Provincetown

Here are some comparisons between the official policies and guidelines of the two parades I remember seeing in-person in my life:

Application Deadline for Marching:
Macy's™ Thanksgiving Day:  8 months before parade.
Provincetown Carnival:  3 days before parade.

Cost to enter:
Provincetown:    $0.
Macy's:  $1,339.

Time before the parade marchers must arrive:
Macy's™:   6 days.
Provincetown:  45 minutes.

Philosophy:
Macy's™:   "..legendary for its rigid standards and it's [sic] highly competitive selection process."  (I guess the rigid standards don't include proper punctuation. Hahahahaha.)
Provincetown:  "...festive, colorful, and tastefully outrageous..."

Parade Pace:
Macy's™:   120 steps in 1 minute.
Provincetown:  0.25 miles in 10 minutes.  (At 3 feet per step, this is 44 steps per minute.)

Theme:
Macy's™:   America's Favorite Parade
Provincetown:  Summer of Love:  Peace, Love and Go-Go Boots

Nudity:
Provincetown:  Not allowed.
Macy's™:   No stated policy.  (This kind of surprised me.)


In My Head:
Macy's™:  Weeeeee! Snoopy!
Provincetown:  Does this shirt make me look straight?

Boat to South Beach

On Cape Cod, you can choose from many beaches.  Over the years, I've learned to distinguish between them.

You have your "Lake" beaches.  These are generally adjacent to a lake.  The sand is reliable, because it is imported by truck.  Sometimes there's a dock, you must have a parking sticker, and the Blue Sky Ice Cream truck is timed to arrive just as it's too early for ice cream.

Then there are the "Bay" beaches.  These are adjacent to the part of the water where in order to get properly "lost at sea" you'd have to drift for many miles around Provincetown.  Bay beaches have crazy tides; are near cute shopping, and the Blue Sky truck is timed to arrive just as you've started lunch.

Lastly, there are the "Ocean" beaches.  These are, apparantly, wide and varied.  There are dozens, it seems, and people have their favorites.  My favorites are the ones where you don't have to pay to park.  I'm still looking for one that fits this bill.  Ocean beaches are windy, packed with hole-digging, castle-building kids, require a full carload of people to transport all your stuff to the sand, and sometimes have fried food and ice cream nearby.

The boat to South Beach is a two-for-one.  You take a boat to a bay beach (not the real bay, a different bay) and then can either stay there among the mosquitos, or walk a couple hundred yards across to the green flies at the ocean.  It's up to you.

Harwichport music

In Harwichport, on Cape Cod, they have a "music stroll" about every other week during the summer. Six or so bands play about every two blocks.  We walked by several bands, listening to parts of songs,  until we heard one band playing "The Weight." 

Family tradition requires that we stop at this song and listen.  Not really my family, but the family I married into.  There are four musical siblings in this family, and "The Weight" is to Kathy and her three brothers what "Satisfaction" is to the Rolling Stones -- they play it at every show.  The reason for this, I believe, is because "The Weight" has 73 verses, which is divisible by four with a remainder of one, thus allowing each sibling the same number of solo opportunities, with one rousing group finish at the end.

Asking me whether I like this song is akin to asking whether I liked the drawings my children used to bring home from second grade art class -- it's irrelevant, because it's going on the refrigerator for certain.

Brewster Scoop

Our Cape Cod vacations are an exercise in deliberate movement. There are 8 of us, and we take a while to get mobilized.

Except when it comes to ice cream. The Brewster Scoop closes at 10 PM, so at about 9:40, for the first and only time all day, the kids express a clear understanding of what time it is, what we need to do to get ready to leave, and how long it will take.

The Brewster Scoop is an old New England institution, and thus I'm pretty certain that they trained the Minutemen by telling them that the Brewster Scoop was closing, and they needed to hurry.

Lake

Until this year, the beach umbrella was my frenemy.

