Seaside, Part 911

Here’s a Seaside story I almost forgot, and it’s actually the reason I penned the saga in the first place. This was during the famed summer of ’85. By some incredible synchronicity, my brother and I had the day off work. We ordered a pizza and drove to the boardwalk to go pick it up.

Now, the main drag in front of the boardwalk, the boulevard, was not unlike any other main drag in the summertime: packed and crawling with cruising cars. So, my brother dropped me off with the intent of circling back around to pick me up. The timing had to be perfect otherwise I’d miss him and have to wait for him to make the circuit again. So, pizza in hand, I spotted him and darted for the car. As it was moving at maybe a half a mile per hour, I jumped through the open passenger side window to be funny. A second after that, we heard a siren and saw the lights.

My brother had a ’72 VW Beetle. The cops tried to cite me for riding on the running boards. Of course, that never happened. I jumped through the window. My brother opened the glove box to get the registration, and in there was an empty brown bottle that used to hold liquid incense. In that bottle was a little white ball, presumably to keep the contents from settling. Well, the cops took one look at this bottle and the little white ball and immediately assumed we were transporting/using/distributing contraband of some sort. So, they pulled us out of the car, had us spread eagle against it, and frisked us. They kept us there for about a half hour, much to the delight of the hooting and hollering passersby and I just wanted to die. Frisked and suspected of trafficking at thirteen. Fantastic.

After all of that, the cops gave my brother a ticket for “riding on parts not intended”. I’m pretty sure we made their night. What better way to wrap up a Friday night than scare the bejeezus out of two adolescent out-of-towners in front of an audience of hundreds of people? Swell.

Seaside Part Deux, or Memoirs of a Guysha (sorry)

I mentioned the boardwalk in my earlier post, and it was a crucial part of the Jersey shore experience. Whenever I’d mention it to any of my friends from one of the many states I’d lived, they’d inevitably ask if I’d ever been to the one at Atlantic City, Wildwood, Ocean Grove, etc. My answer would always be no and that I had no interest in any of those; Seaside Heights and Seaside Park were all I knew and all I wanted to know.

The daytime was great there because of the beach, but the nighttime was pure magic. My senses would be overwhelmed by the aroma of zeppole, clams, pizza, sausage, ozone, and old wood; bright twinkling of lights, bells and other electronic noises emanating from the arcades, the unmistakable sound of the spinner on all the games of chance, rattling of metal of the loose-from-age rides, and the buzzers on the kiddie carousels with the über-cool metalflake fiberglass dune buggies and minibikes. In the middle of all that was music blaring from all the big rides like the Swiss Bob (iiiiiiiiiit’s the Swiss Bob!) and that insane pendulous pirate ship. Walking barefoot was always preferred, throwing caution to the wind and getting the occasional splinter or stepping on a lit cigarette butt. They were mere badges of action.

When I was a little kid, my aunt would take my brother and me to the boardwalk at night and we’d sometimes stay out until 1 AM. My game of choice was skee ball. As the night wore on, I’d be in autopilot mode and would just keep throwing balls with no strategy whatsoever because I was pretty much a zombie at that point. I figured out that even if I didn’t try too hard, the reward tickets would pop out every now and then and I could cash them in on something like plastic spiders, army figures, basketweave finger prisons, or a tiny screwdriver. Years later my brother and I would spend untold amounts of money on video games like Galaga, Joust, Tempest, Battlezone, Berzerk, Tron, Dig Dug, etc.

We mostly kept to the Casino Pier as far as rides go, and back then it seemed like a city to me. I distinctly remember getting on some ride with my brother and father, not exactly knowing what it was or what it did. As it turned out, it was pretty much a smallish Ferris Wheel, and the cars were like a large donut on end with a steering wheel in the middle of it. I recall it being really tight in that car, and as the ride moved, the donut started spinning. Well, I didn’t go for that at all and screamed bloody murder until they stopped the ride for me. My poor dad. Jesus, that must have been embarrassing.

When I got a little older, I used to go to the boardwalk by myself and go exploring under the piers, looking for any kind of sea life I could find. Jellyfish were always plentiful, as were kelp and uh, beach whistles. Sometimes I’d luck out and find the odd dead crab here and there, but that’s about it. It was also during these explorations (the twilight ones) that I’d accidentally get an outsider’s glance at, um, the Wonders of Mating. I’d stumble on couples going at it on the beach, oblivious that a little kid unwittingly stumbled upon the duo in flagrante delicto. Of course I had no idea what I was witnessing, but it looked like they were both on fire and trying to put out the flames.

