Citrus And Its Discontents

The vapid exhortation "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade" has seldom provided me with either comfort or solace. I can't stand the taste of the disgusting cloudy, over-sugared, off-white beverage. I would much prefer, in my time of trouble, to keep the lemons as lemons. After all, a large lemon makes an nice, weighty, hand-grenade sized object to throw at someone's head. I suppose you could fill a water pistol with lemonade, but squirting juice at people is not nearly as satisfying as hitting them full in the face with a whole fruit. 

So far, I've been lucky. Life has mostly given me a basket of pomegranates, many apples, several tangerines, and the odd guava or two. Much tropical punch has been made, obviously, which, although a trifle sweet, has sustained me admirably throughout the years. And so as I grow older, I find myself researching various recipes for sangria. I'm just waiting for life to give me the many crates of wine I require and surely deserve. 

Meanwhile, yesterday, as I crawled to work in skull melting conditions of excessive heat and humidity, I came across this unedifying spectacle in the street. A case of "When life gives you lemons, squeeze them into the sewer and discard the crushed husks beside the curb." At least the local rats might cure themselves of scurvy, I suppose, should they drink from the limoncello flavored effluent currently irrigating their rodent habitat.   

When Wippoorwills Call

 Maybe in late-August, when both fortune and a Cape Cod sun smile down upon your head, you might finally experience the perfect Edward Hopper summer's day. The weather is warm but not too stultifying; shadows are cool and long and strung out across the lawn like Apollo's freshly laundered linen; and there's a hint of rolling thunder in the skies above the next town over. But best and most Hopperish of all, the streets and fields are devoid of other people as far as the eye can see. Not everybody's cup of iced tea, for sure, but my drink of choice when a week of relaxation is required.

Alas, such dog-day bliss is mostly the stuff of oil and canvas and artistic license. Hopper was a poor hand at painting summer's crowds of radio-toting tourists; its excessive humidity and millions of mosquitos; its perspiring armpits and sunburned nose; its grown men in flip flops and childish men on jet skis; and all the other irritating detritus of vacation season's turbulent jamboree. Sometimes I reimagine his Rooms By The Sea as a modern motel room, where the clean white walls are invaded by cheap nautical knick-knacks and an overweight family in neon-colored cargo shorts bundle their way into the sunlit space. Meanwhile, pleasure cruisers and inflatable rafts clog the ocean outside as a paragliding Icarus crashes into the waves. 

If I were a rich man, as the song goes, I would buy myself an island and a sail boat to enjoy a little peace and quiet. For now, however, I must be content with an over-priced Airbnb named My Blue Heaven which also charges a preemptive and rather insulting "cleaning fee." But the house is off the main drag, near the beach and behind a secluded bluff, offering partial water views from an upstairs window if you can crane your neck far enough. I tripped over a decorative lobster trap, Monsieur Hulot-like, while trying to open the patio doors, but I can overlook such boobytraps when they apparently provide my family with endless amusement. After all, these are the things a lifetime of holiday memories are made of.

Gander Dander

 There can be few creatures more irritable than geese. They seem perpetually outraged by something. Perhaps it's their constant need to defecate, a relatable discomfort for many consumers of a typical American diet. Or possibly the misuse of their feathers for the stuffing of over-priced "puffa" jackets, also an understandable complaint considering the bloated ugliness of such winter coats. Or maybe it's just because a mid-range vodka has expropriated their name, which is a minor indignity arousing zero empathy in most of us. A low-end, flavored schnapps, for example, would surely provoke greater distress in any human or fowl. At any rate, the sheer volume of shrill bellyaching produced by a gaggle of geese is not dissimilar to that of a mob of wailing brats marching across the park demanding an immediate change of diapers.

Yet geese have their moments of peace and tranquility, too, especially when impersonating swans on a lake or river. When a goose takes to water it's suddenly transformed into a model of meditative elegance, as if instantly exorcised of its demons by some sort of self administered baptism, clearly believing itself to be the social equal of those snooty cygnets. But, of course, pretty soon the goose desperately needs to crap again and the spell is broken. There is much unseemly splashing and screeching as the goose clumsily waddles back to shore to evacuate its over-active and embarrassing bowels. Such were my observations at the local wildlife reservation for what they're worth. I'm no James Audubon, I admit, but I thought I'd record them anyway and photograph the main culprit. 

