam. (It was the first time I'd been winked at somewhere other than a text message in <i>years</i>. I couldn't even process it.)</div>
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Actually, other fun memories just came to mind: the basketball game in which I slipped and landed hard on my back; the spicy Indonesian dinner that threatened to light my mouth on fire; the person who talked smack about me to a friend in a foreign language on the check-in line at the airport.<br />
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Basically, the whole trip was a Rembrandt self-portrait.</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-71316905503217071372019-04-25T19:32:00.000-04:002019-04-25T19:36:33.124-04:00The Infinity Popcorn WarOne out of every three conversations I've had this week has begun with this question: "When are you seeing the new 'Avengers'?"<br />
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It hadn't been my intention to see "Avengers: Endgame" on opening weekend. I'm a wait-a-few-weeks-until-the-crowds-die-down kind of person. Actually, I'm more of a wait-a-few-months-until-it's-out-on-DVD-and-the-library-has-it-in-stock kind of person.</div>
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I decided today I would make a rare exception for "Endgame." I was worried that by next week I would accidentally read spoilers on the internet, or, worse, purposely read spoilers on the internet. I do not trust myself. I watched "Aquaman" last night — a half-hour in, I picked up my phone and read the entire plot on Wikipedia. (I also needed to make sure that that was Dolph Lundgren with red hair in the movie. It was.)</div>
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I booked a ticket for "Avengers" on Fandango and chose my seat: M5. (Who else is seeing the new "Avengers" from M5 this weekend?) Strangely, I also booked a flight today, and I did not have the option to choose my own seat for that. Why is it that I can reserve a seat with a $10 movie ticket but not with a $100 plane ticket? The plane isn't even going to be showing "Avengers." </div>
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I'm seeing "Avengers" solo. I didn't get a ticket for my wife, since she has other plans. Believe me, I wish I was seeing the movie with my wife. She offers me <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2017/12/better-than-subway-pole.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">great protection</span></a></b> when I'm at the movies, which I discovered when we saw the last "Avengers" film, "Infinity War," together. </div>
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She left the theater just as the credits began to roll; she had to run somewhere. Not even a minute later, I felt a piece of popcorn hit my head. Then another. And then another. </div>
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A large group of kids had been sitting directly behind us during the movie, making noise, doing the things that kids do when they're at the movies. But they apparently decided to wait until I was alone before starting an infinity popcorn war.</div>
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What could I do? They were kids. I couldn't fight back with popcorn. I'd already eaten all of the popcorn in my bucket.</div>
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What I really wanted to do was some version of this:</div>
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Instead, I calmly walked toward the back of the theater, settling into an empty seat so I could continue to watch the credits. </div>
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Before I see "Avengers: Endgame," alone, on opening weekend, I'd like to offer this reminder to all of the kids who have tickets to the same screening: Shane <a href="https://www.marvel.com/articles/movies/dont-spoil-the-endgame" style="color: blue; font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">demands your silence</a> (and your best behavior).</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-40481273930537698862019-03-11T20:47:00.000-04:002019-03-11T20:47:06.147-04:00Sweatin' to "Conan"I went out of my comfort zone and did something a little different on Sunday: I watched TV at Shape House while lying in bed, wrapped inside an infrared heated sleeping bag.<br />
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Usually my comfort zone is watching TV at my house while lying on my couch, wrapped inside a room-temperature blanket.<br />
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I should explain what Shape House is, since it only has a handful of locations, all in New York and the Los Angeles area. Shape House touts itself as the first and only urban sweat lodge. Basically, you slip into a hot sleeping bag on a bed and just sit back and relax. Kind of like this:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="giphy-embed" frameborder="0" height="200" src="https://giphy.com/embed/xT5LMBauOi9MgA50L6" width="280"></iframe><br />
<a href="https://giphy.com/gifs/season-4-the-simpsons-4x3-xT5LMBauOi9MgA50L6">via GIPHY</a><br />
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And, as I mentioned, there's a TV.<br />
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The idea, of course, is to sweat. I mean, <i>really </i>sweat. The sweating can burn calories, improve skin and lift moods, according to Shape House.<br />
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I've tried to lift my mood in other ways in recent years. I've tried meditation. <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2016/09/keep-calm-and-keep-your-eyes-closed.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">I failed.</span></a></b> I've tried yoga. <a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-v-sit-reach-is-my-greatest-skill.html" style="color: blue; font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">I failed.</a> I don't do wellness very well.<br />
