A Night of Culture and S--- At The Park

Wow, it's been nearly four years since I've written a blog post. There are so many reasons why this was the case, but really the simplest explanation I can give is that I had absolutely nothing of substance to offer. Nothing. 

That is, until last week, when I went to the Great Lawn in Central Park for a performance by the New York Philharmonic. There, I experienced something that I've thought about for days, and something that will stay with me for a long, long time. Something that's inspired me to get back on the horse and write again.

That something is horses---.¹  A long string of horses---, on the walking path separating the lawn from the bench I sat on. It was directly in front of me, right in the center of the path. It was very, very hard to miss.

I was baffled that it hadn't been removed prior to the concert, but there it was, and obviously I couldn't ignore it. So for 2 1/2 hours, from the moment I sat down to the moment the concert ended, I stared at that s---, watching how others would react to it. It was 10 times more entertaining than watching a 2 1/2-hour movie, and it was set to a live orchestra, too. 

For some who walked by the s---, it was a curiosity. A few thought it was dogs---. One child speculated it was elephant s---. Given the size and scope of the s---, I won't rule that out.² 

Over the course of the night, five or six people sat to my right on the bench. They too were mesmerized by the horses---. Together, we'd let out a gasp whenever someone would come close to stepping in it, usually because they were too busy staring at their phone. 

"I feel like I should be warning people," I said to a couple next to me at one point.

"No. You ever watch those nature videos where they don't intervene? Let nature take its course," one of them responded.

So we continued to "ooh" as people walked a little too close, as a football fan would when a wide receiver catches a pass in the middle of the field and then is leveled by a safety. 

Let me pause at this point to remind you that the New York Philharmonic was performing music by the likes of Beethoven live in Central Park.

I won't go into any additional detail, since I've talked way more s--- than I'd like to for my first blog post in four years, except for this: As the sun set and the sky darkened, a dog, wearing an LED collar, slowly approached the horses---  and then went straight for the center and ATE IT. 

Dun-dun-dun-dun...dun-dun-dun-dun!³

Amazingly, the dog was not admonished by its owner beyond a "bad dog!" The dog showed zero remorse. But far be it from me to judge either side. I had no dog in this fight. 

Anyway, the next day I returned to the site of the horses---. Not intentionally. I didn't wake up thinking, "Let me see if it's still there." I just happened to be out for a morning walk in Central Park and thought, "Let me see if it's still there." It was mostly cleaned up, though there were still remnants strewn about on the path.

So...yeah. That's what inspired me to write on this blog again. One can only guess what sort of s--- I'll write about next.

1 Very rarely in my life will I use an obscenity in full. I suppose I can attribute that to my upbringing. My parents always taught me to censor my profanity with dashes.

2 I took a photo of it, which is available upon request.

3 Just so we're on the same page, Beethoven's 5th Symphony wasn't actually playing at this moment.

The Day The Foggy Glasses Caught Up To Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Randomness Of Wireless Earbuds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Are You, Cardboard Me?

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

I bought a cardboard cutout. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blogger Was A Spy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I Still Use Hotmail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avocado toast  

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

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

Eggs

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

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

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

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

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

Pasta Sandwich

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

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

A Strong Young Man? Me? Hardly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Basically, I thought this would happen:


via GIPHY

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

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

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

Does Fred Armisen Think He Looks Like Me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few examples:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where's Waldo? Here I Am

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

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

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

I look like Waldo in this sweater.

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

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

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

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

• I like to travel. Waldo likes to travel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say No To Politics At The Farmers Market

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you registered to vote?"

"Yes."

"Are you voting Goldie?"

"No! And I hate dogs!"

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


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

² I can 100% take credit for this line.

The Snorkeling Photo

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

Not what the internet was created for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An LSU Cap Has Made Me Feel So Special

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

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

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

So this season I am absolutely an LSU Tigers fan.

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

“3:30,” I answered.

“Good luck!” the man said.

“Thanks!” I replied.

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

“I will!” I said.

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

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

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

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

Geaux Tigers!

Flushing, We Have A Problem

My one lasting memory of the 2019 Mets season —  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 — is the profound disappointment I felt when I attended a home game on July 27.