They were.

I was getting to be the age where I had an ever-increasing interest in the fairer sex, even though I was still very young. Regardless, I would often wander around the beach, bummed out that I was too shy to even try to find a girlfriend. What a little kid hopes to find in a girlfriend at that age is anybody’s guess, but I craved companionship and sought the Quintessential Summer Girlfriend. I probably tried way too hard and overcompensated all the time, but if I got to walk hand-in-hand with a girl on the beach at night, the circle would be complete. It's almost inconceivable to me that I ever possessed such innocence.

When I was thirteen, we moved from upstate New York to Massachusetts. The plan was that my brother and I would spend the entire summer between the move at the shore and make our way to Massachusetts in September to start at our new schools. This was also to be around the time I ceased being a kid. I got my first-ever job on the Casino Pier at a place called Ocean Mist. One of the guys in the neighborhood who was older than me worked there and somehow got me in there. As I was thirteen, I couldn’t legally work. My aunt posed as my mother and told the owners of the restaurant that I was actually fourteen but my birth certificate was in storage because we were moving. They bought it and I was hired. I had zero experience and no idea how to run a cash register, let alone give back correct change, but I went from being a patron of the Casino Pier to an employee and it was never the same.

The restaurant was essentially an ice cream stand with a small restaurant in it (not unlike a clam bar), and I operated the window. It was there that I doled out ice cream, soft pretzels, and the absolute bane of my existence: funnel cakes. My diet that summer pretty much consisted of soft pretzels, ice cream, and orange drink, and my complexion was a pretty good indicator of that. Having a perpetual film of atomized lard on my face from frying funnel cakes certainly didn’t help the matter.

There was a brief highlight, however. When I'd go on break, I'd take a stroll of the pier and sometimes run into one of the girls who was a ticket-taker at one of the roller coaster/haunted house rides. She'd come to my window for a pretzel and was very friendly to me. She suggested one day that I go down and visit her at work because she get could get me into the ride for free. Hero that I am, I never took her up on the ride. But I did visit her, and we had the makings of a summer romance happening. We were set to have an informal date one night, and out of sheer fright I stood her up. For reasons even I don't understand, I was stricken with panic and couldn't go through with it.

On my days off I'd go hit the arcades and blow my paycheck. I had no expenses or responsibilities, so I could just squander my earnings by playing games of chance that might win me a glittery Budweiser mirror or super-clever Heineken Grab a Heiney! muscle shirt.

My older brother got a job at the local A&P, and because of the hours we worked, we rarely saw each other that summer. At thirteen (but fourteen to everyone else), I was closing up the restaurant at night when the boardwalk would shut down. It was an entirely different world, very much a man-behind-the-curtain ordeal. Up until that point I had viewed the boardwalk as an actual living being, always alight and always humming. At 1 AM, all the rides were shut down, the lights got turned off, and all sources of noise were silenced. It was the first time I had ever seen this entertainment metropolis go to bed for the night, and it was actually pretty shocking. Then I had to walk home in the dark. It was only a couple miles, but absolutely everything had a different tone and color to it from that point on. I’d get home around 1:30 and my brother who had just gotten home from his shift would be sitting on the couch in front of the TV. We’d say hello to each other and then go crash, only to repeat the process the next day.

I reached a point about halfway through the summer where I realized I was horrible at that job and just quit. Not surprisingly, my employer freaked out. Then I called my father and he freaked out. I then talked to the aunt who landed me the job, and she freaked out. The next day I begged for my job back and got it. Lesson learned and the summer plodded on uneventfully while I emptied bottle after bottle of Sun-In in my hair and perfected my tan.

Until…

…one day a girl about two years older than me appeared in the rental unit my nana owned. She was with a family who wasn’t hers, and I never did figure out how she was associated with them. All I know is that seemingly overnight she took a shine to me, and the summer suddenly got a lot more interesting. It was still all very innocent and we never even kissed, but when my nana saw us sitting too close for her comfort, she wasted no time in voicing her displeasure. That “romance” lasted a week as she had to go back home. We exchanged addresses with the obligatory lofty promises of writing each other every day, etc. I wrote to her once a couple months later and immediately received a letter back from her with a picture of a newborn in it. Yup, the newborn was hers, and my mind was completely blown. It also made me wonder how she was able to hide her pregnancy so effectively when she was with me. I never wrote back because I didn’t need the father to get a hold of the letters and track me down. No thanks. It took the prize for many years as The Most Bizarre Summer Romance Ever.