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But, as I demonstrated earlier this year <b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-tension-in-square-dancing.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">when I went square dancing</span></a></b>, I'm not afraid to sweat. So when my gym sent me an email last month offering a free sweat sesh at Shape House, I was all for it.<br />
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Soon after I arrived at Shape House, I was told my television would be equipped with Netflix, Hulu <i>and </i>HBO. My mood was lifted. I don't have HBO at home. I won't pay for premium cable, but I will gladly sweat for premium cable.<br />
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I changed into the sweat clothes provided to me and then walked over to one of the private beds, where I tucked myself into a sleeping bag for a 55-minute session. I left my right hand slightly loose outside the bag so I could use the remote control.<br />
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I opened the Netflix app. After spending a solid 60 seconds judging what the person before me had watched (I wish I could remember what the shows were so I could continue to judge here), I scrolled through my options. I found myself shaking my head often. The Fyre Festival documentary? Too long. "You"? Too creepy. "Tidying Up"? Too ... organized?<br />
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I gave up on Netflix and switched to Hulu. Twenty minutes passed by and I was still searching. I couldn't even find something on HBO to my liking.<br />
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One of the staffers checked in with me to see how I was doing. "I have a question: Don't you have anything good to watch around here?" I wondered. At this point I couldn't tell if I was sweating because of the infrared heated sleeping bag or because I was against the clock and running out of time to pick a decent show.<br />
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Eventually I returned to Netflix and settled on "Conan Without Borders," partly because I'm a fan of Conan O'Brien's work, partly because it was near the top of the menu screen, and partly because my remote control hand was getting very sweaty.<br />
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I watched the episode in which he travels to South Korea. I really enjoyed it. Have you ever laughed out loud while wrapped like a pig in a blanket, with beads of sweat pouring down your face? It was a fun new experience for me.<br />
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So that's what I did on Sunday. Would I go back to Shape House? Sure. I still have five more episodes of "Conan Without Borders" to watch. I can't watch them at home while wrapped in my room-temperature blanket. It wouldn't be the same.Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-80698052692099416642019-03-03T18:47:00.002-05:002019-03-03T18:56:33.726-05:00Don't Throw Your Phone While Watching "Hocus Pocus"I learned an important lesson a couple of months ago that I'd like to share with all of you now: It's best to not throw your phone onto your bed while watching "Hocus Pocus."<br />
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I was flipping through the channels on a Tuesday night in mid-October when I came across the start of "Hocus Pocus" on Freeform. I'd never seen the movie, it was Halloween season, and it was Bette Midler. Needless to say, I put down the remote.</div>
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I wanted to watch the movie without interruption <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">— </span>no calls, no texts. I casually tossed my iPhone onto my bed. I could have put the phone on a table. I could have put it underneath the couch cushion. I could have just turned it off. But instead, I chose to send it airborne across the room and toward the bed.</div>
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The phone landed three or four inches from the edge of the bed. And then it started to slip, and then it slipped a little more, and then it slipped a little more, until it teetered on the edge. And then ...</div>
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<i>SPLAT!</i></div>
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My wife walked over to the phone and picked it up. She gasped. It was not a good gasp. It was a gasp that affirmed what I had already suspected, which was that I was a complete bozo for throwing the phone. </div>
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"How bad is it?" I asked, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the phone wasn't damaged.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
She showed me the screen. It was shattered. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This was the first time I'd cracked an iPhone screen. I checked Apple's website to see how much it would cost to repair it. It was more than I was willing to pay ($129), so I searched online for iPhone repair shops and found one in my neighborhood that charges less than half that amount. I brought my phone there the next day and received a new screen later that week. </div>
<div>
<br />
Since then ... since then my phone has acted <i>very </i>strangely. I wish I could show you the weird things I've seen with the phone since the screen was replaced. The phone has ...<br />
<br />
... deleted complete sentences I've typed. Earlier this year a friend texted me with upsetting news. I can't remember what it was, but it required an immediate response. I typed, "I'm so sorry to hear that. Let me know if there's anything I can do." As soon as I finished writing the message, the cursor moved backward and erased it, character by character. I typed it all out again. The phone erased it all again. I had this back-and-forth with the phone for <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">—</span> no exaggeration <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">—</span> 15 minutes. The phone had no empathy for my friend whatsoever.<br />
<br />