Fre because it protects me from the evil effects of the sun's rays. This ball of gas 90,000,000 miles away makes me sweat and burns my skin. I do wear sunscreen, but I don't trust it. Every second, the sun turns 5 million tons of hydrogen into energy, and I'm supposed to rely on a gooey cream with a child's butt on the label? Plus, I like to use a 30-spf, which supposedly means that 30 minutes with the cream off is the same as 1 minute with the cream on. Thus, if I arrive at the beach and wait 4 minutes before putting sunscreen on, I've wasted two hours of protection. My umbrella, on the other hand, opens in seconds.

Nemy because in places where there is sand to plant the umbrella, there is also wind to unplant the umbrella. If I turn my back, the umbrella will take off towards some unsuspecting family eating sand sandwiches, and I'll have to chase it down like a bad dog, wondering what's gotten into it today, usually it's such a good umbrella. As a result, I end up sitting next to it in a chair, with one hand always on the pole. I look pathetic.

No more, however, thanks to the 75%-off "Beach Umbrella Anchor" purchased at the Star Market -- $3.00! Brilliantly simple -- it has a bracket that goes around the pole, and three bags that you fill with sand to weigh the umbrella down. Since it was installed, I haven't had a single problem. And with zero hands on the pole instead of one, I look 50% less pathetic huddled under my umbrella.

Cape Cod House

For the past 11 years or so, we've been spending a week on Cape Cod each summer with our friends the Whalen-Browns. For the last 8 years, we've rented the same small house in Brewster from friends of theirs, for a great price.

Each year when we return, the house has gotten smaller. My evidence: there's a small window (air vent, really) that the kids all used to make a game of crawling through each year. Then, one year, Jonah wouldn't fit. Then, Alex and Emma wouldn't fit. This year, Carolina barely fit. I'm betting than in another year or two, the window will have closed up altogether.

I think often about places I'm familiar with that I don't visit frequently, and how they exist independently of me. For example, Niagara Falls. If you've every been there, you were overwhelmed with the sheer volume of water that is continuously getting dumped over that cliff. Every once in a while, I think about Niagara Falls and how that water has been rushing since the last time I saw it or thought about it, 24 hours a day, every single second.

The same is true of the Dog. Not the flowing water part, but the "he exists without me" part. If I'm teaching a class, I'll sometimes remember the Dog, sitting at home on his chair, or on his couch, or on my bed (bad dog!). Then, when I get home, I imagine that he's been thinking of me in the same way. Judging from the way he acts, though, I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember who I am. Sort of a selective dementia.

Library

Libraries are wonderful places. They'll lend you books for free, and charge you a dime a day if you're late.

I like to request things via inter-library loan. You used to have to work with the librarian to do this; now, you can do-it-yourself online. I get a lot of DVD's this way. When I go to pick them up, though, I always feel that the librarian is judging me based on what I'm getting. If it's the third season of the BBC's "Ballykissangel," for example, it's okay because it passes the public-TV-I'm-a-discriminating-viewer muster. More likely, though, it's some movie that I want to see but don't really want to pay for, probably with Jennifer Aniston in it.

So I make sure that when I request one of those movies, I also request a highbrow novel that will counteract the stigma of my lowbrow film. I like to do this in themes -- if I get "27 Dresses," I'll also get "100 Years of Solitude." If it's season 2 of "How I Met Your Mother," I'll get Vonnegut's "Mother Night." And so on. It diverts their attention, and messes with their heads.

Congressional District Office

Our democratic congressman won his election by 726 votes out of 160,940 cast. So if you think your vote doesn't matter, well, I guess it doesn't really, but if you had 727 votes, it would matter a lot.

Historically, the 20th congressional district in New York has been solidly republican. Thus, our congressman must tread lightly. The woman we spoke to about health care told us that he's a "Blue Dog" democrat and that he wants to represent all of his constituents, not just the ones who voted for him.

I don't know how this is possible. If half the people (plus 726) want ice cream, and everyone else wants cake, and you can only get one, how do you please the cake eaters? She told us that he'd voted against the second round of Cash for Clunkers as evidence, I think, of his lack of a backbone, so good job.