I'd bought tickets for the game for two reasons: One, I'm a Mets fan, but two, the team was giving away a bobblehead. I'm hardly a collector of bobbleheads. I own four — 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.

But for whatever reason, I was drawn to this one:

RT to enter to win a @MrMet on the moon bobblehead!

The first 25,000 fans this Saturday will get their very own. https://t.co/iXmLdNwjWp pic.twitter.com/R2ObvdYv2w

— New York Mets (@Mets) July 22, 2019

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?

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.

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.

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.

Flushing, we have a problem.

The Mets ran out of bobbleheads. My friend and I were, quite literally, the 25,004th and 25,005th fans to enter the ballpark.

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.

I'm really kicking myself over that one. That bobblehead would have looked so nice sitting in the back of the closet.

The Upside To Palming A Half-Deflated Basketball

I'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.

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.

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.

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 juuuuust enough that I was able to palm it, and I got a real kick out of that.

Two, I was wearing a hoodie and a pair of basketball shorts because I was planning to stop in at the gym.

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.

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 completely 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.

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."

The man chose Dr. J, who, for the record, tallied three championships, three scoring titles and zero appearances in "Space Jam."

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.

The One Time I Ran The New York City Marathon

The 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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

This is the hidden cost of marathons that no one talks about. They split couples apart.

"I'll come over to you as soon as I can," I told her on the phone. "Don't move!"

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.

"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.

"If you can find an opening, you can go for it. But make it quick," he replied.

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.

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.

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.

That was the one and only time I ran the New York City Marathon. And, fortunately, my future marriage remained intact.

The Know-It-All Health App

I'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.

I don't even know how 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.

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.

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 you turn down a two-for-$6 deal on Ben & Jerry's?

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.

No. Not easy-peasy. I was 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.

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?

What was this, a blood drive or a blind date?

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.

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?

"We really need to know," a nurse told me. "Is there any way you can find out?"

"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.

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.

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.

The Awkward Things That Happened On My European Vacation

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.

For the record, it would have been so much more 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.

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.

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:

Flying to Budapest

It was not a smooth journey from Newark to my first destination, Budapest, which wasn't totally unexpected since I've had my challenges flying internationally in recent years.

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.

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?"

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!"

What he actually said: "Did someone give you a PreCheck slip?" 

"No."

"Then you have to remove your shoes and belt."

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.

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.

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.

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.

And then a car drove onto the bridge and through a huge puddle, splashing water all over my pants.

Iced Coffee In Vienna

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Here's what the waiter brought to me:

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.

And a lot of sugar. This is actual video of me leaving the cafe:


via GIPHY

Honestly, consuming all of that sugar messed me up for days. And once I finally recovered, I ate the  "sugar cookie" in Bucharest.

"Sugar Cookie" In Bucharest

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.

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.

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.

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."

Sugar cube? No wonder there was too much sugar in the cookie. It was all sugar.

A sugar cube with an iced coffee. That was completely foreign to me. What was with this continent and the sugar?

Rembrandt Face In Amsterdam

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.

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.

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.

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 years. I couldn't even process it.)

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.

Basically, the whole trip was a Rembrandt self-portrait.

The Infinity Popcorn War

One out of every three conversations I've had this week has begun with this question: "When are you seeing the new 'Avengers'?"

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.

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.)

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." 

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 great protection when I'm at the movies, which I discovered when we saw the last "Avengers" film, "Infinity War," together. 

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. 

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.

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.

What I really wanted to do was some version of this:

Instead, I calmly walked toward the back of the theater, settling into an empty seat so I could continue to watch the credits. 

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 demands your silence (and your best behavior).

Sweatin' 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.

Usually my comfort zone is watching TV at my house while lying on my couch, wrapped inside a room-temperature blanket.

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:

                                 
via GIPHY

And, as I mentioned, there's a TV.

The idea, of course, is to sweat. I mean, really sweat. The sweating can burn calories, improve skin and lift moods, according to Shape House.

I've tried to lift my mood in other ways in recent years. I've tried meditation. I failed. I've tried yoga. I failed. I don't do wellness very well.

But, as I demonstrated earlier this year when I went square dancing, 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.

Soon after I arrived at Shape House, I was told my television would be equipped with Netflix, Hulu and 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.