Sonic the Hedgehog - You Stand Alone

I am a lover of movies—a cinephile of the highest order. This is a direct result of the fact that my parents eagerly dragged me (willingly) to the movies from the time I was a wee lad. That, in and of itself, is not unusual. Certainly, many parents take their kids to the movies. But what made my parents unique is that they took me to all types of movies, whether it seemed like a small child would be interested or not. Yes, when I was four they took me to see Disney’s animated Robin Hood. No big deal. But when I was six they took me to see All the President’s Men. I mean, what six-year-old doesn’t want to see a two-and-a-half hour drama about the Watergate scandal?

Ultimately, I think the movie didn’t matter to me at that young age. It was the movie going experience that I loved. Whether I was viewing animated animals frolicking through a forest, or serious journalists talking about politics, I was simply enthralled to be in a darkened theater watching images flicker on an enormous screen. Once I was old enough to go to movies without my parents, I did so as frequently as I could. Sure, I also watched lots of movies on TV, and eventually VHS, and eventually DVD, and eventually streaming—but the movie theater going experience has always held a unique allure.

Over the years I’ve seen hundreds, possibly even thousands, of movies in a theater. For three years in my early 20s, I lived in Manhattan within walking distance of many movie theaters. I frequented those theaters…a lot. Eventually, when I moved to Arizona, I may no longer have been within walking distance of theaters, but I still went to the movies quite often—sometimes solo, sometimes with friends, and eventually with my wife and kids. And this brings us to the unique position that Sonic the Hedgehog has in my movie-going life.

Unlike my parents, I have not dragged my kids to see movies that you wouldn’t expect kids to see. For them it has been mostly animated or action pics. And oftentimes, animated action pics. Some of the movies I take my kids to see I end up liking and some I do not, but in the end, just like when I was a tot, I think we all just enjoy the experience of going to the movies.

Way back in mid-February of this year, I took my younger son and his best friend to see Sonic the Hedgehog to celebrate my son’s birthday. It was a mediocre film that my son and his friend loved, because it had characters that they knew and liked, despite the fact that these same characters were slowly putting me to sleep. I didn’t mind, though, because the kids had a good time, which was ultimately the point of the excursion. What I had no way of knowing at the time was that Sonic the Hedgehog would be the first and last film that came out in 2020 that I would see in a movie theater.

Of course, it was just a few weeks after we went to see Sonic that the world shutdown. And while some movie theaters have opened back up in the past few months, I’m still not convinced that being in an enclosed space with dozens of strangers chomping on snacks is the healthiest use of my time.

So, while I saw 22 films that came out in 2019 inside a movie theater (thank you IMDb for allowing me to keep track) 2020 will end with one single, solitary flick that I’ve viewed inside a theater—Sonic the Hedgehog. Sonic, you lovable scamp—you stand alone in my movie-going history. Here’s hoping 2021 allows me to go the movies at least twice as much.

Monolith Mystery Mastered!

With only five weeks left in 2020, I think I speak for the entire human race when I say it would be nice if what is left of the year passes without any strange or startling news items. Yet yesterday, a doozy of a news item came to us when it was revealed that Utah officials surveying a remote section of their southeastern desert via helicopter, spotted a hitherto unnoticed 10 to 12-foot metallic monolith standing tall amidst the red rocks. A crew was dispatched to take a closer look and found no clues to reveal why it was there, how it got there, or how long it has been there. They kept this quiet for a week before releasing the information to the public, at which point the internet exploded.

Of course, countless theories have been put forth as to the origin of this structure and countless references have been made to the 1968 sci-fi movie classic, 2001: A Space Odyssey, in which large metallic monoliths of extraterrestrial origin show up in odd locations. Because of the iconic nature of that film, some have suggested (although mostly in jest) that the monolith was, indeed, placed there by space aliens. This has prompted an official with the Utah Highway Patrol to emphatically state to reporters that “this thing is not from another world.” Of course, it’s doubtful that this official has a degree in astrobiology, so really, how would he know?

The prevailing theory about this mystery monolith is that it was erected by an avant-garde sculptor. But the artists considered the most likely candidates for building this sort of thing have said they have no knowledge of it and nobody has come forward to claim ownership of the odd object. Perhaps nobody has come forward because it’s illegal to place unsanctioned sculptures on federal land, but you would think if an artist really did pull a stunt like this, they would want the recognition for it, even if it meant the possibility of getting charged with a felony.

For my money, I think the extraterrestrial hypothesis is the best bet. No, I’m not some whack-job who thinks that 2001: A Space Odyssey was based on a true story and director Stanley Kubrick had access to inside information about contact with alien life. Rather, I’m some whack-job who thinks that the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey is what prompted aliens to place the monolith in the desert in the first place. And once you hear my theory about this you’ll think, “Maybe Andrew isn’t a whack-job at all. Maybe he’s just a regular job."

Consider the following:

1- According to Forbes magazine (where I get all my scientific data) “there are up to 19,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 stars similar to ours with at least one planet similar to Earth.” For those of you who prefer words to numbers, that is nineteen-sextillion.

2- If only one in a trillion of these Earth-like planets had life on them, that would still be 1,000,000,000 planets with life. (That’s one billion for my word-oriented friends.)