The Half-Dressed Lunch

 Exotic and unusual spices always add an element of Michelin-starred derring-do to every meal. They are super fuel for that long journey from frowning at an ambitious recipe to elegantly plated haute cuisine. With luck, it's a journey that won't make pit-stops at Botulism and E-Coli, because exotic and unusual spices can cast a discreet veil over questionable meat. Trust me, I have sprinkled those spices liberally over what I believed to be farm-fresh poultry, oven-roasted my creation, devoured its wings and thighs, done the dishes, then sat on the toilet for what seemed like an eternity.  

I always wanted to be a broth-sniffing, onion-juggling, talented amateur chef who can chop multiple vegetables in the blink of an eye while expertly reducing several sauces on his stove top; and sometimes, when splashing a cup of red wine into my sizzling pans, I pretend that I am such a superior being. But the truth is, culinary destiny has not been kind to me. I'm much better off just reading  directions off the back of the box and so are my fellow diners. In fact, my cooking style is more freezer-to-microwave than artisanal butcher to cast-iron skillet; more Uber Eats to table than farm-to-table. There is no teacher like volcanic diarrhea and self-prepared spicy food has been my Krakatoa. 

Yes, the egg-timer of life has run out on my kitchen dreams. It has become winter in the land of seasonings; my gravy has turned to thick mud all the au jus is iced over. The bloom is definitely off the rosemary, so to speak. Yet sometimes in the quiet of the evening, when I'm defrosting packaged lasagna, I can still sense the disapproving shade of Julia Child hovering over my shoulder. And, to paraphrase Hans Johst, that's when I reach for my salt and pepper.

Foot Fetish

Learning how to tie your own shoelaces is a youthful rite of passage; as is getting those shoes stolen by the local bully, who also knows how to tie laces, but misuses his knowledge to knot other people's shoes together and hook them over an unreachable telegraph wire, where they hang like a pair of mournful bats. Jason Munger, a contemporary of mine, thought he could out-wit our bully by wearing only slip-on loafers. Alas, this ruse did not deter the bully who, unable to knot them together, simply filled their insides with stones and tossed them in a nearby pond.

These events took place at a pre-teen age when my parents still picked-out my shoes for me, usually round-toed and turd brown in color. Plain boring shoes that unctuous salesmen described as "sensible." I begged and pleaded for those trendy black models that all the cool kids wore but to no avail. In fact, my mother often reminded me I was lucky to have any shoes at all. Back in her day, apparently, children shuffled to school and back again in bare feet across sharp rocks and burning hot gravel. And observe the Kenyan marathon runner, my father might add, does he complain about running twenty-six miles without the benefit of expensive sneakers? He does not and wins his race anyway. 

The purchase of so-called sensible shoes, however, was anything but a sensible process. Correct shoe size was determined by enclosing the foot in a slide-rule contraption. It looked like a mini, medieval iron-maiden that exclusively tortured below the ankle. Once your toes were crushed and your heel severely bruised, the gloomy salesman mumbled some alpha-numeric gibberish and trudged to the backroom to find the desired shoe. Then he returned with bad news: The smart black shoes you wanted weren't in stock in your size but this ugly Frankenstein pair in turd brown that would fit correctly were available. They are fine, my parents would say, we'll take those.

Walking around with my feet stuck in what appeared to be two shapeless loaves of whole wheat bread was no fun. Even the local bully sympathized and took no action against me. Consequently I was forced to surreptitiously throw my own shoes over the telegraph wire. How else was I going to get rid of them with a readymade excuse? But I failed in this attempt at auto-persecution five or six times before finally admitting defeat. Being a bully is harder than it looks, I thought, and must require hours of practice; also consoling myself that at least I needn't walk home in my long-suffering socks, which at that point were in a condition of decrepitude only slightly less embarrassing than my hideously unfashionable footwear. 

The other drawback with sensible shoes, besides their gross unsightliness, is undesirable longevity. A good pair of sensible shoes are built to last and will serve their unfortunate owner for many years, which meant I was stuck with the whole wheat horrors until my feet grew another size. First world problems, you say. Nevertheless, I would have gladly paraded around town with a flapping sole or worn-down heel if the uppers of my shoes were shiny black with attractive stitching, and would've felt like the cock of the walk while doing so.

