Questions Now That 2020 Is Here
When someone sends you a tin of cookies tor Christmas, should you notify them when you have run out?
Would “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “Anatomy of a Murder” have been better movies if no witnesses were called to testify?
One of my Christmas presents is a gift certificate to buy a new bicycle helmet. Does anyone look good in a bicycle helmet?
If your wife, against your wishes, buys a phony Christmas tree—a puny thing that a hiccup would knock over—should you ever stop making jokes about it?
If every year you have trouble with a timer for the Christmas lights on your bushes, should you do something about it, say maybe read up on how timers work? I didn’t think so.
Would an intelligent person keep buying new Ping-Pong balls when there must be at least 55 good balls hidden among and behind rugs, shelves, knee braces, window fans, highchairs and who knows what else in your basement?
Does the clutter in your basement say something about your state of mind?
Should you keep seeing doctors who look worse than you do?
Is it normal to think every day “I should get the car washed” but only go have it done two or three times a year?
Should I believe the nearly-daily emails in my spam box that say “Fedex Wants To Hire You”?
Is it normal, nearly 14 years after you retired, to still be yelling during TV and radio newscasts when something dumb, unattributed or opinionated is said by a reporter or anchor?
If someone you respected said The New York Times has a great sports page, should you alert a relative of this person about the chances of early onset dementia?
If you donate your car to a PBS station, do they care if you leave your wife in it?
Enjoy 2020. Let’s hope we have that kind of vision come November.
(Posted January 2, 2020)
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(Non-Political) QUESTIONS AS 2020 COMES TO A CLOSE
Should opening the plastic bags provided in dispensers in produce sections of supermarkets be an Olympic sport?
If Dallas Townsend were still with us would he be a whiz at tweeting? Dallas, anchor for years of the CBS World News Roundup, had his own abbreviation system and back in the 1980s might have handed in copy that read: “T Pres speaks in Wash tdy to the AMA convention, a group tt has soundly criticized his health spending plans.”
Should baseball bats be placed near the dispensers of plastic bags in produce sections of supermarkets? Why, you ask? For use on the dispensers by those who fail week after week in opening the @#$%^Y&*()_+ bags in a timely fashion.
How many times a night does a normal 83-year-old get up to use the bathroom? Nine? 19? Five? Thrice?
If we had never shopped at LL Bean or Orvis and they had never sent us catalogs, how many trees would have been saved?
When a trainee at a physical therapy facility stretches my legs, one at a time, and puts a knee near a vulnerable part of my body, should I say “be careful,” close my eyes and pray or start singing, “Yes, we have no bananas”?
I don’t butt dial as much as I used to and for that my kids and grandkids are grateful, or say they are. What are the chances I’ll soon be able to remember where the volume control is on my cellphone? And if I am successful in recapturing that information, will I also be able to find out what I’m doing wrong that turns the volume to such a low setting only a librarian could hear it?
Do most people know they have an iliotibial band or is this a revelation doctors only spring on you when you become a senior citizen? Can those senior citizens who know they have one, spell it?
After January 20th next year will I still be yelling at the TV when we’re watching news or opinion programming? Do others have as much trouble as I do separating what is news from opinion programming?
Why is it harder to read an analog clock at 3 a.m. than it is at 3 p.m.?
Is writing advertising copy for the internet fun? The other day the subject line on an ad in my spam folder read: “Larry, get your body back.” I resisted the temptation to click on it. I mean, where had my body been? Did it enjoy itself while away? Was it with someone smart and pretty? Is Irene going to ask me a lot of questions about where I’ve been?
My morning walk frequently takes me by a dog park where people are always throwing tennis balls for dogs to fetch. How does a dog learn that a tennis ball isn’t something he should eat?
I write down things I hear or see that might be fodder for an essay. The website of my favorite Austrian jam maker, Darbo, recently featured the headline “A Fruit-Filled Life.” Am I going to be able to resist doing something stupid and trying to wrap some prose around that statement? If I do write something, will it be one of those pieces I don’t dare show to Irene for her opinion?
Many mornings there’s a guy on a unicycle in the park where I walk. In February when there’s snow on the ground, does he have a snow tire for his unicycle?
How much longer am I going to get notes from UPS, Ford, FedEx, Coca Cola and others saying they have seen my resume and want to interview me? Wouldn’t I have to get my body back before I could do an interview?
(Posted November 23, 2020)
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WORDS AND A FLAG, November 2, 2020
“Criminals always figure a way out when they’re in trouble.”—A line from a 1941 movie “Whistling in the Dark” with Red Skelton shown today on TCM.