3- One has to assume (given the current state of affairs here on Earth) that a lot of those planets would have more advanced intelligence than us.

4- Since we have been sending television and radio signals out into space for decades, one can also assume that alien civilizations are watching and listening to all the entertainment we have created. (And for free no less! Wait until the cable companies figure out they’re getting pirated by extraterrestrials!)

5- Given all the hard facts I just put out there, it stands to reason that some (if not many) space aliens have watched the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey.

6- As with any large group of beings, you have to figure that amongst the aliens, some of them are practical jokers. (Just because a civilization has technology light years more advanced than ours doesn’t mean they don’t have some citizens who enjoy the simple pleasures of a whoopee cushion.)

7- Assuming that some of these extremely advanced civilizations have technology capable of watching us in real time, would it really be far-fetched to think this conversation couldn’t have happened:

Groxnorp: It’s wild to see what’s been going on with those Earth dudes over their past solar year.

Flajwok: I know, I know. It’s like, what crazy crap can befall those little simpletons next?

Groxnorp: Totally! Hey, you know what would be funny?

Flajwok: What’s that Groxy?

Groxnorp: What if we flew down there and put one of those monolith-thingies from that hysterical Kubrick flick in the middle of nowhere for them to stumble across! Then they’d be all like: “Oh no! First a plague, then civil unrest, and now an alien invasion!”

Flajwok: Yes! That’s epic! We should totally do it! But where should we put the thing?

Groxnorp: I dunno. What’s the most innocent, unassuming place on their planet?

Flajwok and Groxnorp (in unison): Utah!!!

Flajwok: Perfect! Pass me a brewski and then let’s take off!

While you may believe that the scenario above is highly unlikely, do you think it is more or less likely than an artist somehow managing to lug tons of metal material and equipment to a location in the middle of the desert that is so inaccessible that the Utah Department of Public Safety said: “It is in a very remote area and if individuals were to attempt to visit the area, there is a significant possibility they may become stranded and require rescue.” I think it is safe to assume that when DPS issued this statement they were speaking of human individuals—clearly, extraterrestrial individuals would need no such help.

I am sure this mystery will never be satisfactorily solved, as Groxnorp and Flajwok have had their laugh and are long gone, very likely now egging a star port in the Andromeda galaxy at this very moment. But if 2020 has taught us anything, it is to expect the unexpected. That is why I’m hoping there are no extraterrestrial practical jokers out there who are big fans of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The last thing we need this year is to have to face off against killer rabbits. That would be so 2020.

My 50th Year - A Tale of Two Ages

 

It seems like just one year ago today that I turned 50, in large part, because it was. As I approached the half century mark last year, I was very anxious. What would it be like to be a 50-year-old man? I knew it was just an arbitrary number, but some numbers packed more significance than others. At 16 you can drive; at 21 you can drink; at 35 you can run for president—even if you have the maturity and intelligence of a toddler. Well what happens at 50? What would an entire year of being a 50-year-old feel like? Well, since that year just ended for me, I’m here to tell you it’s a very mixed bag.

In some ways, my 50^th year felt like two very distinct years. The first half was terrific, whereas the second half felt almost like Armageddon. As I mentioned in some blog posts from that timeframe, one of the great advantages of turning 50 was getting my AARP card. I wielded that piece of plastic like a great swordsman wields…um…a sword. (Metaphors don’t get better at age 50.) Not long after I got my AARP card—okay a day after— I took my wife on a hot date to Denny’s and flashed that thing for a full 15% off! It was glorious!

Yes, the first half of my 50^th year brought with it some carefree days. Not only was I getting an AARP  discount at a handful of select restaurants and retailers, I was also getting AARP The Magazine! The first issue I received had Tom Hanks on the cover! Tom-freaking-Hanks! Maybe being 50 wouldn’t be so bad after all! And then the second half of the year kicked in.

Six months after I turned 50, in mid-March, everything seemed to start going downhill. It was like I became a hermit, staying in all the time—not even leaving my house to go to my office. I stopped going out to eat. I stopped going to the movies. I avoided seeing anyone other than my immediate family in person. I became obsessive compulsive about handwashing. I started doing weird things like hoarding toilet paper and wearing facemasks on the rare occasion that I would venture outside. What was it about the second half of my 50^th year that made me this way? Why did nobody older than me tell me it would be like this?

And now comes 51. What will that year be like? Will it be as schizophrenic of a year as my 50^th was? Only time will tell, but I’ll tell you one thing for certain—I’ve already renewed my AARP membership. I mean Kevin-freaking-Costner was on the cover of the last issue, so why wouldn’t I?

My Greatest Athletic Achievements

Now that professional sports are back in full swing, I find that my thoughts have frequently turned to my own athletic career. While it is true that I never played sports professionally, or collegiately, or high schoolly, it is also true that for three months in my early 20s, I was the fourth best player on a four-person bowling team and once rolled an impressive 137. (I’m pretty sure we still lost that game, despite the fact that my friend’s grandmother, who was the best bowler on our team, rolled a 190.)

