The Tension In Square Dancing

"Oh, we could go square dancing."

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. (She said no.) And it would be another 25 years before I would dance with a female again. It was on my wedding day. 

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.

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."

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 me to dance.

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.

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.

"Hold me tighter! With tension!" one partner said as I was swinging her.

"With my wife in the room?" I thought to myself.

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.

I had fun square dancing, much more fun that I figured I would. I'm glad my wife suggested it.

She still owes me one, though. I've already started brainstorming.

The New Year's Eve Money I Didn't Take

We 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 — a mistake they've reminded me of every year since.

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 something right.

But I could be wrong.

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. 

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.

Everyone was feeling great, myself included.

And then the host did something that caught me completely off-guard: She handed out money to all of the guests. Five dollars. Per guest. She pressed a bill into my hand and said, "Happy New Year!"

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

"WHAT?! Shane!! Why did you do that?"

"I don't know, I felt weird about it."

"It was a gift!"

"It wasn't wrapped. A gift is wrapped."

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.

(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 Persian New Year. And the money is usually for children.)

I mentioned this story to someone at a New Year's Eve party last night. His response: "I would've taken the money!"

Who knows, maybe there really was nothing to feel weird about, and maybe 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.

Three Times I May Or May Not Have Seen A Celebrity

There's a Baseball Hall of Fame vote scheduled for later today, and one of the candidates is a former relief pitcher named Lee Smith.

If you're not a sports fan, you're likely not familiar with Lee Smith. Even if you are 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.

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.

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.

Lee Smith

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.

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?"

"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.

Now, all logic should've pointed to the fact that it wasn't 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.

But ... here's why I have reason to believe it was 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.

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.

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).

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.

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."

Keri Russell (aka Felicity)

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.

And, obviously, that Keri Russell played Felicity. 

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."

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." 

The woman looked up and made eye contact with me. So it was 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.

Aaron Paul

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, of course 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.

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.

I make this mistake eight times a year, at least. I still have faith that one day it will, in fact, be Aaron Paul.

***

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.

"Tobey Maguire is over there," I said to my wife.

"That's not Tobey Maguire. That's a businessman in a suit," she responded.

"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.

"No. I don't trust your celebrity radar," she said.

Oh.

Well, that's not entirely fair. We did see the Mandarin duck recently. I have no doubts about that.

Where 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.

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.

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. https://t.co/UQNY9m0EXb

— The New York Times (@nytimes) October 31, 2018

He is 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.)

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.

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 daylight saving time putting the screws to me.)

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.

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.

"Excuse me, but have you seen a Mandarin duck around here? Blue, purple, orange, and a bunch of other colors?"

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.

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.

I was crestfallen, but I took another photo.

Booooooooorrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnng.

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, the inspiration for the name of this blog, jogged past my wife and me less than a quarter-mile from the pond.

Ricky Gervais. Creator of "The Office." Four-time Golden Globes host. Owner of the greatest laugh I've ever heard.

I did not take a photo. He may be many things, but he is not a duck.

Update: A week later I returned to the pond and ... I SAW THE DUCK.

4 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:

"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."

It was the midweek Madonna song rabbit hole. It's only human nature to binge Madonna music late on a Wednesday night.

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.



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.

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.

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.



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.

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.)



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.

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.

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.

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.

When I Was Told I Could Pay What I Wish, I Messed Up

On the afternoon of National Coffee Day, I went to one of my favorite local coffee shops, which had a special offer: pay as you wish. I could have paid any amount for the iced latte I ordered: 50 cents, $1, $2. Whatever amount I wished, "no questions asked." 

I'll share with you a little later how much I ended up spending on the iced latte, but, as I'm sure you've gathered by now, I wouldn't be writing this blog entry if I had in fact paid what I wished.

I've never been good at this whole pay-as-you-wish thing. I blame Radiohead. In 2007 the band released "In Rainbows," which was essentially a surprise album at a time when surprise albums really were a surprise. Radiohead said fans could pay whatever they wanted, even if it meant paying nothing at all.  

I wasn't sure what to pay. I knew I didn't want to pay what I would normally pay for an album: between $12-$15. But I also didn't want to download the album for free. The band did work hard on it, after all, and deserved to be compensated in some fashion. I felt strongly about that.

I gave Radiohead $2. Well, I didn't say I felt strongly about compensating them well.

I do regret having paid so little for what turned out to be a pretty good album, perhaps my favorite of Radiohead's since "OK Computer." I should've given them at least $5 more. Sorry, Thom.

I saw Radiohead in concert earlier this summer for the first time since the "In Rainbows" era. They played several songs from "In Rainbows" that night, but not my favorite track; they saved it for the following night. I can't help but feel they did that on purpose, as a measure of payback for stiffing them all those years ago.

The pay-as-you-wish model doesn't work well for someone like myself, who has a tendency to overthink things. The Met has pay-as-you-wish admission. What's a fair price for the opportunity to see a van Gogh or a Monet in person, at one of the world's most famous museums? More than the $2 I spent on "In Rainbows," for certain. But $10? $20? $25? I don't know. I'm not an art lover. I love many things more than art. Baseball, for one. Say, shouldn't it be the Mets, and not the Met, who have pay-as-you-wish admission, anyway?