... placed calls on mute at random points in the conversation. Coincidentally or not, this has often happened while I was on the phone with my parents. The phone has also hung up on them on occasion. It is literally cutting me off from my family.<br />
<br />
... moved apps without my even touching it. I've invested a lot of time <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">— </span>a <i>lot</i> of time <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">— </span>curating the apps on my phone and arranging them just the way I like it, so this glitch is beyond frustrating. I don't want the phone to drag Instagram four screens over; I want Instagram to remain where it is, on the first screen, next to Facebook and Twitter. The social media apps should be all together, obviously. It takes me a while to move Instagram back to its original spot. Ever try to move an app to another screen while making sure the other apps stay in place? It's kind of like Jenga, but much, much harder. You need to be <i>extremely </i>precise.<br />
<br />
... opened the Venmo app on its own several times. This is my greatest concern with the phone. I'm not the type of person to transfer cash to friends as a spontaneous gesture, but my phone, on the other hand, is very receptive to the idea of giving away my money. If you haven't sent me a friend request on Venmo yet, now is the time.<br />
<br />
The other week I broke down and I took the phone to an Apple store, explaining how I'd damaged the screen and had it replaced.<br />
<br />
"Did you have it replaced in an Apple store?" I was asked.<br />
<br />
"No, I brought it to a third-party repair store," I replied.<br />
<br />
The employee shook her head. (She may have added a couple of tsks, too. I'm not certain.)<br />
<br />
Her best suggestion was to restore the phone to its factory settings, which I did. When it restarted, I was asked to choose a language. I attempted to select English. The phone settled on Chinese.<br />
<br />
So the problem with the phone persists. My guess: It's haunted. At the very least, there's some real hocus-pocus going on with the phone.<br />
<br />
I can tell you this: I will never be tempted by a Bette Midler movie on cable again.</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-24268233862635657382019-01-19T11:49:00.000-05:002019-01-19T11:49:05.156-05:00The Tension In Square Dancing<div>
"Oh, we could go square dancing."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I stared at my wife with a blank expression on my face for what must have been 15 seconds, if not 30, 40 or 50 seconds. It was January 2, and she was brainstorming ways we could really have some fun in 2019. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was lukewarm on the idea. I'd only square danced once in my life — in elementary school, in fifth grade. It was part of the gym class curriculum. To the best of my recollection, I didn't learn any other type of dance in gym that year, or any other year I attended elementary school. Why my gym teachers felt I had to learn the do-si-do and not, say, the foxtrot or the Viennese waltz, I'll never know.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The unit on square dancing did mark a major milestone in my life: the first time I'd asked a girl to dance with me. This was the sort of pressure I did not want or need in my life at the time, but my gym teachers apparently felt differently. They didn't leave me with much of a choice: I had to find a partner to dance with, and that was it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You may find this hard to believe, but I was kind of awkward around girls in fifth grade. I didn't have many girl friends, and I hadn't asked them for much — maybe a pencil sharpener once or twice. But all of a sudden, I had to ask one of them if she'd be willing to let me swing her round and round. That's quite a leap.<br />
<br />
Somehow, after several days of panic, I pulled myself together just long enough to ask a girl to be my square-dance partner. And, somehow, she agreed. Without much enthusiasm, mind you, but it didn't matter much to me. She said yes, and we square danced, and then we moved on with our lives.<br />
<br />
That was the last memorable exchange I had with a girl until five years later, when I would ask one out for the first time. (<b><a href="http://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/05/my-fondest-seinfeld-memory-even-though.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">She said no.</span></a></b>) And it would be another 25 years before I would dance with a female again. It was on my wedding day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No, that's not true. I danced with my prom date to The Cardigans song "Lovefool." Or, rather, I danced in the middle of a circle of friends while she watched. But that's a story for another day.</div>
<div>
<br />
I told my wife I would go square dancing with her because I'm a good husband and that's what good husbands do — they square dance. As I told her on the subway ride to a square-dancing event a few days later, "Of course I would do this for you. I'd do anything for you. And I have every expectation that you'll do something for me someday."</div>
<div>
<br />
The event was held inside a gym, so of course I had flashbacks to fifth grade, having to learn a new dance, having to find a partner. But it turned out to be much less stressful this time. I didn't have to ask a woman to dance with me. A woman asked <i>me</i> to dance.<br />
<br />
She was one of the organizers, and she realized right away I was new to square dancing and needed someone who could lead me. She was more enthusiastic about it all than my fifth-grade partner was.<br />
<br />
She was very patient with me, very helpful, as was everyone else I danced with that night. (Since my wife was also a beginner, we were split up and didn't dance together.) They encouraged me and offered instruction where necessary.<br />
<br />
"Hold me tighter! With <i>tension</i>!" one partner said as I was swinging her.<br />
<br />
"With my wife in the room?" I thought to myself.<br />
