A Letter to My Brother

Well, this is awkward.

It seems that I have your copy of The Who’s “Tommy.”

And I’ve had it for more than 40 years.

I probably grabbed it during one of the times you were away from the house, off doing who knows what. At the time, your records seemed like abandoned objects and I helped myself. Honestly? If I knew then what I know now, I might have grabbed more of them, like those Kinks albums.

I doubt that you have a turntable, so I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

Anyway, I listened to it today and it sounds pretty great. They knew how to press albums back then, and it has that cool Decca Records label with the rainbow stripes. The sleeve is pretty nice, too, except where I wrote my initials on it, because you don’t want someone stealing your records. Even the records you stole.

I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to take it.

But do you believe that physical things can posses energy? If that’s the case, record albums would contain some great power. In the same way that dust gets stuck down in the grooves, maybe these vinyl discs collect our experiences and feelings. And I’m sure that a lot was going on in your head back when you would have listened to “Tommy.” Much of it revolves around troubled families, and you know what things were like sometimes. And your name is Tommy, so there’s that!

Over the years, so many records end up in landfills, and others get passed from hand to hand among strangers. I get a powerful feeling from albums that belonged to someone I care about, like you or Dad. I’m sorry I took it, and it wasn’t right, but today I’m glad I have this little part of you.

By the way, yeah — I also took “Quadrophenia.”

The Middle Ages

So let’s just say that a guy turned 60 in November — does that mean that he can’t claim he’s middle aged any more? Asking for a friend.

You see, my friend aches all over like he was beaten with pool cues by a gang of Hell’s Angels. And he’s getting mail from AARP. And he’s taking a handful of pills and supplements and antacids every day. And he’s having some — oh, never mind that one.

He says he’s old, but I don’t know. This guy doesn’t seem that old and people assume he’s a lot younger. But he says the numbers don’t lie, and he has a lot less time ahead of him than he does behind. “My father was dead at 62,” he mused. “By that standard, I’m dead within two years.”

So, anyway Merriam-Webster defines middle aged as, “people between the age of about 40 and the age of about 60.” Wikipedia says, “the period of age beyond young adulthood but before the onset of old age.” That’s vague. Other references call it at 64.

All this talk makes me wonder if it’s time to rethink the tag line at the top of this page:

The fascinating world of a middle aged American man.

Maybe so.

People say that age doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t question my use of “middle aged,” but they might take issue with “fascinating.”

The Curious Case of the Slippers on the Corner

So, this pair of slippers mysteriously appeared on the corner near my house.

I first saw them early one morning when setting out for my slow and painful pre-dawn run. What? I looked around, wondering if the person who belonged in them might be nearby and in need of help. Thank goodness, not.

The carefully arranged slippers sat there for days. They weren’t fancy; you could probably get them at Boscov’s for $12, but I found it troubling that someone was without them. Nobody likes to loose things, even a pair of cheap slippers. I have several theories about how they got there:

They fell off a moving car. It’s not uncommon for people to put stuff on the trunk or roof of a car and drive off. Someone may have found the slippers on the side of the road and placed them where the owner could spot them.
Mischievous teenagers swiped them from someone’s front stoop and artfully displayed their booty for all to see. Oh, those mischievous teenagers — what will they do next?
The owner was whisked off the face of this earth, literally sucked right out of his slippers and into a flying saucer.

We may never know.

It’s just a pair of slippers, but as I grow older, little things that keep me warm and comfortable are the source of great comfort. A well-worn flannel shirt, a blanket we curl up with in front of the fire. My lovely wife. Those dogs. And your old pair of slippers.

Better To Have Loved and Lost

It’s easier than ever to find old acquaintances these days with social media and whatnot, but it would really jumpstart the process if the local newspaper joined the search, like the Times Union did recently with this front page story:

When Reno met April …can sparks reignite?

It seems that “Reno” — his actual name is Ricardo — wants to reconnect with his long lost love who said she was from Schenectady. He claims that they had a month-long fling as college students 26 years ago.

