"Protection On Ice"

The one time I got to meet and interview perennial funnyman Mel Brooks, he told me the story of when, back in the 1940’s, he had peppily charged onstage, opening his neophyte stint as a stand-up comedian at a Catskills resort with the traditional,

“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen…”

At which point, a woman at a ringside table lamented,

“Oy!  English!”

Each year, I purchase for my friend Paul and I, both of us expatriate Canadians and both inveterate hockey fans, a “Hockey Heroes” calendar merchandised by the NHL Hockey Hall of Fame. 

Each month of the calendar features the picture of a different Hall of Famer, going back to the 1930’s, every decade distinguishable not just by the era-appropriate player but by the designated equipment of the day. 

And every time we flip the calendar page to the following month and behold its accompanying picture, we experience to same dread as the audience member from the Catskill, only instead of “Oy!  English!”, it’s

“Oy!  Helmets!”

Though it could equally easily be,

“Oy!  Teeth!”

Here’s what that means, for those who, through lack of interest or enthusiasm, may not identify with our disappointment.  Our personal “Hockey Heroes” – Frank Mahovlich, Gordie Howe, Johnny Bower, played in an era before helmets and, more often than not, without teeth.  (And, in the case, of goaltender Johnny Bower, without any manner of protective mask.) 

So when we encounter helmeted “Heroes” on that month’s calendar picture – and a full set of choppers, as today’s helmets come equipped with Plexiglas visors – you may detect a sense of underlying disgust flying off of the screen  – we are inconsolably chagrined.

These more recent practitioners may be “Heroes.”  But they are not our heroes.  And comparatively at least, they are wimps.

I get what I am rooting for here.  I am rooting for nostalgia.  But inextricably concomitantly, it now occurs to me, I am indefensibly rooting against safety. 

It’s like a diehard racing fan car complaining,

“Oy!  Brakes!”

(Assuming the racing cars of yore came without brakes and any racing car fan ever said, “Oy!”)

I realize something is wrong with being against safety.  How can root injury and disfigurement?  (And by “you”, I mean me.)

Which, of course, I don’t.  I just no root against the protective headgear that prevents injury and disfigurement.  (And also against change.)

I don’t know how far I can go favoring the wrong side of an argument.  (Though it does not feel entirely uncomfortable.)  It’s just that, even acknowledging the right of the players to retire unmarred by faces stitched up like a baseball and still retaining the ability to smile without oral prosthetics, here’s what I dearly and sentimentally miss.

Hockey before “safety” was natural.  It was “human scale.”  It was black-and-white photography.  And most of importantly, before “safety”,

You could see the faces. 

(And the hair.  As memorable as his cannonading slap shot was Bobby Hull’s long, golden locks, flying skyward as he streaked unstoppably up the ice.)

And yet…

Lobbying for injury and “What happened to your nose”?

If I like those guys, I have to be for their protection, don’t I?  Not against it.  Even though – this may be a self-serving argument, or it may actually be true, or, most likely, a combination of them both – insulation from physical endangerment via protective equipment may arguably lead to feelings of invulnerability, which could lead to even greater physical endangerment, wherein the protective devices are wielded as weapons.  See:  Football.  Subsection:  Helmets. 

See Also:  Semi-Persuasive Rationalizations.

I can’t help it.  I miss what I miss.  Still, how many players of the past were seriously lacerated for my enjoyment?  Even if…

Semi-Persuasive Rationalization Number Two:  They never complained about it.  They were hockey players; they expected to retire ugly, their Frankenstinian scarring and lifelong limps worn as proud “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world” badges of distinction.

It’s complicated.  The players (for the most part) fought against it.  The fans hated it.  The game was irreparably altered.  The only arguments in favor: 

Reason, compassion and preeminent common sense.

Yikes.

As Fagin once sang in Oliver’s “Reviewing The Situation”,

I think I better think it out again.

But in the meantime, “Hockey Heroes” calendar manufacturers…

More Mahovlich.

Less players I never heard of.

"5775"

Jewish New Year…

A time for contemplation

(some variation of) prayer

repentance

And a sincere effort to do better.

And not for writing.

To all who honor this tradition:

A happy, healthy, prosperous and productive New Year.

An to all who don’t:

Have a pleasant and enjoyable Thursday.

"Tomorrow"

Note:  The following was written without the inhibiting assistance of actual research.

It may not be easy to nail me on this infraction – as there are so many variables involved – but I believe that I drove at least two of my High School Geography teachers into early retirement – and possibly the loony bin – trying to explain to me how, when it was one day in Toronto (where I grew up), it was another day somewhere else in the world.

I just did not get the “International Dateline.”  And unlike my classmates, who either got it or were too uninterested to care – many of whom urged me to stop my indefatigable quest, some of them with physical threats – I refused to relent until it was clear in my head how it could possibly be tomorrow someplace when it was today where I was.  (Not only was I obsessively curious about such perplexities, but what if we were asked to explain the “International Dateline” on an exam, and I lost marks by answering, “You know I don’t know.  And I’m not even sure I believe it!”)