I had summer friends there who were neighbors that I’d known most of my life: Frankie and Billy. We tried to court girls, but again, tried way too hard and had no success at all.

That was the summer of 1985. We moved to Massachusetts and everything changed. More accurately, I had changed. I had new friends and new recreations, so trips down to the Jersey shore had lost their importance. I popped down there every couple years or so, but nothing felt the same to me. I had grown up and unconsciously shed the wonderment of the shore and the joy it had brought me for so many years. When my nana passed away a couple years ago, the house got sold. Were I to go down there now, I’d have to rent a hotel room and see it from a completely different perspective. I’d never actually get to go “home”, and I don’t think I’d handle that very well at all.

Greetings from Seaside Heights NJ, Part One

It's summer, so out comes the inevitable wistful pull of the Jersey shore.

My grandparents owned a tiny rental property in Seaside Heights NJ from the 1950s until about 2000 or so. My brother and and I (hell, even my father and aunt) spent our childhood there. This little bungalow was essentially a concrete box divided into two apartments, and my grandparents lived in one of them during the summer when they took their much-needed break from running the restaurant.

I have nothing but fond memories of Seaside. Well, they’re all fond save for one, but I’ll get to that later. We were on a lagoon, and it was a pretty close-knit community there; everyone knew each other and even though many months has passed between when the neighbors last saw each other, it was as if no time had passed at all. Very blue collar, very ethnic, and very much a magnificent place to spend one’s childhood. It was a time before I started paying attention to things like overdevelopment and pollution. Instead I was stimulated by the smell of hot tar, salt, boat exhaust, and the rear seat of my nana’s Skylark; the sound of banner-pulling prop planes, screen doors constantly opening and closing, WABC, doorstops dragging against sand on the floor, and Jet Skis (actual Jet Skis, not the “personal” watercraft behemoths we see today) zipping through the channel.

I would sometimes go crabbing with my grandfather early in the morning, swim all day in the lagoon when we got back, ruin all my toys in the sand, and then inevitably wind up at one of my favorite places ever: the boardwalk. I particularly enjoyed the beach behind the boardwalk because the waves were just massive. I didn’t realize until after I saw beaches in New England just how big the waves in NJ were. Never have I experienced undertow in Massachusetts or Maine waters, but it was simply par for the course at Ortley Beach. I’d ride my bike to beach, frolic in the water for hours, then ride home. I’d have so much sand in my suit, I’d have to walk bowlegged for a day because I had chafed my inner thighs with a pantful of sand. I lacked the gift of foresight (and short-term memory, evidently) back then and repeated the unwitting exfoliation process over and over.

When we were older, my dad bought us a twelve-foot Sears aluminum rowboat. My older brother (then about thirteen or fourteen) had a summer job and bought an 8HP Suzuki outboard for the rowboat.

It changed everything.

My father had a ski boat, and that particular subject will require its own post. Suffice it to say that at fourteen and ten years old, my brother and I didn’t exactly have carte blanche with the ski boat. But now with the rowboat and outboard, we practically had a car. It’s funny how something with an engine somehow accelerates the maturation process. But such a phenomenon also has a tendency to bestow a false sense of immortality.

As I got comfortable using the boat on my own, I made an amazing discovery: if I go out to where the big boats are, I can jump their wake. I could catch actual air just by hitting these waves as fast as I could. So where were the big boats? Well, you’d find them passing under the 287 bridge. I’d spy a deep vee yacht about a mile away, then just sit there and wait for it to go by so I could jump its wake. Sometimes a cigarette boat would go flying past, and it was always instant gratification with those. There was no waiting and I could go from bored to thrilled within eleven seconds. It was spectacular fun. Problems arose because after hitting these wakes with all I had as many times as I could, I eventually started tearing the aluminum floor of the boat. As long as I kept moving, I was okay. But I had to keep moving.

We’d park the boat next to the bulkhead where the water was only a couple feet deep. Good thing, because in the morning, the boat would be submerged almost to its gunnels. The practice was to then start the engine, sluggishly motor out of the lagoon, and then open it up as fast as it could go. It was only a couple miles per hour because the boat was full of several hundred pounds’ worth of water, but it was just fast enough that you could pull the plug and the boat would drain. It’d take a couple miles, but the ritual worked beautifully.