I went on the Blue Dog Democrat website, and Scott Murphy is not listed as a member. Has he refused to undergo the initiation rites? Has he not paid his dues? Is he lacking in Blue, or worse, Dog? If 725 other voters realize this, he may be in trouble next election.

Racquette Lake

The Dog went on the boat. He didn't mind it too much, although it freaked him out when he was left on land and Kathy went out waterskiing. He didn't care that I was with him.

Some questions come to mind:

Why do dogs enjoy the wind in their faces (out a car window, or in a boat) but if you blow on their noses, they freak out?

If people para-sail from boats, why don't they do it off of cars? Everyone has a car. You could use a skateboard to take off.

I understand why people don't "water" ski off of cars -- it's the crashing.

I don't waterski. I suppose I could get talked into sitting on one of those tubes they pull real fast. But there would have to be ice cream after.

Deck

Do you find that when you are reading a book, you start to think and behave like a character in the book? Sort of like leaving a horror movie and sleeping with the light on, although it lasts for days.

The book I'm reading is Richard Russo's Bridge of Sighs. It's a terrific and complicated novel, but in its essence, it's about a few 60-year-olds who are working to understand how the events of their childhoods have led them to the place they are. Which means I am caught in a web of introspective nostalgia and self-reflection. My favorite place.

It's fun to watch several episodes of The Sopranos and then going to teach a class. Fun for me, anyway, but I don't know about my students. Watching Seinfeld and The Simpsons create no problems, because they fit how my normal self behaves. Kurt Vonnegut novels are in the same vein, only more caustic. Thus, I amuse myself more but upset others more frequently.

Music is this way, too, although I've always been suspicious of the ability of a certain combination of chords or notes or whatever to make you happy or sad or whatever. Was there a Batman villain who was able to use this to commit crime? Regardless, I am wary whenever Jonah plays something on his guitar and then asks for something. I fear I'm prone to musical hypnosis.

Dad's Study

Like imprinting on a duck, the sports team that an adult male roots for depends on what happens when he was about 10 years old. In 1972, for example, the Miami Dolphins went undefeated and won the Super Bowl. Thus, there are many men my age who root for the Miami Dolphins. Sometimes the local culture supports the home team strongly enough to overcome their lack of success (see: Boston Red Sox, circa 1972).

My dad is a lifelong Yankee fan. In the early 70’s, the Yankees weren’t very good. There was another team in New York, though, and they had had some recent success, winning the World Series in 1969 and getting to the Series in 1973. For my dad, the Mets were a diversion while the Yankees regrouped, although I didn’t realize this at the time. Nor did he realize that when he took me to a few Mets games a year, that he was determining my long-term loyalty.

I rooted for the Yankees too, especially in the late 70’s when the Mets were terrible. Still, my heart was with the Mets, and when the Dwight Gooden appeared in a Mets uniform, and the Yankees fired and rehired Billy Martin for the eleventh time, I embraced the Mets and rejected the Yanks. Interleague play cemented my allegiance, and now I solidly root against the Yankees.
When my father I and watch baseball together, we’ll split TV time between the Mets and the Yankees. He knows that I’m rooting against the Yankees, although I do my best to hide it. I’ve caught him rooting against the Mets, which surprised both of us. He sees my becoming a Mets fan as a failure of his parenting.

Also, he feels responsible for subjecting me to the pain of being a Mets fan in 2009. I think.

Golden Wok

I don’t really understand Chinese menus. I do understand that it’s not really Chinese, but I’m not sure why. I did go to a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown (the New York one) once, and I remember an incomprehensible (to me) menu, and incomprehensible (to me) food. Is this a soup? Is it a dip? Do I wash my fingers in it? Very confusing. I won’t even talk about wondering what member of the animal kingdom I was eating. Obviously, I have difficulty stepping outside of my culture.