<br />
My wife and I stayed for nearly two hours. It was a real workout. My button-down shirt and jeans were drenched in sweat. It was easily the most intense dance I've ever participated in, ahead of that time I played "Just Dance" on the Wii for a half-hour.<br />
<br />
I had fun square dancing, much more fun that I figured I would. I'm glad my wife suggested it.<br />
<br />
She still owes me one, though. I've already started brainstorming.</div>
<div>
</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-43404522883311340482019-01-01T16:56:00.000-05:002019-01-04T08:56:28.763-05:00The New Year's Eve Money I Didn't TakeWe are a few hours into the new year, and yet I still can't let go of 2015. Or, rather, my family still can't let go of 2015, when I apparently made a terrible, terrible mistake at a New Year's Eve party <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">— </span>a mistake they've reminded me of every year since.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At the time I didn't feel I had done anything wrong. I'm still not sure I did anything wrong. I kind of think I did <i>something right</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I could be wrong.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That holiday season I'd traveled out of town with my parents to visit relatives, and we all celebrated New Year's Eve together at the home of a family friend. This was someone I'd never met before. She was very nice, very friendly, very Persian. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was your typical New Year's Eve party. At least it was for most of the night. There was lots of good food, lots of fun conversation. We all gathered in front of the TV at 11:59:50 to count down the final seconds of 2015, and we all cheered wildly when the ball dropped, signaling the start of a new year.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Everyone was feeling great, myself included.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then the host did something that caught me completely off-guard: She handed out money to all of the guests. Five dollars. <i>Per guest.</i> She pressed a bill into my hand and said, "Happy New Year!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I clutched the bill and stared at it for a solid minute. I thought of all the different things I could do with it. I don't mean all the different ways I could spend it. I mean all the different ways I could dispatch of it. I could return it to the host. I could hide it behind a couch pillow. I could flush it down the toilet. I could leave it in the mailbox on the way out. I could dig a hole in the backyard and bury it. The possibilities were endless. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The one thing I absolutely was not going to do with it, though, was keep it. I just didn't feel comfortable accepting money from someone I didn't know very well. Perhaps if it had been my New Year's resolution to accept more money from people I didn't know very well, I would've been more comfortable with the whole situation. But I'd made no such resolution.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ultimately, I placed the bill on a small table in the living room as we said our goodbyes. I was very discreet about it. To this day I have no idea if the host knows I'm the one who left the bill there. It might still be on that table, for all I know.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The morning after the party, I told my family what I'd done. I don't think I could ever disappoint them more than I did in that moment. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHAT?! Shane!! Why did you do that?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I don't know, I felt weird about it."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It was a gift!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It wasn't wrapped. A gift is wrapped."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And on and on it went for the next 10 minutes, though the passage of time hasn't resolved much. We have this same argument every New Year's Eve. My family's point, which they've articulated in one form or another over and over again: If someone gives you something, you should accept it and be grateful.<br />
<br />
(Update: After I published this blog entry, one family member emailed me to note that it's Persian tradition to hand out money on New Year's. It is a Persian tradition ... on the <i>Persian </i>New Year. And the money is usually for <i>children</i>.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I mentioned this story to someone at a New Year's Eve party last night. His response: "I would've taken the money!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Who knows, maybe there really was nothing to feel weird about, and maybe <i>I</i> should have taken the money. My goal for this year is to score another New Year's invite to that home so I can check the table for my $5 bill. I'll reevaluate my decision then.</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-79489691292381093542018-12-09T08:03:00.000-05:002018-12-10T09:45:07.466-05:00Three Times I May Or May Not Have Seen A CelebrityThere's a Baseball Hall of Fame vote scheduled for later today, and one of the candidates is a former relief pitcher named Lee Smith.<br />
<br />
If you're not a sports fan, you're likely not familiar with Lee Smith. Even if you <i>are </i>a sports fan, you may have only a vague recollection of his career, beyond the fact that he was once the all-time saves leader.<br />
<br />
But Lee Smith will always hold a soft spot in my heart, because he is the first celebrity I ever met. Maybe. I'm not entirely sure it was him, and I've asked him.<br />
<br />
Lee Smith isn't the only maybe-celebrity encounter I've had. Far from it. I could list a dozen or more, but instead here are three that immediately come to mind, starting with Smith.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Lee Smith</h2>
<br />