“A decisive day not only for the U.S. All people I know here – and I think most Germans – keep fingers crossed and hope for Biden to win. I hope and wish the election and the outcome will proceed peacefully.”—Email from a friend in Munich.
“Born amid made-up crowd size claims and “alternative facts,” the Trump presidency has been a factory of falsehood from the start, churning out distortions, conspiracy theories and brazen lies at an assembly-line pace that has challenged fact-checkers and defied historical analogy.”—Analysis piece by Peter Baker, White House correspondent of The New York Times.
“Dear Mr. McCoy,
Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. While my staff works to ensure your concerns are addressed, I want you to know that I am fighting every day for you and your American Dream.”—Part of standard White House response to my email last weekend, which, among other things, said that Trump claiming we were “rounding the corner” in the battle against COVID-19 reminded me of Dean Rusk saying there “was light at the end of the tunnel” in the war in Vietnam. Neither was true.
On the ride back from my morning walk in a park, there were a few American flags flying outside homes in East Rockaway, New York. One of them was upside down.
“Scholars warn of collapse of democracy as Trump v Biden election looms“— Headline in piece from The Guardian sent to me today.
“This man has no soul. He has no conscience.”—A line from the 1941 movie “Whistling in the Dark.”
I’m 83 years old. I don’t recall ever hearing that stores were being boarded up before an American presidential election and that one of the candidates was proposing to go to court even before the voting had ended. Where am I? Who are we?
(Posted November 2, 2020)
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IT WASN’T NO VANDALS. IT WAS JIM AND ME
Those of us who do a little writing are starved for feedback, and welcome it even when it’s a long time in coming. Forty-four years ago the Los Angeles Times printed a piece I wrote about Halloween. The feedback came a few days ago.
First the essay, which carried the headline above, then the feedback.
Running was what Halloween was all about when I was a kid. Almost a quarter of a century has gone by since then, but I’ve never found anything that matches the gasping, gurgling joy of running away from something you shouldn’t have done: “sticking” a car horn, soaping a store window, slinging a garbage can lid on a neighbor’s front porch. Nowadays many kids don’t know what walking is, let alone running, and I suspect they have a lot less fun than I and my buddies did back in the 50s in Indiana.
Halloween of 1952 stands out in my memory as the best of all. The morning afterwards there was a brief story on the front page of the local newspaper under the headline “Vandals Let Down Streetlights.” It wasn’t no vandals. It was Jim Painter and me.
The two of us had nothing in common except an around-the-clock devotion to horseplay. Jim was two years younger, five inches shorter, 15 pounds heavier, and a good half-inch thicker across the eyes which from time to time were shielded by the worst-fitting pair of glasses ever made. Alone, we were both reasonably intelligent. Together, we had a collective IQ of six. Six-tenths.
While the report in the Frankfort Morning Times was factually correct about the streetlights being messed with, it captured none of the excitement of the deed. What we called a streetlight in those days was just a light bulb at the top of a wooden pole with a metal replica of Buster Keaton’s hat as a shade. If the bulb burned out, the street department came along, lowered the light and screwed in a new one. It was easy. A chain running up to the shade was held in place at about chest level from the ground by a ring which hooked into a catch device.
It doesn’t really matter who let the first one go—although I have always thought it was Jim—what’s important is the wonderful sensation it created. The light came plunging down, and we ran like hell, convinced it was going to be smashed to pieces. We didn’t know that the city fathers had planned it so there was less chain than pole. The light bounced and jangled to a halt about three feet above the pavement. Even without eyes in the backs of our fleeing heads we realized we had discovered a great sport, and we scampered across the south side of town, letting down every second or third streetlight. We didn’t hurt anyone. We didn’t break anything, and frankly it was two of the most exhilarating hours of my life.
A year later Jim and I were back in action. By this time we were hanging around with guys who had wheels. Three carloads of us had set out from the drug store for a bit of cruising. Our usual tour—from the Square to Art’s Drive-in and back—took us through a residential area loaded with jack-o’-lanterns on the doorsteps. Someone dared someone else to run up and steal one, so he did and then we all did and then we drove around some more—11 jackasses in three cars full of jack-o’-lanterns and no one with the foggiest notion of what to do with them.
Jim Painter to the rescue. “Let’s dump’em on Old Howard Crouse’s porch,” he said. A sensible suggestion unless you were aware that Old Howard Crouse was our high school principal. Sensible or not, it was an idea, something we were always short of. Mr. Crouse may have had the status and money to afford a house in one of the nicer neighborhoods, but he had an awfully small front porch to handle 70 to 80 pounds of crushed pumpkin gracefully.
