An open letter...

To the man next to me at the urinal in Echo Lake Park,

Dear sir,

Last week, when it seemed certain that I would be attending the Ed Palermo Big Band performance (last night) I mentally prepared myself for the potential eventuality that I, and my friend G, would dine first.  To be fair, this isn't a foregone conclusion.  When would G get to my place?  Would he be hungry?  Would I?  That said, when G arrived at my house, I gave him the full restaurant list which included Italian, Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Indian, pub, and even to just "get a slice."  The world was our oyster.  G picked Thai, and I'm always in the mood for cuisine of the far east.  To Thai we went.

Now, as luck would have it, sir, it was directly on our route between my house and the concert venue: Echo Lake Park.  I know you know it because I saw you there...but I digress.  We hit the Siam House on Route 22 directly across from Bowcraft.  Is it my favorite Thai restaurant?  Probably not.  I hold a special place in my heart for the Thai restaurants of Montclair where my wife and I would fight over chocolate soufflé, topped with whipped cream and drizzled with even more warm, melted chocolate.  Regardless, Siam House is certainly serviceable and, as I already mentioned, on-route. 

My companion ordered the Pad Thai, a crowd favorite while I ordered the Pad See Ew.  How spicy?  Not, please.  I did however ask for the chili sauce on the side so, if I so desired, I could add a bit of heat.  Now, sir, pay attention, the following events better explains our impromptu meeting.  I may have overdone it with the spice (the Spice, Arrakis!).  Like most people, I attempted to combat the temporary sensation with multiple glasses of water.  Keep them coming please.  Food was delicious and not too spicy to eat (and far from the spiciest) but certainly, the water was well appreciated.

Fast forward to the concert.  The first set was killer, as I'm sure you'll agree.  Music by the Big Band was varied and extended all the way from the Beach Boys to Jimi Hendrix and King Crimson.  After a rousing "21st CENTURY SCHIZOID MAN" set closer there were needs.  That aforementioned water was left with no place to go.  And, there's how we met, if you get my meaning. 

So, imagine my surprise when surveying available urinals in the Men's room (not port-o-johns, thank you Echo Lake and Union County), seeing you clearly over a foot away from the porcelain, relieving yourself while having adopted a relaxed leaning back position.  Sir, I understand that everyone needs their space and/or enjoys a very casual leak, but in the crazy hubbub of set-break, at a public venue, where toilet space is limited to the three urinals in a park, certain protocols should be followed.  I'm not asking you to hug the bowl, but even you have to admit that you were clearly more exposed than the rest of us who now had to navigate around you in order to use the other stalls...or access the sinks...or the hand dryer...or the paper towels.  You, sir, were an impediment to progress...almost Christie-esque in that sense.  Seriously though, the logistics of your preferred stance did cause issue for those of us wanting to spend as little time in the Gents as possible.  Also with that degree of exposure, consider the potential draft! Consider your your need for sharp-shooter-like aim!  Consider the children! 

In summary, Sir, I implore you: next time, please stand closer to the receptacle.  There is certain information about your physical being that the rest of us never need know.  And, your placement within the bathroom made it almost impossible to miss as we merely walked in the door and, boom, there you were.  This may come as some shock to you, but, in this case, modesty may be the best policy.

That said, I hope the rest of your concert was enjoyable.  If we meet again, I hope it's under better, and quite different, circumcision...I mean circumstances.  Sorry.

Sincerely,

Herb Scott August

Still Crazy

So, I met my wife on J-Date.  I'm a bit cheap to pay for it, but, in those days, you could embed your personal e-mail address in your profile.  Sara had an actual 3-month trial membership that she got with the purchase of the Christmas Eve Jewish singles event, the Matzah Ball, held at Webster Hall in NYC. 

She wrote me first. 

Just a sentence, mind you, to say that our profiles looked compatible.  I wrote her a single sentence indicating that, yes, they did.  Then, I wrote her a dissertation about who I was, how many brothers and sisters I had, and why I lived dual lives as both Herbert and Scott.  And, it wasn't enough to scare her away.  However, our first date was at the Famished Frog in Morristown, NJ...on a Thursday night, so as to not ruin another perfectly good weekend with, essentially, a blind date.

