Membership Has Its Privileges
The Times Union has taken to calling readers “members.” Does this give us access to the gym at the TU headquarters?
Among the rules for mass at my church this weekend: Masks all the time, no singing, four seats between individuals or family groups, no touching hands, limited seating capacity, attendance by reservation only, do not enter without an “ambassador” to seat you, do not leave until instructed to do so by the ambassador, stand at your seat to receive communion, no communion on the tongue, no books or paper, no mingling in common areas or the parking lot, bring hand sanitizer. Peace be with you.
Usually at this time, we’re getting ready for a week in Canada, to a quiet island where Lake Ontario spills into the St Lawrence River. Not this year. The border remains closed until July 21, at the earliest. Got to keep out the filthy Americans.
I’ve been struggling with how to say this, so if I don’t get it right, please forgive me, but here it goes:
Nobody cares about your opinion.
Nope. Nobody gives a hoot what you think. Oh, wait — this is not to suggest that you shouldn’t express yourself. Please, by all means tell us what you think.
Please give us your take on COVID. Are you a hardcore mask NAZI virophobe who condemns everyone who leaves their house or has meaningful contact with other humans? Or maybe you think the whole thing is stupid, and the overly cautious are paranoid imbeciles addicted to drama.
And the protests. Actually, we’re dying to hear how much you hate the evil cops. Or how you think the people abused by the police truly deserved it. Or how you went to a protest and walked around with a cardboard sign.
Good on you. You are better than us.
Once there was a time when the world was a better place. Do you know when it was better? When we didn’t have a way to instantly express everything that goes through our heads.
That may sound funny from a guy who’s written blog posts for more than 15 years, but here’s the thing: I don’t think my opinions are important, nor do I expect anyone else to think that they are. That’s what I found so puzzling about the whole Albany Eye thing. Why would anyone care what some idiot writes about local TV and newspapers?
But thank you for visiting, anyway. It’s nice to have someone hear it when you shout into the void, and maybe that’s the point.
First, full disclosure: I have not always been the best at returning library books on time. Once or twice, I actually racked up fines high enough to cover the cost of the item I borrowed. My bad, please accept my donation, sorry for the inconvenience.
Today I am much more conscientious, but if I were a patron (library users are “patrons,” BTW) of the Troy Public Library I would not need to be conscientious at all, because Troy has joined the growing number of libraries that are eliminating fines.
According to news reports, the Troy library said that fines can be a deterrent to those who need their services the most, and a fine avoidance can actually delay the return of an item. They told WRGB, “Fines can interfere with the library’s important mission of providing information to the residents of Troy.”
Makes sense, right?
Well, WAMC dug a little deeper into the subject and found that the director of Utica’s fine-free library has much a diffferent take. He said that library workers are subjected to “stressful and often very contentious” work conditions, and that dropping fines reduces trouble. Director Chris Sagaas says, “There’s a lot less conflict between library users and our staff,” and that “removing conflict and aggression or the possibility for it is a good thing for library services.”
What’s puzzling about this is what’s always puzzling about everything: people. It’s one thing to be lazy, or a procrastinator, or downright irresponsible — but then to walk into the library and start a fight over the fines you accumulated?
Well, I think we can all agree that we don’t go to the library for conflict and aggression. If I want that, I’ll stop in at the Spectrum Cable store.
My kids say that I like Facebook because I’m old. Ok, whatever, what can I say? I enjoy finding out what people are up to and seeing pictures of their dogs and whatnot. What I don’t like are people who post ridiculous political shit or push their crazy ass ideas about things like vaccinations.
Fortunately, Facebook has a great way to make people go away, but not forever. The feature, commonly called the “Snooze button,” allows you to stop seeing a person, page, or group for 30 days.
It’s like saying, “I like you and I care about you, and I want to be friends, but I’m a little sick of your crap and I need a break.” Even better? They never know they’ve been snoozed, so no feelings, like when you unfollow a friend.
A guy I know pointed out that he’s found himself having to snooze the same people every 30 days. It’s true. I’ve got one person who’s become the Rip Van Winkle of Facebook friends.
Ah, modern living — but you know what we really need? An easy way to snooze people in real life. That would be useful.
It’s very satisfying to look back on the year and know that you successfully fulfilled your New Year’s resolution. Mine for 2019? Eat more beans.
Yes, beans. I can’t tell you how many cans of beans I’ve popped open over the past twelve months, but this was clearly the year of the legume. Black beans, kidney beans, cannellini, pinto beans. I didn’t eat them right out of the can, like a hobo, but the prep was always rather spartan. Mostly for lunch, always drained and rinsed, mixed with a little salsa, leftover chicken, or whatever I could throw in there.
Today, I bid farewell to the year with kidney beans with some rotisserie turkey breast from Hannaford.
What else about the year, besides the beans?
I’ve grown more grateful of how blessed I am to have a beautiful family who love me – and sometimes my feelings toward those I care about bubble up in surprising ways. I’ve had to assure more than one person on the receiving end that I’m not dying or in the midst of a crisis.