Of the 11 Future Failures of America who participated in the night’s festivities, I was the only one who got a view of the carnage in broad daylight. Unbeknownst to the staff of the Frankfort Morning Times, one of the new members of their paper boy tribe had been attacked on the front page a year before as a “vandal.” I had a good arm and prided myself on getting the paper on the porch for all my customers—a category which included Mr. Howard Crouse. This was not the morning for exceptions or anything suspicious. Catfish Hunter never fired a harder one than I did into that orange goo. I’m sure Mr. Crouse didn’t bother to try to extract the paper from the pumpkin or vice versa.
My Halloweening career ended the following October in complete disaster. Before Jim Painter and I had a chance to combine our talents, I went out with my brother looking for what most of us in the 50s thought was “action.” About six blocks away from home, I grabbed a garbage can and was about to heave it and its contents against the front of a house when the door opened. There stood Mrs. Gray, a dignified, charming widow with a 20-year-old son in college. She was marvelous. She ignored the garbage can in my hands and casually asked if we would like to come in for a glass of cider.
We must have been inside for an hour and a half. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I do know it was all so very pleasant and civilized. After the cider and conversation, my brother and I walked straight home, not saying a word. I think we were both depressed that someone had finally assumed we were big enough to be treated like young men and not boys. I went to bed that night reminiscing about the fun and glory of my youth and wondering where it had all gone. I was 16.
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The other night while watching the Yankees lose to Tampa Bay I checked my email, and there was a note from a woman who wrote: “I’m Old Howard Crouse’s daughter. My parents and I enjoyed your story for many years. I just found several copies of it after going through Dad’s things. He passed away in 2013 but he loved telling your story. Hope this finds you well and not out smashing pumpkins on someone’s porch this Halloween. 😂👻🎃”
Cathy Crouse was three years old in 1952. I sent her a thank you note and assured her I was trying to behave this Halloween. If my math is correct, “Old Howard Crouse” was in his early 30s when crushed pumpkin appeared on his porch.
Author’s note: It was my older brother Jim I was with on the night of the encounter with Mrs. Gray. Why I didn’t give his name in the essay is a mystery.
(Posted October 9, 2020)
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ON BEING 83
I take nine pills at breakfast and five pills after my afternoon nap. Or is it the other way around?
Newsday prints lists of celebrities’ birthdays, and most mornings I haven’t heard of half of them.
There are more noises in my pants than there used to be, especially after meals. The noises are also louder. Who says I don’t hear as well as I once did?
My two little fingers could be described as deviated digits. They both point toward my thumbs. No, this is one thing I don’t blame on the current occupant of the White House.
I was washing my hands frequently, way before the CDC recommended it. I’ve been doing that for years because I urinate more often than most people.
It takes me a while to lift a leg high enough to get on my bicycle.
My toes have moved. When trying to touch them with my fingers, they are farther away than they were when I was 73.
Nearly every day I discover a new bruise somewhere around my expanding stomach. At times the middle of my body looks like a paint chart at a Sherwin Williams store.
Ten minutes is longer than I remember it being or at least it is when I’m on an elliptical machine at a local park.
I have trouble holding on to things, be it coffee from the deli or my house keys. When leaving the house, I have dropped my keys so many times I just consider bending over to get them an addendum to my morning stretching routine.
The dictionary I keep by my computer, “The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language,” is heavier than it was five years ago.
I need a training bra if they still sell them.
I watch too much television.
Only about half the actors currently making films and videos enunciate. All the British crime shows my wife Irene watches should automatically come with closed captioning. Could the British be putting us on, making a mumblers’ version of all their crime programs and selling them only to the States?
Some of the analysts on cable TV “news” look so young I don’t understand why they aren’t studying for their SATs.
I know what “woke” means but frankly don’t want to know what Generation X, Millennials and all those other categories are.
I could live to be 183 and would never understand why you need both a password and a passcode for some of these new devices.
We don’t have all that much money in the bank, so I don’t see why the kids were upset after I told them I had changed my bank PIN from 1234 to 4321.
I left journalism 14 years ago and still have a recurring dream about failing to write enough stories to fill a newscast. Do retired sex workers have dreams about their work? Is there video of them talking about this? What channel is it on?
(Posted September 24, 2020)
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MY NEW GYM IS HOME; IT WORKED OUT.