Everybody loves a love story, and this is pretty romantic, right? Yeah, I suppose — until it turns fucking creepy.

I’m not saying that it’s always wrong to seek out a long lost flame, but to do so in such a public way is troubling. By crowdsourcing this effort you’re taking away someone’s choice in the matter of being found.

Did anyone think that this woman might not want to be contacted by “Reno,” or that doing so could be disruptive or damaging? Let me tell you, not everyone would be thrilled if some dude was hunting down their spouse on the front page of the newspaper.

And what do we know about this Reno character? Not much except that he runs a “taxi and tour business” in the Bahamas. Oh, OK. He must be legit. And I’m sure the paper did some deep digging into his background.

I could be wrong about all this; it may be this woman’s lifelong dream to be reunited with the guy she dated for a month 26 years ago — a guy who doesn’t even know her last name. Hey, it’s romantic!

But don’t worry; the story says that Reno “just wants to reconnect. No pressure.” Perfectly harmless.

I don’t know what they’re smoking over at the Times Union, but it must be pretty potent for them to do something so stupid and irresponsible. Journalism students take note: this story is a master class in poor editorial judgement.

The Right Vey to Do Things

Boasting is poor form (and frankly, I don’t have much to brag about) but I’ll make an exception on the soda bread.

Over the years my Irish soda bread has won awards at a local competition held by Albany’s Irish American Heritage Museum. People often ask me what my secret is and I never know what to tell them — but this year I actually gave someone this useful advice: “You must vey your ingredients.”

They looked at me puzzled. “Vey my ingredients?” Yes, always vey them.

A little background.

A number of years ago I took a day-long baking class at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park. The instructor was one of the school’s professors in their baking and pastry arts program who was from Germany. Not to traffic in stereotypes, but he had a Teutonic commitment to precision when baking, and pounded in our heads that real bakers use a scales and only fools use measuring cups.

“Vey your ingredients,” he said. “ALWAYS vey your ingredients.

Hmmm. What about water?

“Vauter? You vey it. It’s an ingredient, and vee vey the ingredients.”

You get the idea.

Today I weigh my ingredients when baking, even though it sometimes hurts my brain to convert cups and ounces to grams. One exception I make is with very small amounts that are measured in teaspoons and tablespoons; kitchen scales can be flakey, and a tiny error with baking soda can mean soapy tasting bread or cookies.

But I do have a confession: In veak moments, I don’t always vey my vauter.

Tear It Down

I remember looking out my office window in 2010 and seeing black smoke pouring out of the Central Warehouse building in Albany.

“Finally,” I said. “Now they can rip that building down and all feel good about it.”

Unfortunately, the Albany Fire Department was ruthlessly effective in its efforts and saved a structure nobody wanted. Oh, well.

I don’t dislike the hulking Central Warehouse building, I’m just tired of reading about it. Yes, it would be so cool if it were renovated into lofts for affluent people and restaurants for affluent people and cute little shops for affluent people — but not if I have to pay for it with my tax money.

Renovation plans for the long vacant building always hinge on schemes where developers put up a little money and we put up the rest. Several local companies have made a very good living doing this, but I say not this time. Nobody in their right mind would put their own money into that place.

Don’t get me wrong. I love when old spaces with an interesting history are saved from the wrecking ball and repurposed. If you want to see an amazing example, visit MASS MoCA in North Adams, or the Harmony Mills in Cohoes.

But enough is enough. The Central Warehouse is a wreck and likely not worth the trouble. It’s too big and it has too many problems, but if you insist go ahead, just do it with your own money. Or here’s an idea, you could borrow the money from a bank. Good luck with that one.

You’ve Gotta Have People

The best thing about a powerful job is that you get people. People to handle the details. People to process the boring stuff. People to talk to people you don’t want to talk to. People to do the dirty work.

Yeah, when you’ve got people you have space and time to think big thoughts and do cool things. Your people look out for you.

But sometimes they don’t, which must explain this picture.