As a young lad I, like many of my peers, had delusions of becoming a professional athlete, and it certainly wasn’t bowling that I fantasized about. For me, baseball and football were the objects of my desire, and I played these sports in the streets and schoolyards of Brooklyn on a regular basis. While it’s unclear to me now if it was my lack of discipline, size, or coordination that kept me from going pro, I do have a highlight reel of glorious streetball moments permanently etched into my consciousness.

The earliest all-star moment that I can recall came when I was a tender tot of about eight or nine. A bunch of kids on my block were playing stickball and as was often the case, I was relegated to last in the lineup. I don’t remember if the game started late or if we were having the inevitable endless arguments about the rules, but somehow most of the kids had to go inside before I ever got a turn at bat and eventually the only two people left outside were myself and a girl of about my age named Jodi. We decided to keep on playing, which was fine with me, as I had a bit of a crush on Jodi and wanted to dazzle her with my incredible athletic prowess. After awkwardly swinging and missing on Jodi’s first two pitches, and silently calculating that my chances with her were sinking faster than the Titanic, I finally connected on her third pitch. I watched as the pink Spalding sailed high and fast down the block, past the big tree near the corner and bounced its way down the next block. Jodi gleefully yelled “How did you do that?” and chased after the ball, which ended up being lost, perhaps in a sewer drain. While I lost my ball and the game came to an abrupt end it was, for me, the proudest moment of my young life.

About three years later, on the very same street, I had an epic football moment. I have no recollection of who else was on the playing field with me, although I’m sure Jodi would not have been there at this point, as my previous baseball heroics did not have the lasting impact on our relationship that I had hoped. All I know is that there were probably six of us and my team was on offense. I ran out for a pass racing around in crazy patterns until the quarterback, determining I was open, threw the ball my way. The only challenge was, I was running toward a parked car and the ball was thrown high and behind me. It’s difficult to account for what happened next, other than to say it was all very spontaneous and I wouldn’t be able to recreate it if I tried. I reached for the ball behind me with my hands, while at the same time I straightened my legs and tried to stop short, so as not to overrun the ball. I managed to catch the ball with my body stiff as a board at a 45-degree angle. I did not, however, successfully stop short, since there was no traction on the asphalt. As a result, I managed to fully slide underneath the parked car with the football still firmly in my hands. I don’t know how this looked to the other kids playing, but I know that lying on the ground, with just my head and outstretched arms sticking out from underneath that blue Ford Granada, I felt like I had just made the greatest play in the history of Shore Parkway street sports.

But it wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I managed to make the streetball play that, to this day, the people inside my head are still talking about. A bunch of guys had gotten together to play football on my friend Tom’s street. We all reeked of teenage male bravado, but none reeked more than Louie, who was a junior and the cockiest kid in our school. He was a long-haired rebel that all the girls swooned over and all the guys wanted to give a stiff right to the jaw. Nobody wanted to be on his team, because he was a ball-hog who would insist every play go through him; but it wasn’t so great to play against him either, because of the constant trash talk you would have to endure the entire game. On this particular day we were on different teams and at one point, late in the game, I caught a short pass and found myself about five yards from the end zone with only Louie in my way. He stood a few feet ahead of me and I knew there would be no way to get past him, so I thought I would throw a lateral back to the quarterback. But as soon as I pulled my arms backward to pitch the ball forward, Louie, thinking he would intercept the lateral and take it all the way back to the opposite end zone for fame and glory, jumped into the theoretical path of the ball before it left my hands. This allowed me to hold on to the ball and trot unscathed into the end zone, as though I planned a fake lateral all along. To this day it’s not so much the cheers of my teammates that I remember fondly, as it is the joyous razzing that Louie had to endure the rest of the game for getting completely humiliated on the playing field.

My illustrious sports career is well behind me now, but I often bask in the glory of these three championship moments as I conveniently forget the several thousand embarrassing moments in between. Here’s to my Hall of Fame career…and my selective memory!

Spontaneous Blog Post

It has been a couple of months since I created a blog post, so I thought I would try something different and write a post completely off the cuff. Usually I labor over my posts for days, sometimes spending hours contemplating a single word. True, many of these hours are actually spent nodding off in front of my laptop and accidentally drooling on my keyboard, but nonetheless, my intentions are pure.

Normally my blog posts are topical, addressing either what is going in the world or my own life when I sit down to write. These days, however, what's going on in the world is too depressing to write about and what's going on in my life is not very much to write about. My days Monday through Friday are pretty much the same. I wake up, shower, and make that long 40-foot commute from my bedroom to my den. Then I work for eight or nine hours, have dinner, watch TV with the family, go to sleep and do it all over again the next day. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But those weekends...oh those wild weekends. On Saturdays and Sundays I usually sleep in a whole hour later than on weekdays. I read. I surf the internet. I eat dinner and watch TV with the family. On Friday nights we watch a movie instead of episodic television. Sometimes we play a board game in the evenings instead of watching TV. It's a crazy time, I tell you! 

Actually, last night something exciting did happen. My wife yelped in surprise and alarm. I was in the midst of feeding the cats at the time, but as any good husband would (or at least should), I immediately ditched the cats to see what caused my wife's cry of distress. It turned out there was a large cricket on the wall behind the television. Alarming though this may have been, it's much better than what usually causes my wife to yelp-- a scorpion sighting. While crickets are larger than scorpions, they are way less lethal, so I dispatched it confidently without fear of being injected with venom. It was quite the adrenaline rush for a Sunday evening.