Of course, learning that appearances can be deceptive, that there is equal value in the plain as in the glamorous, is another youthful rite of passage. But realizing later that nobody in their right mind actually believes sanctimonious nonsense about beauty being only skin deep is yet another. People may claim that looks don't count but they are surely lying.  At a recent wedding, I openly mocked a fellow guest for the faux pas of wearing tan moccasins with a dark blue suit. It was without doubt a harsh verdict on a trivial sartorial misdemeanor, yet it was also unequivocally correct. I guess the shoe bully is still with us, and he has become me.

Wish You Were Elsewhere

The set design, perhaps, for a low-budget 1950s sci-fi film where Medusa goes sunbathing while Frankenstein's monster kicks sand in Swamp Thing's face? Or maybe the view down Godzilla's throat as he is sucking on a lemon-flavored cough drop?

No, it's actually a gloomy painting by Edvard Munch called 'Summer Evening by the Beach.' Of course, this being Munch, you suspect his screaming self-portrait will soon surface from the murky depths, neither waving nor drowning, but suffering some other sort of existential aquatic crisis; perhaps a jellyfish sting, or stubbing his toe on a submerged pebble, or even the accidental gulping of briny water.

Judging by the mounds of slimy seaweed washed up on Munch's excessively rocky "beach," however, I would suggest a serpentine tendril of current-born seaweed coiling itself around his leg is a more likely cause for screaming. After all, experiencing such an unexpected and unpleasant sensation is usually the reason for my anxiety when taking a dip; that and the freezing temperature of the Atlantic ocean in New England, which could also be another factor in Munch's case, I suppose, assuming he's depicting a very Northern shoreline.

But who gives a empty oyster shell about Edvard Munch's ancient insecurities when my very own post-Coronavirus summer has arrived? Won't the beach seem more technicolor tropical paradise and less gloomy post-nuclear wasteland now? Well, I guess it will be if I can see past the rowdy mob of zombie vacationers unleashed by the cessation of Covid lockdowns. Here comes the invasion of transistor radios blaring cacophonous tunes, Olympic-size bivouacs, mishit volleyballs, rampaging jet skis, windswept umbrellas, and the rest of modern beachgoer's irrepressible equipment. Now that's truly enough to make anyone scream.

The Attire of Attrition

I'm no clothes horse, more of a clothes donkey to be honest, but I do try to take pride in my personal appearance. Alas, I'm usually dissatisfied whenever I study my reflection in a full-length mirror. I wanted to look debonair but this would-be Beau Brummell turns out to be Bow-legged. In fact, what I thought was a sleek and smart parade of fashionable masculinity is actually just an unappealing heap of disheveled deadbeat. 

The proportions are all wrong somehow. Time to summon my inner quick-change artist. I slip on a different shirt, swap out that sweater, kick off those stripy socks, pull on other pants, thread another belt around my waist and do my best to hide everything beneath a dark blue blazer. The mirror still denounces me as the absolute opposite of the fairest of them all. So what if I roll these sleeves up and tuck the shirt tails in tighter, unbutton a second or third button, taper those trousers, shorten the hem on everything and switch the pattern from polka dots to plaid or perhaps just plain?

But nothing I do streamlines my silhouette to an acceptable degree. I don't know. They are all conventional store-bought clothes in my correct size so why do I seem to be wearing clown shoes, jodhpurs, and an off-the-shoulder blouse? That might be fine for the nine-to-five in an Oriental harem but I don't think it's appropriate as business casual in the city. Nevertheless, I have to leave now or else I'll be late for work.

Of course, I'd easily still win the Best Dressed Award at my office, despite looking like Sinbad the Sailor after six years lost at sea. After all, most of my colleagues resemble vagrants who've just crawled out of a bed of nails and through a charitable clothing distribution center before arriving at their desks. Such are the disgraceful sartorial standards of the modern workplace that even a slipshod chap like me can be Cary Grant compared to his slovenly associates.