*NY State Senators Robert Jackson of Manhattan (left) and Rachel May of Syracuse (center). Photo: Politico*

These New York State Senators standing behind that ill-conceived banner are supposed to have people. People who say, “Whoa, hold up! You can’t have your picture taken with that fucking thing! In case you didn’t notice, that’s a PLANE HEADING FOR THE WORLD TRADE CENTER! Offensive metaphor! Step away!”

Too late. Like a moth to flame they got themselves in front of that camera.

The senators later claimed that they didn’t notice what was on the banner. Seriously? What would have gotten your attention, a swastika?

But I don’t blame those senators any more than I’d blame my 18-month-old grandaughter for knocking a lamp off the table. No, I’d blame the person who was supposed to be watching her. You look away for two seconds and see what the hell happens.

Yeah, you’ve gotta have people.

Heckle and Jeckle

I don’t write about politics much. Do we really need another hot take from somebody whose opinion doesn’t matter? Nope. But this one has a local angle.

If you didn’t already know that Representatives Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert are a couple of loud mouthed assholes, all you had to do was see them during President Joe Biden’s State of the Union address Tuesday night. The pair spent the speech heckling the president and generally making a spectacle of themselves.

There was a time when you would never of heard of a couple of first term Congressional nobodies, but social media and today’s overheated political climate have changed all that. Now you can just get elected and become a star.

These two are loose cannons and they’ve made it work for them.

This seems to be what Liz Joy has her eye on in the race for Congress in New York’s 20th. She’s seen how political unknowns can skyrocket to prominence these days by putting on a good show, and if you get elected, the sky’s the limit. Becoming a national figure can open the door to higher office, but lets not forget about the book deals, paid appearances, cable news gigs — you get the idea. All this with no prior experience or much in the way of qualifications.

This is by no means strictly a Republican thing. You don’t have to be a right winger to see the possibilities. It’s just a different audience.

You might say it’s all a lot of harmless theatre, but one of these days things will go sideways.

The world has shrunk, and now tiny people can appear as large as they’d like. I’d feel more comfortable if it were just an optical illusion.

Punching Down

You might say that Times Union food critic Susie Davisdson Powell did not enjoy the lamb-stuffed poblano peppers at Farmhouse Tap and Tavern.

In a single paragraph she compares them to a ball tucked in a sock, a comet with a meatball for a head, and — finally — a dick. She also adds that they’re hard to cut and undercooked.

One example would have worked, but she went with three. That’s commitment!

Davidson Powell recently ravaged Farmhouse Tap in a scathing review that was more of a bitter attack against the restaurant than a balanced critique. It was gleefully malicious, oozing anger and sarcasm with every tart observation and clever turn of phrase. But that’s her thing, isn’t it? Being nasty is much more entertaining than being fair.

It was about as bad as a local restaurant review gets — and it made me wonder why it’s OK for a big media company like the Times Union to take down a small local eatery?

Davidson Powell defends restaurant reviews, lumping them in with other arts criticism, like that for theatre or music productions. Bullshit, I say. A restaurant may be an expression of someone’s creative energy, but first and foremost it’s a business, and your review has the potential to ruin someone’s livelihood. The Times Union doesn’t review a car dealers or furniture stores, so what makes restaurants fair game?

Yes, I know — restaurant reviews are a staple of newspaper journalism. People are obsessed with content about food and can’t get enough. Six straight hours of Chopped anyone?

Now, full disclosure here: I’ve reviewed restaurants on Yelp — and that’s totally different. My lone opinion doesn’t hold the weight of a major media outlet, and in forums like Yelp and Trip Advisor, the view of one person is balanced by the other contributors. Not the same as taking almost a full page in the Sunday paper to fuck with someone. And this isn’t the New York Times going after Guy Fieri, this is people with power stomping on people without any.

Oh, one last thing: Farmhouse Tap is owned by the woman who runs 518 Foodies, a website that focuses on the local dining scene. Huh. You can draw your own conclusions, but something about this stinks like last week’s fish.