Lee Smith was (and is) an imposing man: 6 feet 5 inches tall. That's according to the Baseball Reference website, but in my memory he was over 8 feet tall on the day I (may have) met him in 1993.<br />
<br />
I was at the arcade in the local mall one Saturday, inserting quarters into the coin slot for my favorite game at the time, "NBA Jam," when I heard a voice from behind: "Can I play with you?"<br />
<br />
"Sure," I answered, not giving it much thought. After dropping my last quarter into the slot, I looked up at the second player ... and looked up and up. I was in shock. It was Lee freaking Smith.<br />
<br />
Now, all logic should've pointed to the fact that it <i>wasn't </i>Lee Smith. For one, this mall was in the middle of Long Island; why would he be in the middle of Long Island on a weekend (when baseball players play baseball)? Secondly, as a veteran with more than 10 years of big-league experience, he probably could've afforded to buy an "NBA Jam" cabinet of his own.<br />
<br />
But ... here's why I have reason to believe it <i>was </i>Lee Smith: He'd just been traded to the New York Yankees the week before, and the mall wasn't so far away from the Bronx that it would be completely implausible for him to be there. Furthermore, he was wearing a cap of the St. Louis Cardinals, the team that had traded him to the Yankees.<br />
<br />
Coincidence? To Shane in 1993, it didn't matter. As far as that Shane was concerned, he was playing "NBA Jam" with a real pro athlete.<br />
<br />
And beating him, too. After the final buzzer sounded, the man said, "Good game" and walked away. It was the only time Lee Smith and I have ever crossed paths (possibly).<br />
<br />
A couple of years later, while Smith was still in the majors, I wrote him a letter congratulating him on all his success and, oh, by the way, did you play "NBA Jam" with a teenager with thick glasses and unruly hair at a Long Island mall in 1993? I included a baseball card of his to have autographed, too.<br />
<br />
I received a reply exactly one week later. I tore open the envelope. No letter from Lee Smith, but he did return the baseball card, signed. Which was nice, but I would've rather he admitted, on paper, that he lost to me at "NBA Jam."<br />
<br />
<h2>
Keri Russell (aka Felicity)</h2>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have never watched an episode of "Felicity." I know three things about "Felicity": Scott Foley was a cast member, and Felicity got a haircut or something at some point.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, obviously, that Keri Russell played Felicity. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was riding the subway with a friend in the early 2000s when I saw Keri Russell (perhaps) sitting in my car. It was 50/50 that it was her, but for whatever reason I had to know the truth, so I came up with a plan: I softly called out Felicity's name. Not Russell's name — Felicity's name. "Felicity ... Felicity."<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I would never, ever do such a thing today. If I spotted Keri Russell in a subway car today, I'd leave her be. Maybe I'd smile or nod, but that would be it. I'd give her her space. But in the early 2000s I was young, wide-eyed and easily starstruck, so I whispered her TV name: "Felicity." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The woman looked up and made eye contact with me. So it <i>was </i>Keri Russell! Or it was someone who was very confused as to why another passenger was saying "Felicity" over and over. I'll never know. I'm too embarrassed to write a letter to Russell to ask.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h2>
Aaron Paul</h2>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Listen, when I noticed a man across the street on the Upper West Side in 2015 — same height as Aaron Paul, same frame, same scruff — wearing a beanie and a long jacket, <i>of course</i> I thought it was Aaron Paul. It was only two years after "Breaking Bad" had gone off the air, and clearly Aaron Paul had kept some of Jesse Pinkman's wardrobe for himself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sadly, it was not Aaron Paul. As the man and I walked toward each other, I discovered he was just someone with a scruffy face and a beanie who just happened to be dressed like a fictional meth dealer. So, in this case, I must concede I did not see a celebrity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I make this mistake eight times a year, at least. I still have faith that one day it will, in fact, be Aaron Paul.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
***</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had another maybe-celebrity sighting just last week. My wife and I were enjoying breakfast at the Plaza when Tobey Maguire (potentially) sat at a nearby table.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Tobey Maguire is over there," I said to my wife.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That's not Tobey Maguire. That's a businessman in a suit," she responded.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you sure? Look at the beard, the part in his hair," I said, flicking my wrist and shooting imaginary spiderwebs at her with my hand for emphasis.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No. I don't trust your celebrity radar," she said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, that's not entirely fair. We did see <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/11/where-are-you-mandarin-duck.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">the Mandarin duck</span></a> </b>recently. I have no doubts about that.</div>
Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-69146811643298115372018-11-12T23:06:00.000-05:002018-11-19T21:50:33.304-05:00Where ARE You, Mandarin Duck?Right now my one hope, my one wish, is to see the Mandarin duck in Central Park. It's all I want in life.<br />
<br />
You're likely familiar with the Mandarin duck, even if you don't live in New York. He's received a lot of attention on social media since The New York Times published an article about him on Oct. 31.