I have the recollection of being informed that they don’t teach Geography anymore.  Geography was a subject where you learned where places were and, in the most superficial sense of requiring us to memorize their three major exports, something about what they did there.  (I recall you could rarely go wrong by, after listing the two exports you were sure of, guessing “sugar beets” for the third one.  Although I always wondered why you would import them when you already had “sugar beets” of your own. )

To this day, I can rattle off, not all, but at least the four northernmost rivers of England (Tweed, Tyne, Tees, Ouse.)  I just recently impressed a young family member by knowing the essential export of Sheffield – knives.  (Yes, our Geography classes reflected a preponderance of British Commonwealth illumination, though I do recall constructing a “salt and flour” map {whatever that is} of South America.)

The tiny sampling of my family suggests that the younger generations are generally indifferent to geographical identification.  Whenever I head for the atlas to show them concretely where some distant locale is situated, my educational efforts are invariably met with an exaggerated chorus of groaning.  Followed by an encore of irritation when I cannot immediately point my finger to it on the map.  (“That’s ‘G-11.’  But it’s not there!”)

Geography always fascinated me.  But I could never (and to a degree that I am about the demonstrate still can’t) get my head around the “International Dateline.” 

How, when it is today in Toronto, can it possibly be tomorrow in Australia or Japan? 

(I am reminded of a joke once written by the great Stan Daniels for The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  {I almost never do this, but when I worked there, I specifically inquired about its authorship.}

 

Mary’s work arena was WJM, a local news station in Minneapolis.  On the wall, as appropriate set decoration, was a series of clocks, indicating the various local times of the major international news centers.  The dufus anchorman Ted Baxter once remarked {something like}, “Look at that.  It’s an hour later in New York, and two hours earlier in Los Angeles.  And in Tokyo, it’s tomorrow.  You know what that means?  There are people walking around Minneapolis who are already dead in Japan.”)

Unashamedly, I identify my confusion about the “International Dateline” with that dufus fictional anchorman from television.

Okay.

Somebody made up time.  I think they were English.  (Because there’s this place where they specialized in “time” called Greenwich, and Greenwich (pronounced Grenich) is in England.

Here is the difficulty they were trying to overcome.  Understandably, you do not want the daytime – when you went out and did things – to occur at night.  Therefore – I’m just spitballing here – you could not have all the places in the world be the same time at the same time, because if you did that, some of them would be experiencing daylight while others, at that exact same moment would be entirely in the dark. 

And you can’t have that.  That’s crazy.

They needed to figure out a way where, wherever you were, it was daylight during the appropriate time, so you knew when to go do things and you knew when to lie down.  I am aware of those polar locations where it’s still pretty messed up, but you cannot accommodate everyone.  (And how would you if you wanted to?  Make the earth rotate differently on its axis?  Sorry, Scandinavians.  No can do.)

For the most part, there is a daytime and a nighttime and the daytime takes place when the sun is out and the nighttime takes place when it isn’t.  Which is good.  Now.

In order for that arrangement to play out, you need to divide the world into “Time Zones”, making it simultaneously a different time in different places so people could wake up when the sun’s coming up and not when it’s going down. 

They decided upon twenty-four “Times Zones”, one “Time Zone” for each hour of the day.  And everybody accepted that arrangement.  (Except in Indiana, where a law was passed allowing every county to individually determine whether it wanted to be on Eastern Time or Central Time.  Leading me to mistakenly arrive at numerous South Bend baseball games during the fourth inning.  Ready to sing the National Anthem.)

Now here’s where it gets tricky.

You have twenty-four “Times Zones.”  So, inevitably, at some point somebody’s going to slip over into the following day.  I get that.  (Now.)  Twenty-four “Time Zones” means that when it’s 12:01 P.M. someplace, twelve time zones away, it’s going to be 12:01 A.M. (or tomorrow) someplace else.

The unsolved issue for me is…

Where?

Where does tomorrow happen first?  And why is it there?  It seems like tomorrow should begin in Greenwich, where they made all this up, but I don’t think it does.  (Though I could be in error about that.  As I mentioned, no research.)

Here’s what I know.  Right now in New York (or Toronto), it is three hours later (than in California.)  In Midwestern Chicago, it is two hours later.  Arizona, just to the East of us, it’s one hour later.  The evidence suggests, therefore, that traveling East, it gets later. 

Conversely, traveling West, it gets earlier.  Which I can personally confirm because, when we go to Hawaii, they are two hours behind us.  (And sometimes three, when we change our clocks and they don’t.)

This understanding – that it is later traveling East and it is earlier traveling West – indicates to me that if you continued traveling West, it would eventually be, not tomorrow, but yesterday.

And it isn’t. 

As you continue going West – as the Mary Tyler Moore joke reminds us – it’s tomorrow. 