So there is a difference. Somewhere along the line, our culture created an Americanized Chinese cuisine. I would think then that the menu would be easier to understand. Ironically, the names of the items you order are very literal: Chicken with broccoli, Shrimp with Snow Peas, and so on. Yet, when they arrive, they look very different. Sometimes, the named items are part of a larger group of vegetables. Sometimes, it’s just those items in some sort of sauce/goo. Sometimes fried, sometimes wokked. It’s very difficult to know. Some Chinese restaurants have photos of the food (genius!). Ours does not. It’s another one of the many situations in my life where I feel like I’m expected to understand something that seems easy, but in truth is impenetrable by intuition. Maybe I should hire a tutor.

Fortunately, there are some go-to items that are mostly predictable. Sesame chicken is pretty consistent from restaurant to restaurant, as is General Tso (of frequent crossword puzzle fame) and my favorite, Moo Shoo Chicken. Sometimes spelled Mu Shu. Traditionally served with pork instead. At least in America.

Admission Office

Generally, those who haven't taught before are scared out of their wits. What they should be feeling is scared out of their wits, so this is good.

Entering teaching as a profession is like nothing else. You've spent your entire life around teachers, watching them, judging them, speculating on how you'd handle different situations. When you are in front a classroom for the first time, things flip around in more ways than one.

The most difficult reversal is often unexpected. If you've become a teacher, chances are you did okay in school, kind of liked it, and surrounded yourself with other students who felt the same way. Sure, there were kids who didn't buy into the whole game, but you could essentially ignore them and do your own thing. Now that you're in front of the classroom, however, everything is reversed. You love the students who buy into your program -- they make things go smoothly. Quickly, though, it's the other students who command your attention -- kids who don't like school, don't do their work, and generally distract from what you're trying to accomplish. They're now front and center in your world, and the non-squeaky-wheeled-goody-goodies like you were become background to the challenging students that are now front-and-center in your day.

How you deal with this challenge is a crucial test of whether you can ever be a successful teacher. My second grade teacher used to put masking tape on your mouth if you talked out of turn. Although she (and I) turned out to be okay, I can't recommend this approach.

Hair Salon

Getting a haircut is full of anxiety for me. First, when I call to make an appointment, they always ask "Who cuts your hair?" Honestly, I don’t care who cuts my hair, but when I tell them this, I wonder if it’s offensive. Am I discounting their individual talents when I say it doesn’t matter? I do resist saying, "Just anyone with scissors," but I feel like they’re offended anyway. I just want an appointment time that is convenient for me.

When you get there she asks, "So what are we doing today?" I want to say, "Um, cutting my hair shorter? Duh?" but I understand that other people are more creative than me: "I’d like the Brad Pitt on the top and front, but layer it a bit on the sides and back with highlights and French twist with some bacon." I’ve learned to say, with confidence, with a thoughtful look on my face, while running my fingers through my hair, "Hmmm. Let’s take off about half of it." That’s the best I’m gonna do.

Then comes the hard part – small talk. I’ve actually asked friends to give me suggestions as to what I can talk to my barber – sorry, hair stylist – about as she cuts my hair. Weather is a no-brainer, but that always comes up first and lasts about 40 seconds. Then, she’ll ask about my kids, whose hair she’s cut for several years. I’ll ask about her kids. That’s about two minutes gone, total. I feel guilty when the conversation is made up of her asking me something, and then me answering and then asking her the same question back.

If there’s a local news story that’s relevant, I’ll sometimes practice how to bring it up with her, and if my courage allows, I’ll actually do so. This is a major coup for me. Often, I’ll just close my eyes and pretend to doze.

When it’s all done, she asks, "How’s that?" I try to look critically at my reflection, and say with sincerity, "That looks great," when in reality, I don’t really care much because, c’mon, it’ll grow back anyway, right? I do think she’s on to me here, though, because she doesn’t use the hand mirror to show me the back anymore.

I always finish by tipping a dollar more than I think is appropriate, because in my mind this atones for all of my previous sins. It’s worked, because she’s never shaved "Kick Me" into the back of my head. (As far as I know.)

De La Vergne

I took Emma and Lena out for dinner. Could’ve gone for pizza (probably should have) but went to local steak house instead.

This place has had several reincarnations in my time living here, but the first was as a bar called "Top o’ the Stretch." This was the location of my one and only (near) bar fight, about 24 years ago.