So goes life in the Schwartzberg household in the surreal summer of 2020. It is a quiet existence punctuated by the occasional critter encounter. Normally I would insert a clever and/or humorous line here to neatly tie up my blog post and end it on a high note, but since I'm writing spontaneously and not spending hours over each word I'll just end it by reassuring you that I did not forget my cats last night after the cricket incident and they were eventually fed. (This, of course, was due to their meows of surprise and alarm brought on by an empty food dish.)

The Strangest Tale of Lockdown Living

Of all the tales of lockdown, today I bring you the one that is perhaps the strangest within the Schwartzberg files: “The Tale of the 13-Year-Old Boy Who Cleaned His Room Without Being Told.”

My oldest son is not what anyone would call a “neat freak.” In fact, he has always seemed to follow the tenets of the Oscar Madison School of Housework; in other words—don’t bother. Letting things fall randomly on the ground—pants, math homework, magazines, three-year-old Halloween candy—seems to be standard practice in the boy’s room. And entering junior high this past year only seems to have increased the gusto with which my son haphazardly tosses crap throughout his lair.

Efforts to have my son clean his room have always met with mixed results. When we tell him to straighten up his room he avoids it for as long as possible before being threatened with loss of screen time. At that point, his “cleaning” basically consists of taking the stuff that was all over the ground and piling it on his desk, shoving it into his closet and hiding it under his comforter. None of the junk ever leaves, it just gets rearranged and within three days it all slowly creeps back out, so his floor is once again a minefield of miscellaneous middle-school mementos, with not an inch of carpet anywhere to be seen.  This is how, despite the fact that the room is no more than 100 square feet, one of our cats once got lost in there, as I detailed in a previous blog entry.

So you can imagine my surprise when one morning, about a week ago, I opened my son’s door to wake him and there was nothing on the floor but furniture and nothing on the furniture but things that were supposed to be there like lamps and a few office supplies. My first thought was that we had been burglarized. But what burglar would take off with mismatched dirty socks and incomplete 7^th-grade Spanish assignments? Then I thought perhaps I was sleepwalking and this was simply a dream.  I pinched myself and said, “Ouch,” and realized I was not dreaming. I wondered if my son even knew his room was clean, so I decided to wake him.

“Hey, dude, wake up,” I whisper-shouted. He replied with a barely audible grunt, opened one eye and looked at me.

“What happened to your room?”

“Huh?”

“Your room. Look at it. What happened here?”

My son propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. At first he looked confused and then memory seemed to return to his groggy mind.

“Oh yeah. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I cleaned it,” he said, laying back down.

“Okay. Well done,” I said, slowly backing out of his room. I didn’t want to make too much of a big deal about it and have him rebel and mess it all up again just to spite me.

As amazed as I was about my son’s middle of the night cleaning escapades, I was more amazed a couple of hours later when he came into the kitchen and grabbed a few trash bags so he could continue to dejunk his already seemingly spotless room. Apparently he had successfully transferred from the Oscar Madison to the Felix Unger School of Housework.

At one point, while my son was lugging a bag of trash down the hallway, I overheard my wife, who was as startled by this turn of events as I, ask him what made him decide to do all this cleaning.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Quarantine makes you do some crazy things.”

Indeed it does. And if this is the kind of thing that happens when my son goes crazy, I’m totally on board with it. Chalk this one up as an unexpected benefit of lockdown.

Completely visible carpet leading up to a bed

My Lockdown Hobbies

About one month into lockdown I feel comfortable that my sanity is in a good place and my risk of going all “Shining” on my family is at a minimum. (This is helped by the fact that we live in a modest three-bedroom house and there is no Room 237.) I’ve found that one of the keys to maintaining a sound state of mind while sheltering in place is adopting some new hobbies.

Listening to classical music is not new to me, but the regularity with which I am doing it is. Somehow, given the gravity of the situation we now find ourselves in, classical music seems like the most appropriate soundtrack. Every day now I give myself a large daily dose of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, and the rest of those wig-wearing virtuosos. I particularly like Pachelbel, because if you say his name fast it sounds like you’re saying “Taco Bell” and I enjoy their sauce packets.

Another new hobby that has taken root for me is walking. Of course, I used to walk before the lockdown, but that was a purely utilitarian activity just to get from Point A to Point B. Now I do a specific walk every day—one full circuit around my block that takes me a little over six minutes. It may not sound like much, but of course, I have the added challenge of having to stay at least six feet away from anyone I come across. I come across no one, though, except for one time when I saw a guy coming out of his garage, so I hissed at him and ran away.

There is one hobby I have taken up, though, that has been particularly rewarding, because I can see daily progress. As with any endeavor, when you really put in the work and you can see yourself making significant strides, you feel a real sense of accomplishment. I am, of course, talking about growing facial hair. For the past three weeks I have made a concerted effort to not run a razor across my face. Every day, after I brush my teeth, I look at my razor and shaving cream and actively turn away. And every morning when I get up and look in the bathroom mirror, I see progress being made. At the two week and three day mark I hit a significant milestone when I finally went past the stubble and scruff phases and hit the full-on beard phase. I considered this a major accomplishment since the last time I had a full-on beard was 22 years ago. (For a scintillating account of the history of my facial hair growth, read this blog I wrote in 2013.)