The gyms may be reopening, but I’m not going back to mine. I don’t need it anymore. Before COVID-19, I went to the gym six days a week. Now, I have my own home-workout program. It’s demanding and free, if you exclude the cost of a snack here and there.
My workout begins outdoors around 7:20 a.m. with the rapid lifting and lowering of the garage door. I do this many times, getting in 20 to 30 reps of stretching and bending. This is a pretty noisy activity, and, although the neighbors may object, I figure it’s time everyone was out of bed.
From the garage I go to the basement where I put a bowling ball in my knapsack, put the knapsack on my back and head for the attic. That’s three flights of stairs. I try to do this 15 times every morning, stopping only for a drink of water in the kitchen and perhaps an Oreo or a handful of Sun Chips. Here is another reason I don’t need the gym. It doesn’t offer either Oreos or Sun Chips.
Next up is the bike in our bedroom. This is not a bike with audio and video of a half-dressed instructor yelling at you to step it up a notch. At my age, 82, you don’t have notches. Flab, yes. Notches, no.
This machine weighs approximately as much as a refrigerator and has to be maneuvered away from a bookcase before it can be mounted. To accomplish this, I use several muscle groups—biceps, quadriceps, fingerceps, in fact, all the ceps.
I ride for about 20 minutes, sometimes reading a newspaper, other times wishing I had never learned to tell time because it is taking so long to get to the 20-minute mark. This boredom is eased if I’ve slipped at least one Oreo into my pocket during my last breeze through the kitchen.
I’ve never done much for my upper body, but now if I’m in the mood I will use what is at hand in the kitchen—a piggy bank packed with pennies that must weigh 6 pounds. Standing with feet wide apart, I lift the pig over my head 10-15 times. On days when I’m ambitious, I will thrust the pig into the air with my left arm while my right raises a Pringles container loaded with, yes, more pennies. The container is hard to grip because it’s perpetually greasy.
It’s now time for breakfast. After my cereal and toast, I need to shower and shave. Sometimes I feel I’ve earned a nap, so I take one. By the time I wake up, it’s time for lunch. Since I’ve napped after lunch for years, my second snooze of the day comes before a shower.
By 3:30 p.m., I’ve showered, put on clean clothes, and I am raring to take on the world. When I was a gym rat. I was out of the shower and on my way home by 9 a.m. My new routine is much more relaxing, and I’m no longer cheating my body of all the sugar and sodium it craves. I’m respecting its wishes.
I hope my doctors are proud of me, but I don’t dare ask them.
(This was published in the print edition of Newsday on September 6, 2020, posted here September 8, 2020.)
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BREAKING IN THE NEW GUY
(This was first published August 12, 2020 on the website of the Great South Bay Magazine.)
The dentist I’ve seen for more than 30 years retired recently, and I’m about to make my first visit to the guy he shared an office with. I had a routine going with the older dentist, a routine based on sarcasm.
When Dr. B completed work on a filling, he’d ask, “How’s that feel?” I’d usually respond with something like, “Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel all that bad. It’s amazing you still have a license.” He played along, laughing. “I know, I know. I’ve been watching YouTube videos to see how real dentists do things.”
After I found out he had retired, I sent an email saying, “I knew you didn’t have any stamina.” Dr. B quickly replied, “As old as you are I never thought you’d still have teeth left, let alone a memory.”
Unless there’s a serious problem, I don’t think medical visits should be all business and no horseplay. How do I break the new dentist in? Here are a few opening lines I’ve thought of using:
“A gown? Is that something new? Dr. B never bothered wearing one.”
“I’ll warn you. I always get a terrible case of the hiccups when my gums are touched.”
“Is that my blood or yours on your finger?”
“Are you wearing gloves or are your fingers always blue?”
“If this is going to hurt would you switch the TV to one of the news channels? I like to get all the pain of the day out of the way at one go.”
“I hope you know—it should be in my file—Dr. B always knocked me out with some happy juice even if he was just doing a cleaning.”
“Wow, with all that stuff you have on around your head, I can’t decide if you’re a dentist or a beekeeper.”
“There’s a dentist at the gym who gets teased all the time that he wasn’t smart enough to become a real doctor. Do you feel that way about yourself?”
“Are you aware that Dr. B never charged me? In place of money, I gave him copies of my books. He claimed he used them as door stops at his place in the Poconos. I think he was dead serious.”
“I’m just here for a circumcision. This is the right place, yes?”
Of course, I could try to play it straight on my initial visit, but that would be so out of character. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong impression, to think I’m just an ancient citizen who’s barely with it and isn’t up to pestering everyone every chance he gets.
(Posted August 13, 2020)
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