A laser-like focus on what’s really important in my life caused me to set some things aside that were not a productive use of my time. Fewer tweets. Not much blogging. Hardly any local talk radio. Less and less TV. And I don’t feel that I’m missing anything.
I’ve remained relatively healthy for a man my age. I attribute this to a heightened awareness that the grim reaper is lurking behind every tree. I still run, but I’ve also added weight lifting to the mix, something I’ve never done in all my years. It’s humbling to discover how weak you are, but the slow and steady progress is rewarding.
Also of note, this year did not seem to zip by like so many others. Is it possible that time is slowing down? Let’s hope so.
Finally, a word about the ailing barred owl I rescued off the street in Albany. We originally called her Hoota, but I later decided that Owly McBeal is a better name. She spent two months in rehab at a local vet’s office, but they never exactly figured out what was wrong with her. They think Owly may have hit the side of a building, but maybe she was just weary. Perhaps owls get worn down by the day-to-day humdrum of owlhood, the way life grinds away at us sometimes. It could be she just needed a new perspective, a shot in the arm (wing?) to help her see her life and the world with a fresh eye.
Either way, she’s off somewhere in the wild now. When I stand on my back porch at night, I can hear barred owls calling from the woods. Maybe Owly McBeal is there, peering out into the darkness, ready to fly into another year.
So, Governor Ralph Northam’s of Virginia had a tough couple of days.
Interesting, because it brought back memories of painting my own face on Halloween. Wore a robe once, too. As a matter of fact, painted the face and wore a robe on the same day.
But unlike with Governor Northam, my face was painted white and my robe was black.
The getup was supposed to be some sort of phantom druid or something, who the hell knows. What do you expect from a weird teenager who’d seen too many 60s British horror movies.
But it’s easy to remember doing it — and that’s why this Ralph Northam thing’s so strange. It seems to me that you’d recall wearing blackface or a Klan robe on Halloween when you were in college.
Fast forward to 1986. The Mets had just won the World Series, and the legendary Mookie Wilson/Bill Buckner play in Game 6 was a very big deal. So this guy — a friend of mine — showed up at work on Halloween in his Mookie jersey and his face painted as black as coal.
Think about that, walking into work in blackface. Pretty crazy. And I don’t think the boss did anything about it, except maybe tell him not to go see any clients dressed that way. He was in sales, and God forbid his Mookie costume cost the TV station some money.
Today he’d be fired on the spot.
Halloween’s a funny thing. How far is too far when it comes to costumes? Or is Halloween like stand-up comedy, where anything goes and no topic is taboo or too offensive?
Either way, it’s a different world out there. If pictures of me in whiteface emerge, I could be in hot water with the phantom druids.
Back in my TV days, it always worried me that the station could be targeted by a nut. We kept the place locked down pretty well, but now and then somebody would show up in the lobby with a messy folder stuffed with paper and demand to see a reporter. The receptionist had a panic button to push in case of trouble, but honestly I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one sitting out there.
I don’t remember anything like this:
A bomb threat was called into our newsroom Sunday morning. Our studios have been evacuated. Police are investigating.
Bomb threats are usually bullshit, right? But today, our president is telling his nutjob followers that the media is the enemy of the people — and some of these nutjobs are listening closely.
In 2001 after the 9/11 attacks, there was a spate of incidents where media outlets and politicians started receiving letters containing anthrax. This was no prank; people died and businesses were disrupted as their contaminated buildings were cleaned up. The best defense against an anthrax letter was to keep it isolated and away from the facility.
That’s when we got the anthrax shed.
It sat at the edge of the parking lot and looked like the shed behind your house, but this was where the mail would be sorted and opened before coming inside. Was it some highly trained specialist checking the incoming letters? Nah, they just gave the maintenance guy some dust masks and a letter opener and wished him good luck. Nice.
In a strange way, it was a more innocent time. The pain and trauma of 9/11 was still fresh, and the fear was very real. And we all felt something that today is all but forgotten. We stood together.
I’m 56-years-old and I don’t know my phone number.
Yes, I know — but let me explain.
We moved two years ago, and after some deliberation, we decided to keep a landline. I don’t exactly remember why, but I know this: in two years, I haven’t given out that landline phone number even once. The phone rarely rings, and if it does, it’s never anyone I’m interested in talking to.
Of course I have the number — just not in my head.
Anyway, I may be too feeble to remember my phone number, but I do remember when the phone hanging on the wall was kind of a big deal. It would ring and we’d all run to answer it if we were expecting a call, sometimes fighting off a sibling who was also waiting to hear from someone.
Occasionally, it would be one of my aunts on the phone. You’d know this because when you picked up, they’d say “Who’s this?”
Not “Hello,” not, “Hi, this is your Aunt So-and-So,” but “Who’s this?” What? You called here — who the fu*k is this?
So, here’s an idea: Maybe the next time the damn house phone rings, I’ll just answer it that way. “Who’s this?” Who’s this and why are you calling and who gave you this number. Now have a nice day.