I was playing pool with a woman who was also Young Millbrook Faculty at the time. She and I were a team, and we were playing against a pair of rough looking guys. Winner got to keep the table, so there was something on the line. At a point late in the game, my partner didn’t have a clear shot at anything productive, so she chose to make a defensive shot, just shooting the cue ball off of a few cushions, hoping to leave our opponents nothing to shoot at either. She saw this as crafty; the cowboys we were playing did not. There was some swearing, some slamming of pool sticks, a threat to "ask the bartender about the house rules," a quick concession speech by me, and a speedy getaway.

To this day, I’m pretty sure I could have taken the shorter one.

Batting Practice

One of the many disadvantages of getting older is that if you should be at a baseball game, and a ball should come your way, and you should happen to catch it, it's your responsibility to give it to the nearest person eight-years-old or younger, because, c'mon, you're an adult, and the kid brought his glove, and he/she'd be so excited to get a ball, even though you know from having parented a pair of children yourself that the ball will end up lost or under a bed or on the floor so you can trip on it in the dark, while you yourself have waited your whole sports-watching career to catch a ball yourself and have no interested in giving it up to some kid who doesn't even understand the importance of moving a runner from second to third with less than two out, and really just came to the game because he knew his parents would buy him cotton candy AND ice cream.

So, when you watch batting practice, you should find a spot with a lot of empty seats around you. This provides two advantages: One, no little kids will look at you with their pouty eyes when you snare a ball; and two, there's more area that you control, and therefore you have a better chance of catching a ball.

Daniel Murphy hit my ball into the right field seats where I'd found such a spot. It hit the cement stairs 15 feet away from me, bounced up into the steel rafters 20 feet above and 10 feet over from me, rebounded right back at me where I got a hand on it but couldn't make the catch, then rolled under my feet where I picked it up. I glanced around -- nearest kid was 8 rows away -- and determined that the ball was mine to keep.

When I told Emma that I'd gotten a ball, she said, "I want to get a ball!" Too bad for her. Maybe next time.

Stairs

Home ownership is a strange thing. When I look around our Adirondack house, I picture all of the individual pieces as things we own. Ten doorknobs – we own them. Fifty-two guard-rail pieces of wood – ours. Light switches, ceiling fans, carpeting, wood support beams, hot water heater – all ours.

I always tell my auto mechanic that I really shouldn’t be allowed to own a car. I just don’t know enough about how they work to be worthy of having my own. The same is true of a house. I do enjoy when there’s a task I can accomplish, however, like assembling furniture from IKEA or wiring a stereo correctly. I’ve gotten as far as putting shelves up, but that’s about it.

"This light doesn’t work."
"Did you try changing the bulb?"

"The heat isn’t working."
"Did you try turning up the thermostat?"

"This door won’t close."
"Is it supposed to close?"

"The water is brown."
"What color should it be?"

I’m Mr. Handy.

Race the Train

The "Race the Train" race passes right by our house in the Adirondacks. It starts at the rail station in Riparius (elevation 883 feet) and ends at the rail station in North Creek (elevation 1100 feet). That's an elevation change of 217 feet over about 8 miles. Trigonometry says that this is an average angle of elevation of about 1.1 degrees. Big deal.

Okay, there's a killer hill at the start -- maybe 2 miles long. You get some of it back going downhill, but not all.

A scenic tourist train leaves Riparius at the same time as the runners. Along the way, the train stops so that those riding can encourage/taunt the runners. The train continues on to the finish line. About a quarter of the runners beat the train there.

Kathy is the runner. She has run this race twice, and although she hasn't beaten the train, she's finished strong both times.

I am the watcher. I've tried running for recreation a couple of times in my life. I dislike it. People who run also claim to dislike it. I don't think they understand what that word means.

I remember about 20-some years ago resolving to run after practice with a friend of mine. We started around the track and got about a quarter of the way around (which is 1/16 of a mile, if you're counting) before the bugs got so bad that we couldn't possibly continue. Seriously, they were really bad.

That's the last time I've been a runner.