Personal Myth

Stories from the ancient myths can sometimes offer interesting and instructive reflections of our modern lives. Of course, we never actually struggle though the labors of Hercules or welcome literal Trojan Horses into our homes but I for one do remember Mrs Hargreaves, a high school teacher, who with the simple addition of a few snakes to the crown of her head would have made a passable Medusa.

Which makes me wonder, had I found myself on the wrong side of Mrs Hargreaves, what kind of stone I might have been turned into. Tough and craggy granite? An elegant marble? Perhaps a sun-kissed sandstone? Alas, I probably would just be a pillar of plain crumbly chalk. The sedimentary equivalent of your average, awkward neighborhood white kid.

Although Mrs Hargreaves' head was not adorned with snarling and spitting snakes (at least none visible to the naked eye), I nevertheless always took the precaution of never looking directly at her. This wasn't easy because Mrs Hargreaves was the sort of teacher who enjoyed frequent and usually confrontational consultations with her students, especially me.

'What are you looking at, boy?' She would scream into my face during a heavyweight title examination of my poor grammar and spelling. Obviously I couldn't reply 'Not you Gorgon that's for sure,' so I would be forced to admit to some random object of my attention. 'The blackboard' was a common response; 'The world map on the wall' was another; and once, when I was very desperate, 'Samantha Noble's hair.'

If Mrs Hargreaves played the role of Medusa in my personal myth, and I clearly Perseus, then Samantha Noble had a good claim to be a teenage Andromeda (although it only required escorting her to the cinema a few times, not fighting and killing a ravenous sea monster, to make her mine). Unfortunately she later turned out to be more of a Nemesis than an Andromeda, they always do, but that's another story. 

Hello Again

Of course, we shall all miss the instant Covid excuse: "I'm sorry I don't feel comfortable going there and doing that during a Pandemic." The vaccinated world of tomorrow will provide no medical alibi for not working at the office; offer no virologist approved justifications for shirking our responsibilities. And nobody will applaud our song and dance routines about staying home for two weeks because we might have been exposed to a sneezing neighbor. Obligations will once more need to be met without delay; onerous chores completed on the dot, boring social events attended without demur. Our precious time will not be our own again.

Heavy traffic has already appeared on the horizon with its gridlock and tailbacks only a few thousand vaccinations away from stalling progress from hither to yonder. A few months ago I was able to cross the street at whim, wherever I liked, but lately I've been forced to look both ways for speeding vehicles of all types, deciding that waiting for the 'Walk' signal is the safest option as it was in days before Coronavirus emptied the roads of impatient commuters. We are all slowly waking up to the return of normal life like some big Monday morning of the soul.

The Trip Of A Lifetime

The most disappointing experience of my life occurred aboard an expensive Glass Bottomed Boat Tour in the Florida Keys. We had drifted over the coral reefs expecting to discover Neptune's kingdom in all its bountiful glory, only to be confronted by clouds of dredged silt, wavy grey weeds, a few transparent jellyfish, lazy fat types of tuna, and some not especially red snappers. I'd witnessed more vibrant underwater worlds when paddling in an estuary or even leaning over a bridge staring into a shallow stream.

But of course most tourist traps are unrewarding - at best - if you harbor high expectations. Usually they also enjoy adding insult to injury, and on this occasion not only did I disembark from the Glass Bottom Boat feeling short-changed in both money and valuable vacation time, I also lost my favorite sunglasses and deep-fried most of my exposed limbs and nose. "Such, such were the joys."

Anyway, I was recently reminded of that terrible excursion when invited to book an appointment to be injected with Coronavirus vaccine: a glass bottomed vial offering the promise of touring daily life as it used to be. See the crowded streets from the safety of USS Astra-Zeneca's observation deck: the bright colors of the restaurants and bars, the busy hum of downtown office buildings and rattling subway trains, the sports stadiums, concert halls, gleaming department stores, fascinating museums and public galleries.

Ah yes, the anticipation of rediscovering the city in all its bountiful glory, only to be confronted by the billowing exhaust fumes of gridlocked traffic, angry commuters pushing and shoving each other, fast food containers littering the sidewalk, long lines of impatient people trying to enter over-subscribed events, and no vacant benches in the park. Can refunds be expected when the promise is not kept and the old ennui returns to the new normal?