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en">
<div dir="ltr" lang="en">
The Mandarin duck, native to East Asia, should not be in the middle of Manhattan. And yet, against all odds, he is there. And he is dazzling. <a href="https://t.co/UQNY9m0EXb">https://t.co/UQNY9m0EXb</a></div>
— The New York Times (@nytimes) <a href="https://twitter.com/nytimes/status/1057629283634556928?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">October 31, 2018</a></blockquote>
He <i>is </i>dazzling. I've never been so dazzled by a bird in my life. The only other time I've ever been so in awe of a bird was when I saw an oriole just outside the Baltimore Orioles' ballpark nine years ago. A real-life oriole where the Orioles play! What were the odds? My mind was BLOWN. (Still is.)<br />
<br />
I really wanted to check out this duck for myself. As it happened, I was free on the afternoon of Oct. 31, so I walked to the pond in Central Park where the duck was first spotted. No luck finding the duck. I was disappointed.<br />
<br />
I didn't have the chance to search for the duck for another week and a half, in part because I don't leave work until after sunset. (Another example of <b><a href="https://imhavingalaugh.blogspot.com/2018/03/5-things-that-will-definitely-happen.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">daylight saving time putting the screws to me</span></a></b>.)<br />
<br />
In the meantime, six friends had posted photos or videos on Facebook of their own sightings of the duck. One of them hadn't even known about the duck until I told him about it; when I saw him the next day he said, "Hey, guess what? I saw that duck." He pulled out his phone and swiped through the 10 beautiful pics he took of the duck. "That's ... great," I said before grabbing the phone from his hand and throwing it out a fifth-floor window.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, my Sunday was clear and so, with a renewed sense of purpose, I went back to the pond, this time accompanied by my wife. Almost immediately, I saw three ducks. I went in for a closer look. They were unremarkable in color. I was not dazzled. I took a photo anyway.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASxaif8RNq9tvvek8wCcyPMn6FVqj9Aff7DwWuhddffN1tGwxlWZ65TuW-V42wKoK5_usgCnSnzAZCiviWVHPKjTl7a_XEhRx45XcuCQZsXt88ULRj1cl-2opzEKpCh8KI53BrdlQ58SE/s1600/duck1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASxaif8RNq9tvvek8wCcyPMn6FVqj9Aff7DwWuhddffN1tGwxlWZ65TuW-V42wKoK5_usgCnSnzAZCiviWVHPKjTl7a_XEhRx45XcuCQZsXt88ULRj1cl-2opzEKpCh8KI53BrdlQ58SE/s400/duck1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Excuse me, but have you seen a Mandarin duck around here? Blue, purple, orange, and a bunch of other colors?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I looked further down the pond. I spotted a flock of ducks hanging out together. And there were approximately a dozen people lined up along the walking path with cameras. Could it be? Could one of those ducks be the Mandarin duck? I allowed myself a flicker of hope.<br />
<br />
We headed down the path. There were a lot of ducks; around 30, by my count. Not one of them was the Mandarin duck. They were all just ... plain ducks. I can guarantee you none of them had ever been profiled by The New York Times.<br />
<br />
I was crestfallen, but I took another photo.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPtjr1qFDlsZBNH2-WnUKGLor2Jl-Vde7NRlQfRLED3dyIlUUNtw6emrTa_Wr_ZNdS5oiMf5z8cfXpI7cq1v0NFz0EBzjY-dgfsQ62k7FeSwpltu7BWScd3C0f0SHaVrtdJP-ClTF4upL/s1600/duck2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPtjr1qFDlsZBNH2-WnUKGLor2Jl-Vde7NRlQfRLED3dyIlUUNtw6emrTa_Wr_ZNdS5oiMf5z8cfXpI7cq1v0NFz0EBzjY-dgfsQ62k7FeSwpltu7BWScd3C0f0SHaVrtdJP-ClTF4upL/s400/duck2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Booooooooorrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnng.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
For the second time, I did not see the Mandarin duck in Central Park. I did see something else of note, though: a British comedian. Ricky Gervais, <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SK3y1a8TYs" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">the inspiration for the name of this blog</span></a></b>, jogged past my wife and me less than a quarter-mile from the pond.<br />