I had pretty much the same pay-as-you-wish debate in my head as I stood in line at the coffee shop on National Coffee Day: What is a fair price for this iced latte?

I settled on $4, including tip (my holiday gift to the barista).

The usual cost of an iced latte at this shop: $4.

Total savings on an iced latte on National Coffee Day: $0.

If only the offer had been advertised as "save as you wish," I might've made a smarter decision.

Here's what I really wish: I wish businesses would stop asking me to pay what I wish. No more pay-as-you-wish offers, no questions asked.

10 Years Of Shredding, And I'm Finally Done

I'm usually not one to put off a household chore. If the dishes are dirty, I will wash them. If the tub has to be scrubbed, I will scrub it.

But there's one chore I do not care for at all. I do not like to shred paper. I really dislike shredding paper.

Until recently, I was depositing all of my paper that needed to be shredded into a large plastic Duane Reade bag. The bag filled up pretty quickly with junk mail, receipts, documents with my address or sensitive information, and so on.

I'd had this bag for 10 years. For 10 years it had been at least half-filled with paper. That's how much I dislike shredding. I chose to hold on to a tattered Duane Reade bag for a decade rather than empty its contents and dispose of it.

My old, reliable Duane Reade bag.

There are three reasons why I don't like shredding. The first reason is that I associate shredding with mice. Years ago, when I lived in a small studio apartment and was single, I used a shredder basket as my primary trash can. Repurpose your old household items! It worked out fine until one day, while lying in bed, I noticed the plastic bag inside of the basket was moving violently. I don't think I needed to check the bag to find out what was happening, but I did anyway. Yes, there was a mouse inside the bag, and yes, I ran to the door, made a swift exit out the building and hid in a nearby Starbucks for the next three hours. Or something like that.

So, shredding is a terrible reminder of a terrible period in my life.

The second reason why I dislike shredding: It's a boring task. So, so boring. I sit on the floor, feed a piece of paper into the shredder,  patiently wait for it to be slashed, cross-cut style, and repeat. I can't really entertain myself in other ways while shredding. I can't watch TV; the shredder is too noisy. I can't listen to music for the same reason. I just have to sit there and watch and listen to the shredder. It's not a relaxing noise. The sound of destruction rarely makes me feel relaxed.

A label on the shredder says I can insert eight sheets of paper at a time, but the shredder didn't fully comprehend the condition of the paper in my Duane Reade bag. With few exceptions, the paper was wrinkled or crumpled or both. I could have left it in nice condition, but how often do you leave junk mail in nice condition? It's junk. 

At the start of the summer, I told myself that this was it, that I would rid myself of the Duane Reade bag once and for all. By Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer, I still had the Duane Reade bag, and it was still quite full. So I spent two of the three days during the holiday weekend shredding like I'd never shredded before. I didn't go to the beach, I didn't travel, I didn't do any of the things that I saw my friends were doing on Facebook. Instead, I sat and shredded.

It's amazing what one can find in a Duane Reade bag when he hoards paper inside of it for 10 years. There were receipts that were so old that the type had completely vanished. It was as if it had been erased from time. Did I really use my credit card to buy something from Circuit City? Who knows? If I did, I'd lost out on my chance to make a return a long time ago.

I had to take breaks every now and then because the shredder overheats fairly quickly, and when that happens it just quits. I had to wait a while for it to cool off before I could resume. It's kind of annoying. Shredder, you have one job. I didn't pay good money for you to sit around and do nothing.

When it did overheat, I emptied the basket into a paper bag (not from Duane Reade). Here's the third reason why I dislike shredding, and it's easily the most frustrating reason: It is impossible to empty the basket without making a huge mess. The shredder I have is Amazon-branded; as I've written on here, I love my Amazon trash can. But Amazon messed up with this shredder.

I'd assumed when I purchased the shredder that I'd be able to empty the basket by removing the top. Not so — with this shredder, you must remove the basket from the side. Here's what happens when you remove the basket from the side:

"#$%#$%$#%#$%$#%$#@%$#@"

Every. single. time. I've tried and tried and tried to empty the basket into a paper bag without making a mess, and have never come close to getting it right. It can really break a man's spirit when a shredder forces him to stand in a pile of his own receipts. I have to vacuum the tiny pieces of paper on the floor, a number of which somehow manage to stick to my leg or furniture, like sprinkles at the Museum of Ice Cream. Paper is never sticky until it comes face to face with the hose of a vacuum.

Eventually, finally, I shredded all of the paper that was in the Duane Reade bag and tossed it all out. I used to think that sticking out a double major in college and finishing that degree was my finest accomplishment in life, but I may be more proud that I stuck out that Duane Reade bag. I finished the college degree in four years; I finished the Duane Reade bag in 10. There's something to be said for that.

Now I'm taking some well-deserved time off from shredding. I have a new bag, with a new collection of paper to shred. I've promised myself I will shred it all sometime in the next several years.