While my beard growing has been seemingly successful, I must report that this particular hobby is not getting universal praise from the rest of the folks on lockdown in this household. While my older son really seems to like this new look (I get the vibe that he thinks the facial hair makes his dad look like less of a man-child) my wife and younger son have been vocal critics. And while the various barbs about my beard being hurled my way by my younger son don’t really bother me (another hobby I’ve taken up over the past month is completely tuning out my kids so I can get work done) the fact that my wife has disdain for my face fuzz is a bit of a concern. After all, she fell in love with a clean shaven gent and now she finds herself cohabitating with a caveman. So, in an effort to keep the peace and avoid my wife being the one to go “Shining” on the rest of us, I’ll probably shave off the beard in the next few days and take up a new hobby. I hear collecting toilet paper is quite popular these days. Maybe I’ll look into that.

Toilet Paper Math

Exactly one week ago I started noticing the various news articles and social media posts about the sudden run on toilet paper that was leading to a shortage of this valuable commodity. It seemed ridiculous at the time, but it also occurred to me that if enough people panic-purchased toilet paper, there would be none left for the non-panicked types like me. And that thought caused a minor panic.

I decided to take a quick inventory of our toilet paper rolls, both active and on deck. We had eight rolls, so we weren’t in imminent need of the stuff. Still, I thought perhaps I should pick up an extra package just to be safe. So the next morning I took a detour on the way to work and stopped at our local Fry’s.

Upon entering Fry’s at about 7:25 A.M. on Wednesday, March 11, 2020, everything looked pretty normal. There weren’t very many customers at this hour and the shelves seemed well-stocked. I decided to pick up a couple of other things we needed on my way to the paper goods aisle. I grabbed bananas, soup, and Ritz crackers (a.k.a. breakfast, lunch, and dinner) and headed toward the back of the store. I turned the corner of my targeted aisle and came upon an interesting scene.

The rows of shelves that are normally happily occupied by a wide variety of toilet paper brands were nearly empty. There were maybe four or five packages left, spread out throughout the shelves. But there was a much larger amount of toilet paper—maybe eight or nine packages— in the shopping cart of a woman in her early 30s standing in front of these sparse shelves. She was having a heated conversation with a woman about twice her age who was holding one package of toilet paper.

Non-hoarder: You know there’s really no need to panic. If everyone just bought the normal amount of toilet paper, we would all have what we need.

Hoarder: I’m not panicking. I just had four rolls of toilet paper at home, so I needed to get more. (Apparently she wanted this woman to believe that she normally buys 60 to 70 rolls of toilet paper at a clip.)

At this point, I quietly slid behind the hoarder to grab a six-pack of Quilted Northern. On a whim, I decided that while I was in this aisle I might as well grab a pack of tissues and paper towels, even though there was still an abundance of those items on the shelves. I grabbed my packs of paper goods and quickly left the aisle, as I was in no way interested in sticking around to see if this TP-argument escalated into a TP-melee.

That was Wednesday. By Friday, of course, everything had changed, as the grocery stores were now entering zombie apocalypse territory. When I went to the store on Friday, I had intended to pick up only a couple of items, but the moment I saw the barren look of all the shelves and the desperate look of all the shoppers, I realized it was in the best interest of the Schwartzberg household for me to pick up anything I could get my hands on that was remotely edible. As I weaved my way through the panicked shoppers I decided to take a peak down the paper goods aisle. We didn’t need any toilet paper, but I was just curious. There was nothing down that aisle.  No toilet paper, no paper towels, no tissues, no napkins. Just empty shelves and a lone tumbleweed.

In the days following this anxiety-inducing shopping excursion I went to a variety of stores to see about the availability of toilet paper, because it occured to me that one day my family will run out. On Saturday I went to Safeway, CVS, and Walgreens, with no luck. On Sunday I went to Fry’s, Target, and Big Lots with no luck. Out of desperation, I decided to check out the 99-cent store, figuring that even though their toilet paper might have visible tree bark in it, it was better than using a wool mitten. But they were empty, as well. The next morning I went to the opposite end of the spectrum and tried Whole Foods—but alas, no toilet paper, vegan or otherwise.

So now it’s down to math. There are currently 14 rolls of toilet paper in our household, with two already started. Each unstarted roll contains 308 sheets of toilet paper. Let’s assume that the two started rolls are about half done, constituting about one roll combined. That means we currently have 13 x 308 = 4,004 sheets of toilet paper. If each person in the household is allotted eight sheets per day, we would need 4 x 8 = 32 sheets daily. With 4,004 sheets available, it would take us just about 125 days before we ran out, or about four months. Of course, if we decrease our intake of fruits and vegetables, and increase our intake of hard cheese and pound cake, we could probably last for an additional month, but that might lead to other issues. In either case, I’m hopeful that our current supply outlasts the great Toilet Paper Famine of 2020.

Now if only we could wash our hands.

To E or Not to E...

I have been a bibliophile my entire life. For those of you who are not quite sure what that means, don’t worry, I didn’t just make some scandalous admission that might land me in jail; it just means that I love books. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the sound of the pages turning, the smell of the paper, and of course, the words contained within.