Then back out to the bridge I’d go.

I never wore a life jacket, and the only flotation devices I had in the boat were these useless “flotation” seats emblazoned with a silkscreened swordfish. It was essentially a vinyl first base bag with handles on it and it was always in the front of the boat because I’d never sit on it. The vinyl was navy blue and would heat up to about 984 degrees, so up front is where it stayed. Strangely, I was somehow more at ease sitting on the 984-degree bare aluminum seat.

After attacking wake for a couple hours, I’d go home and have dinner with my Nana. She used to have 8-ounce Budweiser cans in the fridge and every now and then she’d let me have one. Pretty harmless, except one day I snuck two and decided to go back out to the bridge. Up to that point, I’d never felt any effects from alcohol, other than being disgusted by its flavor. Eight ounces of beer never affected me. Sixteen ounces did. I got out to the bridge and just felt...weird. My face was a little numb, and I had some weird rush of euphoria that I’d never had before. I thought nothing more of it and proceeded to jump more wake. I took a sharp right-hand turn and almost fell out of the boat, thereby scaring myself to death. I immediately sped back home, grabbed one of the old canvas-covered lounge chairs, and slept off my first-ever buzz.

Looking back, such a practice was really dangerous. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Minus the buzz, of course.

Did Someone Ban de Soleil?

What the hell? I can't remember a time when we ever got hammered with this much rain. It's downright biblical in proportion. The good part is that I got to work on my Goldwing and not feel like a complete loser for wrenching the thing instead of riding it.

The title of this post I felt compelled to apologize for at first because of the corniness of the pun and complete murder of French. But whenever it warms up and I smell coconut from someone's sunscreen, all I can hear is that jingle from the 70s that went "Bain de Soleil for the San Tropez taaaaaaaaaaaan."

Mind you, there hasn't been any whiff of sunscreen because there hasn't been any necessity for it since about last August I think.

Double Your Displeasure

I was graced with a particularly stunning case of gender double standard this morning.

I work in a large office, and we go through some serious coffee. We have one of those Bunn-o-Matic (chuckle) types of coffee makers that has two pots going at once. My ritual is that while waiting for a pot to brew, I’ll wash the other one. Rather than soak it with chemicals as others are wont to do, I use a scrubby sponge and salad tongs. It’s super-clean when I’m done and doesn’t taste like the chemicals that never rinse out completely. It’s quite a conversation piece, I tell ya.

There are usually at least two people who make a crack about my process, and I throw out some uninspired retort about how it’s funny how I never see them cleaning the pots. Today as I’m cleaning the pot, a woman stood there silently watching me. I looked at her and she flashed a smile saying, “Sorry, I’m just not used to seeing a man clean something.”

I get bombarded with this kind of crap constantly. As I’ve mentioned in prior posts, I change my look pretty frequently, usually via a haircut or facial hair. That’s pretty much the extent of it. Mind you, I don’t make these changes because I’m trying to make a statement. I do it because I get bored with myself, or I once again realize that no matter how many times I grow one, a Van Dyke (NOT a goatee) just doesn’t look good on me.

It would seem that the women of the office feel comfortable enough with me to comment on my appearance or whatever else, unsolicited. I’m not especially chummy with any of them, but they waste no time in spewing their opinions:

“You should shave.”
“I liked it better the other way.”
“You look like a maniac/serial killer, etc.”
“Are you trying to look like _______ ________?”
“You look like_______ ________!”
“Ugh! What happened to your hair?”
"Your hair and beard shouldn't be the same length. It should be one or the other."
"You don't have any kids? Why not? Everybody should have at least one."


All that aside, it’s the temerity of these women that floors me. What if a man ever unleashed the following on a female coworker (and I've had an opportunity for each and every one of them)?:

“Why do you dress like a woman twenty years older who makes her own clothes from the clearance rack at an upholstery store?”

“Are you intending to keep up the ruse that you’re still a brunette, or are you going to let your already glaring roots continue to grow out?”

"Heh, Weight Watchers. That's a good one."

“Your week-old dye job now looks like a snow cone with most of the flavor sucked out of it”.

“That shade of red in your hair definitely doesn't occur in nature.”