<br />
Ricky Gervais. Creator of "The Office." Four-time Golden Globes host. Owner of the greatest laugh I've ever heard.<br />
<br />
I did not take a photo. He may be many things, but he is not a duck.<br />
<br />
<i>Update: A week later I returned to the pond and ... I SAW THE DUCK.<br /></i><br />
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Shanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17001014511253119265noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4636362756841937956.post-88856792740639163502018-11-07T20:16:00.000-05:002018-11-08T20:17:10.856-05:004 Minutes Of Madonna (And Then 4 More ... And 4 More)I stayed up way past my bedtime last Wednesday. Why did I stay up so late? Well ... here's how I explained it to my wife the next morning:<br />
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"I started to listen to one Madonna song on Spotify, and then another, and then the next thing I knew I'd fallen down the Madonna song rabbit hole."<br />
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It was the midweek Madonna song rabbit hole. It's only human nature to binge Madonna music late on a Wednesday night.<br />
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I was so close to going to bed at 11. I really was. And then for some reason I thought about "4 Minutes," that Madonna-Justin Timberlake song from 10 years ago. I don't think about it often, but I do like it a lot. It's underrated, actually, when you consider it features two of the biggest pop stars of my lifetime.<br />
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I haven't the slightest clue what the song is about. I can only recite one line from memory: "We only got 4 minutes to save the world!" And it's not even a Madonna line; Timberlake sings it. For the record, it's now 2018 and Madonna and Justin Timberlake have yet to take meaningful action together toward saving the world. We gave them 10 years when they asked for 4 minutes and, so far, we've received nothing in return.<br />
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Anyway, I picked up my phone, opened Spotify, tapped on one of the approximately 22 greatest-hits collections Madonna has released, and played "4 Minutes" for 4 minutes.<br />
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And then I figured that since I was listening to Madonna, I might as well fire up my favorite song of hers, "Beautiful Stranger." Not the most obvious choice for a favorite Madonna song, I know, but it is the only one with an "Austin Powers" connection, so there's that.<br />
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So now I started getting into the groove — and falling down that rabbit hole, quicker than a ray of light. I shuffled around the tracklist: "Like a Virgin," "Vogue," "La Isla Bonita," moving from one hit to the next spanning her entire career. I was hung up on the Material Girl.<br />
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I even listened to "Take a Bow," the rare song that can bring tears to my eyes. I can count on one hand the number of songs that can affect me so deeply: "Take a Bow," Adele's "Someone Like You," the Spice Girls' "2 Become 1." (Maybe not the last one so much.)<br />
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By this point it was a little after midnight and I was bracing myself for the possibility that I might cry while listening to "Take a Bow" on my couch. Hey, I'm not afraid to open my heart and express myself — especially in the privacy of my own home, when my wife is asleep and won't see it.<br />
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I didn't cry that night. Thankfully, I pulled myself together and I was finished after that song. "Take a Bow," the night was over, I went to bed.<br />
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I've since shared this story with not only my wife, but with my Facebook friends, just for laughs. But the secret is now out: I'm a Madonna fan. Not that I've ever needed to justify my love for her.<br />
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<i>By my count, I referenced 16 Madonna song titles in this post. Did you spot them all? If so, congrats! That's cause for celebration.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com