I have been a book lover for as long as I can remember—a habit handed down to me from my mother who used to bring me to our local library every three weeks to get a new hoard of books. I sometimes imagined that when the librarian saw me and my mom coming, she quickly had to make a phone call to ensure the shelves would be restocked when we left, because she knew we were about to wipe the place clean of everything from Dr. Seuss to Agatha Christie. We arrived with shopping bags and left with them so chock full of books that our arms were sore just walking from the library to the car, 40 feet away.

Even when I stopped going to the library with my mom, my love for books persisted. I naturally became an English Literature major, because when I found out there was a major where pretty much all you had to do was read books, write about books, and talk about books, I said “Sign me up!” The first time I set foot in NYU’s 12-story high, 3.3 million volume, Bobst Library, I was as giddy as Burgess Meredith at the end of the Twilight Zone episode “Time Enough at Last.” I wanted to run into the stacks, throw books in the air and yell, “There’s time now!” But I saw the burly security guard and contained myself.

Yes, books have always been powerfully important objects for me. I grew up in a household that had many bookcases with hundreds of volumes on the shelves and when I eventually moved out on my own, these sacred objects played a prominent part of my home décor. They may take up a lot of space, but their worth goes well beyond the space they inhabit.

So, in the past couple of decades, when electronic book devices started to emerge, I mocked their very existence and swore I would never read a book not made out of paper.  It seemed blasphemous to me to read a book on a screen rather than on a printed page. The very concept of an e-book made me cringe. “You can take your Nook and shove it up your…um…nook!” was my attitude.

As e-readers evolved they, of course, started being used for things other than reading books. Just like phones have ceased to be for talking and are now for a thousand other things, so too have e-readers evolved into mini-computers. A few years ago I ended up getting a Kindle—not for reading books, but for playing games. Mostly I use my Kindle to play Scrabble and sometimes for looking things up on Wikipedia or the iMDB, if I’m too lazy to walk over to my computer. But never, NEVER for reading books! That kind of heresy, I would not be a part of.

Of course, I know many reasonable and intelligent people who swear by e-books. They tell me it’s very convenient to carry around, much lighter than a regular book, and much better for the environment, since no trees are harmed in the making of an e-book. “Sure, that may all be true, but it’s still not the same experience as a REAL book,” I inevitably tell them (and myself.)

So I continue to get my books from the library, although now accompanied by my 10-year-old son, who is even more of a bibliophile than I. Of course, getting your books from the library is sometimes a crapshoot, as a particular book you’re looking for may be checked out or simply not one they have. More often than not in these situations, I just look for a different book. Hey, I’m an easy going guy, so as long as a book has a bunch of words strung together that I enjoy, I’m satisfied. But if you belong to a book club, that won’t cut it.

A little over a year ago a friend invited me to join his book club and I readily agreed for two primary reasons: 1) I thought this would be a good chance to read some books I wouldn’t have otherwise thought to pick up, and 2) I pretty much never went anywhere other than work and home, so I thought this would be a good excuse to get out of the house and socialize once a month. Turns out I was right on both counts!

The book club consists of about eight to ten members, but for any given session there are about four or five attendees. It has been great getting to know the guys and reading the eclectic mix of books being suggested. One thing that has become crystal clear, though, is that I am the only dinosaur still getting his books from the library. Most of the other club members are using e-books or audio books, while I still cling to my precious print editions.

As with most book clubs, in ours, a different member picks the book each month and February was my turn. I went with a book I’ve wanted to read for the past few years called Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. It is a post-apocalyptic book about a group of traveling actors and musicians performing for small groups of survivors after a deadly flu wiped out most of the human race. (Note: I settled on this book about two days before news of the corona virus broke, so I think I’ve successfully unnerved my fellow book club members.)

As soon as I made this month’s book club selection official, I jumped onto the Chandler Public Library website to reserve a copy, but it turned out all three copies in their system were checked out, so I placed a hold on it. The copy that should have been available the soonest was due back on Wednesday, February 5^th, which I figured would give me plenty of time to finish it before our book club meeting on the 26^th of the month. But lo and behold, I did not get a notice from the library that the book was available on Thursday, February 6^th or Friday, February 7^th. So, on Saturday, February 8^th, when I took my son to the library on our regular visit, I took up the situation with the librarian.

Me: Hello Mr. Librarian, I wonder if you could help me. I placed a book on hold that was due back on Wednesday and I still haven’t been notified yet. I’m wondering if there’s a lag time between when it gets returned and when I get notified and I’m just in some grey zone at the moment.

Him: Let me get your library card and I’ll check it out.

Me: (Very carefully handing him the most prized possession in my wallet.) Here you go.

Him: (Hits some keys on his end.) I see what you mean. They haven’t returned the book yet. It is available as an electronic book, if you would like to check it out that way.

Me: Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh… I don’t do electronic books. I prefer to have the actual book.

Him: (Shrugs his shoulders and smiles.) Okay. I understand. You’ll be notified when it’s available.

Frustrated, I found my son in the young adults section cramming volume upon volume into the black canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. A few minutes later we checked out—him with a dozen books and me with nothing. When we got home I stared at my Kindle and found myself having an epic internal argument.