The date went well.  I was so nervous about this date that I ordered a salad.  She did too.  And, after dinner and talking, we walked a little bit around Morristown, hand in hand, talking more and me getting her to her car safely.

The next day, I committed the dating faux pas of writing her right away.  I explained that I didn't typically do that, but there was something I had to tell her that I didn't tell other women I dated.  I said that she needed to bear with me with this news as it could be upsetting, but that I'd be remiss in my responsibilities as a man if I didn't immediately write her and let her know...that her taillight was out.

Sara promptly forwarded this lengthy (and hysterical) e-mail to her best friend who wrote back and said, "you're going to marry this dork."

That was January 2002.  Today is our 11th anniversary.  Shit worked out well for me.  Yeah, the whole wife thing is cool, but I got an awesome new family...including more little brothers and sisters to torture with my over-the-top humor.  And, while they all regret the coupling, I don't.  Both of my kids are already smarter than I am.  It's awesome.  Johanna is telling me daily to shave my face.  Jude is schooling me in Pokemon.  And, Sara just smiles.

Happy Anniversary, love...I'm ready for 11 more (but then that's it, I'll have had ENOUGH!...ok, maybe not.)

Flirting with beauty

The Porsche Cayman GT4 is a super GT, 2-door coupe with Porsche’s distinct styling and mid-engine layout.  The GT4 boasts a minimum of 385 horsepower in a 3.8 liter 6-cylinder engine with a reported torque of 309 pounds per foot.  With the standard 20-inch alloy wheels, so wide that they practically fill out the wheel arches, the car grips the road with a stickiness that screams speed when you need it.  The presence of street-legal amenities such as headlights and breaklights fails to belie its racetrack ready form.  Like any good racecar, the spoiler in this car actually does its job by producing a “noticeable amount of downforce at the rear axle” keeping all 4 to the floor when cruising at the top track speed of 183mph.  And, as a street machine this thing is quick; the 0-60 times in at 4.2 seconds in an explosion of power.  That’s faster than the popular 2016 Masarati Ghibli (6.1 seconds) and the 2016 Jaguar F-type S Coupe (4.9 seconds).

Summary: this thing is pretty and it flies.  

So, imagine my surprise when, leaving Scotch Plains this morning, sitting next to me at the light on Bonnie Burn Road, was a Titanium White Porsche Cayman GT4, with candy-apple red brake calipers showing through the wheels, revving its engine and then flying off the line at the green, taking in the S-curves on that road as if it was on rails.  I quickly lost sight of it when it “drifted” up and around the corner, daydreaming about being able to talk to the owner. 

Porsches aren’t rare in NJ.  However, thanks to past years of Top Gear, I actually knew what I was looking at, was able to estimate what was under the hood of the $85,000 car, and drool accordingly.  I’m not much of a gear-head, but that show in its prime, with its excellent mix of personality and information about gas-guzzling supercars, I now know just enough about those high-end vehicles to be envious and understand about their potential performance characteristics.  Now, the hosts of the show (one in particular) was sacked after he verbally and physically assaulted a producer on the BBC show.  Amazon then scooped Mr. Clarkson, Mr. Hammond and Mr. May who have an incredible on-screen chemistry, to host a new show about driving…exclusively to be shown on Amazon Prime TV called “The Grand Tour.”  I anticipate that when it debuts later this year (in the fall according to Wikipedia), I will be watching so that I can learn more about things that I can’t afford: Ferrari’s LaFerrari, the Bugatti Chiron and the brand new 2017 Lamborghini Centenario.    

Until then, I’ll continue to daydream about being able to drive the GT4 around the neighborhood.  Glad I saw it as I thought I wouldn’t be seeing it again for some time.  Wasn’t even able to get a picture as our meeting was so brief.  Imagine my surprise when, 20 minutes later, I saw it again!  On, Route 78, pulled over to the side of the road by NJ’s State Troopers…who, I imagine, just wanted to get a closer look at it themselves, and daydream a little too.