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.