Me 1: Don’t even look at that Kindle unless you are planning on playing Scrabble. You are not succumbing to the evils of the e-book.

Me 2: What’s the harm in doing it just this once? You have to read this book—you’re the one who suggested it.

Me 1: Maybe whoever has it will return it later on today and I’ll be able to pick it up tomorrow.

Me 2: Yes, or maybe the person who has it has fled the country with it, because they’re the head of a stolen library book cartel. They’re already three days overdue on their book, so you know they’re an outlaw anyway, so who knows what they’re capable of?

Me 1: But an e-book? An E-BOOK??? How can I forsake the printed page this way? It’s against everything I stand for, I tells ya!

Me 2: Wake up, man! Everyone is reading on electronic devices these days! Just take the plunge, already. The words will be the same if they’re on a screen or on paper. Step into the 21^st century, friend.

Me 1: Fine, I’ll do it just this once. But if this leads to listening to music on MP3 players and taking Ubers instead of taxis, I’ll never forgive you.

So I did it. I downloaded my very first e-book, ironically enough about a society that has no electricity and therefore, no e-books. I started reading very tentatively, afraid that my conscience would explode at any second. But my conscience didn’t explode and the reading of the book on this lightweight device was annoyingly convenient. I found myself reading this book much more quickly than usual—whether it was because the book was so good, or the way I was reading it was so easy, I could not tell.

When I had about 50 pages to go in the book I finally got the notice from the library that the hard copy version I put on hold was available. Now what? Do I ditch the e-book and read the last little bit from the hard copy? I was taking my son to the library the next day, anyway, so I checked out the hard copy and put it on my nightstand. That night I got into bed and looked back and forth between my Kindle and the physical book right next to it. I was very close to finished with the book and knew that I would be done with it within a half hour. I finally picked up the Kindle and opened it up as a tear slowly trickled down my cheek.

I would finish this one e-book, just this once and never get another one—it’s hard copies from here on out. At least that’s what “Me 1” told myself, as “Me 2” quietly snickered in the background.

Neil Peart: Suddenly You Were Gone

Yesterday afternoon, at 2:26, I was working from home. I was on a deadline and waiting for materials from a coworker. I felt my phone vibrate its distinct incoming text message vibration. In my mind the chances were—30% work related, 70% spam text. I hate spam texts and I get them constantly. I hate getting them so much, I often don’t even bother looking at my phone right away when I feel it vibrate. But in this case, I was waiting on info regarding my work deadline, so I took a look right away. The text read:

“Dude. Neil Peart died.”

Never before had I so wished I had received a spam text.

I sat looking at the text from my good friend, Bill. I had no idea how to respond. He texted again saying he had read it on rollingstone.com. Then he texted again:

“I would never have gotten into Rush without you turning me on to them. What a tragic loss. I’m bummed.”

I stared at my phone screen, disbelieving. I was in denial. My rational brain knew it must be true, but I held out hope that it was some rumor gone bad or a cruel hoax. I quickly logged on to Twitter where I am connected to the official Rush band page, dozens of fan pages, and over a hundred other diehard Rush fans. As soon as I logged on I saw the tweet from Rolling Stone:

“Rush’s Neil Peart, the Hall of Fame drummer who set a new standard for rock virtuosity, has died at 67.”

It was true.

I clicked on the link to the article and read that he had been battling brain cancer for three-and-a-half years. Nobody outside of his inner circle knew. He was a very private man, so this was not all that surprising. The death, of course, was a surprise, but the fact that he kept his illness hidden was not. I could not bring myself to read past the first paragraph. I finally texted Bill back:

“Thank you for letting me know. My day is ruined.”

At this point my wife was walking by and, unable to speak, I just pointed to my computer screen with the headline on it. She looked and gasped, “Oh no!” She scanned the first paragraph of the article then asked me if my friend Roger had posted anything yet. Roger is a muckety muck at SiriusXM, a drummer, and a longtime Rush fan. I told her that I was on a deadline and had not been on Facebook, so I hadn’t seen anything from him. Moments later my phone vibrated…it was Roger. He wrote:

“Andrew…not sure u know…Very sad news that Neil Peart has passed away. I am devastated.”

I told him I knew and I too, was devastated. I refocused on my work. Five minutes later my phone vibrated again. Really, I’m not usually this popular. This time it was my friend Chris texting me the news with a sad face emoji. Chris has a significant place in my Rush life, as I went with him to my first Rush concert back in 1986. We exchanged texts of commiseration. I yet again refocused on my work. Five minutes later my phone rang and I saw that it was my friend Ken.

Ken has the distinction of being the person I have seen the most concerts with and talked the most Rush with over my lifetime. When I saw his name on my phone I debated not answering for two reasons: 1) I had this damn deadline! 2) I wasn’t sure I could compose myself. I answered the phone with, “I know.”

For the next few minutes he did most of the talking, while I struggled to say a word or two here or there without losing it. He soon realized I was in pain and said, “Look at it this way, Drew—we got to see them play in Canada! How cool is that?”

He was right, it was extremely cool. In June of 1997 I flew from Arizona to New York. On the 25^th of that month I went with Ken to see Rush in New York at Jones Beach. Then, a few days later we made the eight hour drive to Toronto to fulfill a lifelong dream of seeing Rush live in their hometown. It was an incredible experience. On the phone, back in 2020, I mumbled my agreement about the coolness of that experience.