“I’m pretty sure that eight Atkins bars do NOT constitute a single serving.”

"Old-fashioned? I've never known an old-fashioned woman to have a generic tribal tattoo proudly displayed atop the bum flesh spilling out of her hiphuggers."

"Still trying to conceal that blemish, huh? Look in the morror and behold what a losing proposition looks like.”

“I’m sorry for staring…I’m just not used to seeing a woman carry a box of copy paper. Or anything else, for that matter.”

"You made that Powerpoint presentation yourself? Aren't you adorable!"

“Bathroom? Why are you going to the bathroom? Girls don't poop!"

***insert picture of a guy cleaning out his desk***

Commencement Speaker Dream Sequence

*tap-tap-tap*

Ahem...hello? Are we ready? Can you hear me okay? Okay.

It was exactly half a lifetime ago this month that I graduated high school. I seem to recall that the day was hot hot HOT, and for the first time ever, sporting the huge mane I did seemed like an incredibly stupid and impractical style choice; my cap was held on my head by a wish. It was approximately 158 degrees under my gown.

I also recall the ceremony with amazing clarity. My music teacher penned a song for the graduating class that was very sweet. Matter of fact, it was this very teacher who helped me understand some of the mechanics of music a little better. Not surprisingly, such encouragement and resultant confidence made going to the music room any spare minute I had an absolute must. Also not surprisingly, a young male spending all his free time with a young, attractive music teacher also caused quite a stir. An unsubstantiated and foolish stir, but that's high school for you.

I transferred into music classes very late in the semester in my senior year, and I wish I had done it sooner. Years sooner. I think my sloth-like grasp of theory would have come at a much quicker pace if I had (grasp still pending).

One thing an ordinary schlub like me can profess without reservation is that in life, you need good teachers. In my entire academic career (so far), I can count on one hand how many outstanding teachers I had. I honestly remember next to nothing that I learned in school. Of course, I’m largely to blame. Did I apply myself? Not always. Did I dabble in things that really screwed me academically? Absolutely. Every time the report card came, I’d tell my dad I’ll try harder next time. It became a game after awhile. We both knew how hollow the pledge was. I meant it but knew that the zeal would disappear in a day. My head--back then as it is today--just wasn’t in the game.

The bottom line is that I absolutely despised school. I had abysmal study habits and tested poorly. In both cases it was because I just couldn’t concentrate. Focus was something that other people possessed. In a self-fulfilling prophecy, I’d get poor grades, get down on myself, and do worse. It’s the same pattern as the obeses’ I’m-fat-because-I’m unhappy/I’m-unhappy-because-I’m-fat bit. Today it'd probably be bandied about that I have ADD or some other Affliction of the Month.

But every now and then, there’s that certain teacher who cuts right through. They somehow make a subject interesting; they shine a light that makes one forget all the reasons why they don’t retain. And they treat you like an actual human being, not just another kid on her roster.

It’s a crime that teachers don’t get paid more than they do. They’re “rewarded” a mere pittance to act as educator, parent, mediator, nurse, and psychologist to hundreds of other people’s kids every day. And yet, they never get the credit they deserve.

Know a teacher who made a positive impact on you? Give them a hug. You’re old enough now that there will be no legal ramifications, calls home, or trips to the principal’s office. And BE a teacher whenever and wherever you can.

Furiously Strong

I have a new product idea.

Know how the slogan for Altoids is “The Curiously Strong Mint”? Well I have an idea for an even stronger mint:

Vehemints®.

Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.

How to Cover Three Life Stages in Fifteen Minutes

Note: There's no picture for this post because evidently Blogger's had enough of what I have to offer graphically.

I got on the subway this morning and I was pleased to see that it was relatively empty. I stood right next to the door; a post I rarely assume. A couple minutes go by and the train is still sitting there with the doors open, and people start flooding in. The conductor then informs everyone that “we’ll be standing by for a minute for a schedule adjustment”. This anouncement is made a couple times. There IS no schedule to adjust. The truth is that there’s a crapped-out train a couple stops ahead that’s what's holding everything up. Fine. Just lose your stupid euphemisms and tell it like it is the first time. Schedule adjustment. Pfft.

Ten minutes go by and the train is absolutely teeming, yet the doors remain open for people to try to squeeze themselves in somehow. In reality, no one should even attempt it at this point. There’s just no room. None. Any more attempts to board would just be stu…wait…this woman is actually getting on.