How come it’s not yesterday?

I know that when we go to Turkey, it’s going to be later in Istanbul, because it is always later going East.  But then, it would appear, “later” runs smack dab into “earlier”, and for reasons I cannot comprehend, although my calculations suggest that it should be yesterday, it’s tomorrow.  

I am hopeful of eventually unraveling this mystery.  For over thirty years, I wondered why lines of stopped cars at red lights continued to move forward.  I finally figured that out.  I imagine I will eventually figure this out as well.

Though the clock is ticking and I am rapidly running out of time.

"A Free Pizza"

Incompetence (in certain areas at least) comes natural to me.  Those areas invariably involve advanced technology, although for a disturbing moment yesterday, I was sitting in my parked car, unable to open the door.

Dr. M needed a photograph taken, and I was assigned a new iPhone to take it with.  We went out onto the back porch, she posed herself appropriately, I raised the phone-camera into position, and I immediately said,

“I can’t see you.”

She stepped forward and turned the phone-camera around. 

And then I could. 

For the next fifteen minutes, I attempted to take an acceptable picture of her.  And I repeatedly failed to do so.  Her face was in shadows, so moved into the sun, where the brightness bleached out her physiognomy entirely. 

Sometimes, the picture was all right, but I could see my shadow, outlined near the bottom of the frame. 

We tried half sun-half-shade, but the result looked like a black-and-white cookie with a face on it.  I suggested shooting her under a large umbrella, with enough light for her to be recognizable, but not so much that she was obliterated by the sun.  That one was okay, except for the umbrella pole’s darkened reflection, extending the length of the picture, giving the appearance of a prisoner in a jail cell with one bar.

Fortunately, we were laughing throughout this photographic misadventure, rather than seeking the services of divorce lawyers.  And for that, I am appreciative and grateful.

At some point during this fiasco, however, it occurred to me that I was tired of writing about the things I can’t do (the most recent one being my inability re-calibrate the “wake-up” setting my CD-clock radio and my subsequent decision to purchase another one.)

I have decided to take a mid-post break (why wait?) from my ubiquitous “personal incompetence” anecdotes and instead write something more positive.  Not something positive I did.  That would be asking too much of this regular blog writer.  Who knows when my next positive accomplishment will arrive?  I have settled instead for the next best thing:  Something positive that happened to me.

Though it starts with a negative.  I  can't be too positive.  You'll think someone hijacked my blog.

Continuing my search for an acceptable “gluten free” pizza, we visit a neighborhood restaurant, which we have frequented before, but they just recently started offering “gluten free.” 

“You have ‘gluten free’ pizza now, right?” I confirm with the waitress, after she has taken Dr. M’s order.

“We do,” she replies.

“I’ll have a ‘gluten free’ white pizza, half mushroom and half fennel.”

The waitress responds to my order with a nod, and departs.

Twenty-five minutes later, the waitress returns with two pizzas, setting one down in front of Dr. M, the other, before me. 

I bite into the pizza, and it’s great.  I report that the “gluten free” is indistinguishable from the regular pizza.  My reaction is reinforced by comparing my pizza’s crust with Dr. M’s.  You could barely tell them apart.

Which makes me happy, but then, almost immediately, suspicious.  (With a soupcon of embarrassment.)

Our waitress drops by for the obligatory, “How’s everything tasting?”

“This is ‘gluten free’, right?” I inquire. 

The waitress flicks an eye to the remnants of my pizza.

“You wanted ‘gluten free’?”  (As if I had not mentioned that twice – once in my inquiry, and again in my order?)

I just stare at her. 

“Are you allergic, or something?”

“Well, I am not going to fall down,” I assure her.  But I am not at all happy.  (With her, or with myself, for not instantly determining that my “gluten free” pizza tasted just like a regular pizza because it was not a “gluten free” pizza.)

Now here comes the good part.  Which arrived after her first apology.

“Would you like another pizza?”

My annoyance, clouding my clear thinking, leads me to reply,

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

What she meant, of course, was another pizza to take home.  (Which I assumed, and was correct in my assumption, would be free and “gluten free.”)  I had not as yet tasted their “gluten free” pizza – and that had been the entire purpose of our going there – so I responded in the affirmative. 

We waited another twenty-five minutes.  (Hey, we were getting a free pizza!)

When the waitress returned with my complimentary “gluten free” pizza, she apologized a second time, and, to underscore her remorse, took an unexpected next step.

“Would you like a cookie?” 

Complementing the free pizza we were already receiving.

“Is it ‘gluten free’?” I inquire.

It was not, so I turned it down.  Smiling inwardly at this waitress’s inability to internalize the concept.

Both things happened on the same day, the botched photographic effort and the botched though later effusively repaired pizza order.  It was comforting to experience another person messing up.

But for some reason, it is more enjoyable when it’s me.

Though – and the “Memo To Myself”, which is the essence of today’s exercise –

I do not have to write about it…

Every

Time.

Or do I?