Then he said, “And we actually got our wives into Rush! How cool is that?”

That was pretty darn cool, too. It is well-documented that there are not a lot of female Rush fans. Certainly there are some that are very hardcore, but the reality is that the vast majority of Rush fans have a Y chromosome. That I have been able to turn my wife on to Rush has been awesome. Sharing your favorite music with the person you love most is a blessing. So again, I mumbled my agreement.

Choking back my emotions, I told Ken I had to get back to my deadline, which was true. I got off the phone and concentrated on the work in front of me. Fortunately, I had gotten the materials I needed from my coworker and he had done an excellent job, making things easy for me. In less than half an hour I was finished with my assignment and the deadline was met. I decided to look at Facebook and saw dozens of my friends posting about their grief at the loss of The Professor.

As I scrolled through the posts, some from friends I knew were Rush fans, others from friends whose Rush love I was previously unaware of, I came across one post that stopped me in my tracks. It was a tribute to Neil from my friend Vic, who played the most pivotal role in my connection to Rush…by making me aware that they existed!

Vic and I were not close friends—really just high school acquaintances. But we were in a play together in 1984 and one day, while we were in the music room waiting for our rehearsal to start, he sat down at the piano and started playing a song. The opening chords piqued my interest immediately and I walked over and asked what it was.

“It’s ‘Subdivisions’ by Rush,” he said.

“Who are they?” I asked, intrigued.

“They’re an incredible band. The album is Signals. You have to get it,” he said.

And I did get it that weekend. I came home, plugged in my headphones, put the needle on the vinyl and listened. There were the distinctive opening chords on the song Vic had played, soon followed by these lyrics:

Sprawling on the fringes of the city
In geometric order
An insulated border
In between the bright lights
And the far unlit unknown

Growing up it all seems so one-sided
Opinions all provided
The future pre-decided
Detached and subdivided
In the mass production zone
Nowhere is the dreamer or the misfit so alone

Subdivisions-
In the high school halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
Subdivisions-
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out…

I was a geeky 15-year-old kid. I had friends, but still felt like an awkward outcast, as many kids at that age do.  I was a very literary kid and loved well-written song lyrics, but never had I heard lyrics that connected with me this deeply matched with music of such virtuosity. I listened to the entire album enthralled. Then I listened again. I couldn’t stop listening, in fact.

Soon I bought more Rush albums and they quickly became my favorite band. I bought posters, magazines, buttons—anything I could get my hands on that was Rush-related. I learned all about the three band members: singer/bassist, Geddy Lee, guitarist, Alex Lifeson, and drummer/lyricist Neil Peart.

I had a huge appreciation for all three men, but the one who I found most compelling was Neil Peart. It was clear that his drumming skills were unbelievable. The fullness and complexity of what he was doing with his drum kit was matched by no one. But really all three players were amazing at their instruments. The thing that fascinated me most about Neil, though, was the lyrics. Nobody wrote lyrics that were so simultaneously intellectual and heartfelt. Who else uses the word “geometric” in their lyrics and manages to pull it off??? The man was a poet.

Since hearing of his death, Neil’s lyrics keep on going through my head. Upon first learning of the news, I thought:

Suddenly you were gone, from all the lives you left your mark upon – “Afterimage”

As I continued to process how I felt about it, I thought:

When I heard that he was gone, I felt a shadow cross my heart. – “Nobody’s Hero”

When I considered the legacy he would leave, I thought:

The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect. – “The Garden”

And when I thought about Neil’s relationship with his fans, I thought:

I can’t pretend a stranger is a long awaited friend. – “Limelight”

As mentioned previously, Neil Peart was a very private man. Unlike Geddy and Alex, who are happy to mingle with fans, Neil has always kept his admirers at arm’s length. Last night, in honor of Neil’s passing, I pulled out my DVD of the Rush documentary, Beyond the Lighted Stage for my wife and I to watch. I knew there was a lot of interview footage of Neil, and I wanted to hear from the man firsthand. At one point he addresses his distance from his fans by saying, “I’m not a sourpuss, I’m just shy.” And I can relate. If ever achieved fame, I think I might be similarly embarrassed by the attention that comes with it and avoid interactions with fans for that reason.

Yet for all his shyness and his avoidance of interaction with the public, in some ways I think Neil Peart was the most accessible of the band members. He put himself out there for the world to see through his lyrics of hundreds of songs and the eight books he wrote about his various travels. His writing was earnest and forthright and painted a picture of a deep thinker with a strong moral compass who was hopeful that man’s better nature would win out. In “Closer to the Heart,” one of Rush’s most iconic songs, he wrote:

And the men who hold high places
Must be the ones who start
To mold a new reality
Closer to the heart

An excellent sentiment, indeed—especially for the times in which we currently live.

So I may not have known Neil personally, but I still feel like I knew him quite well. His words will live on, his music will live on, and for the moment, the pain of his absence will live on. As another line from “Afterimage” states:

Tried to believe but you know it's no good
This is something that just can't be understood

Farewell, Mr. Peart. You have touched myself and millions of other fans in ways that just can’t be understood.