Next thing I know, I am eye to eye with a woman who somehow managed to shoehorn herself into one square inch of space in front of me. We are literally face to face; close enough that I can hear her blink. There’s only two places I can look: to the left at the blackness of the windows on the doors that finally closed, or right at her. Funny thing is, looking into the windows means I’m pretty much face to face with her anyway because her reflection is there, staring right back at me.

Proximity of that extent is uncomfortable even with my own wife. It’s just unnecessary and weird. But there we were, close as can be without being engaged in full-on osculation. Matter of fact, it was not at all unlike this Saturday Night Live sketch, minus the conversation:

http://media.putfile.com/SNL-Digital-Short1


In situations like this, and purely against my will, the mind often goes into Adolescent Boy Mode:

Is she looking at me?
What if I look at her and she is?
I put a lot of gel in my hair this morning and I bet it’s all she can smell.
I think I was a little heavy-handed with the cologne too…I probably smell like a junior high locker room now.
Does she think I’m staring at her now?
Well it’s her fault anyway.
Great, we made eye contact. What do I do now, say hello?
Wait, I can’t say hello because I just quaffed some coffee and I’ll knock her out with java halitosis.
Well it’s her fault anyway.

Impatient Thirty-Four-Year-Old Mode shuffles in:

Move train! Move! Go! It’s been fifteen minutes of overthrown personal space and I can’t keep up this shallow breathing forever!
Why do I even care?
Well it’s her fault anyway.

Eight-Year-Old Boy Mode is never far behind:

Hee! Imagine if I farted!
It’s her fault anyway!

Q&A

http://www.eflakeagogo.com/

Best Spam EVER.

A more compelling reason to use an enhancement product, I couldn't give you:

"No more hater to your penis once youve started taking Penis Enlarge Patch."

Patriot Acting

I sauntered into Old Navy yesterday and spied something rather odd. They have an ad campaign going on for some ordinary tee shirts with flags silkscreened on them. In a heartwarming rush to show off your indefatigable devotion to the country, one can now don one of these “Liber-Tees”.

That’s right. And just in time for the Fourth of July, of course.

Also, for a country that’s so hung up on treatment of its flag, whether it gets burned, folded, stapled, spindled, or mutilated, I find it interesting that one can wear an American flag bikini top without any repercussions. I imagine there will be an attempted advertising spin to convince the buying public that the top is in actuality holding the flag next to your heart.

Nope, at the end of the day, Ol’ Glory is merely lifting and separating.

Patriotism is seemingly becoming less about actual love and respect than it is about the commercial aspect. I give you the insanity of the sudden boom in flag sales after September 11, and the current magnetic ribbon epidemic. There’s money to be made in everything, and patriotism is probably just behind porn in its profitability.

Love your country? Do you love it enough to…eat it? Then try the new American Cream Bar®! Made for Americans by Americans, using only ingredients from US dairies! Available in Conservative Vanilla® or with nuts: God’s Country Chunky®. And, for every one you buy, we will donate $.00006 to the American Red Cross.

You do love your country, don’t you? Then eat it!

Accordion to Me

A guy down the street from my office is busking in the square with an accordion. For those unfamiliar with the term “busking”, it does NOT mean he’s performing an unnatural act on a wind instrument. He’s just playing accordion for spare change.

Accordion is a curious instrument in that it has for some reason been THE embodiment of uncool instruments. If I had to guess (and I do), it got its bad rep because its primary players were clad in lederhosen. Weird Al Yankovic sure didn’t help the Coolness Cause either.

Regardless, the sound of it just floors me. It can be sad, as in the solo to “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” by Elton John, or it can be joyous like pretty much any zydeco tune, or romantic as in a million French songs.

And yes, there’s polka. I don’t know anything about polka other than its association with beer (bier!), bowling, and sausage, so I’ll just skip that one.

Aside from the accordion being an example of clever engineering (essentially a piano with reeds that wind passes over thereby creating the signature sound), it sounds unlike anything else. My hat’s off to anyone who can play one with even a modicum of proficiency, because there’s a whole lot going on there. First, you have to know where to put your fingers for chords and whatnot, there’s no peeking as with stringed instruments because you just can't really see where your hands are, and then you have to squeeze the bellows to keep the air moving to make the sound. It seems an exhausting instrument to play.

Know what? Forget what I said earlier. Playing one IS an unnatural act. But it sounds great to me.