City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Six

The Blizzard of 2010 slammed the northeast on the day after Christmas sending everyone into a frenzy.  In the aftermath I was again reminded of the stark difference between snow in the city and snow in the ‘burbs. 

In the city snow is generally a hassle.  Just ask beleagured New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, who actually might have a much stronger word for it right now.  On the contrary, in the ‘burbs snow is an ethereal experience.  As a veteran of both environments I know this firsthand.

Snow falling in the city is beautiful.  It’s serene and romantic.  Of course, this dramatically changes as soon as vehicle exhaust turns all that beauty into a blackened, repulsive mass.  Then you just wish the snow would simply go away.  In most cases, this transformation happens within twelve hours, tops.  And by then traffic is snarled and parking a nightmare.  Worse, trying to cross the street can be as daunting as any extreme outdoor adventure.  With sewers clogged and overwhelmed, the corners become wide expanses of bottomless puddles and slush.  If you don’t have waterproof boots, fuggedaboutit.  You might as well go back to your apartment and wait until April.

In the ‘burbs snow has an entirely different effect.  School is cancelled.  No one goes to work.  Out come sleds and saucers.  Hot chocolate is set brewing in every house.  The women begin baking, while the men swarm the landscape with snow blowers, shovels, and ice picks, reclaiming driveways and brick front walks.  It’s like a festival.  The only thing missing is loudspeakers  blaring Edelweiss.    

I bought my first shovel when I moved to the ‘burbs.  Before then I didn’t need one.  The super always cleaned the steps and our car was safely stowed in a local garage.  Now when it snows I tell work I’m not coming in because I have to dig myself out, but secretly I’m hoping that, like when I was in grade school in the Bronx, some guys will ring my bell and ask me to help build fort in the playground so we can have a good ol’ fashioned snowball fight.        

The Sporadic Diary

December 28, 2010

I was at a holiday party the other night populated mostly with acquaintances but no close friends.  People repeatedly gathered in small groupings and, after a few perfunctory hellos and howya doins, there generally followed awkward silence.  Until invariably someone brought up the weather.  Sure has gotten cold someone said.  Do you think we’ll have a lot of snow this winter? asked another.  Wasn’t that ice storm unbelievable? offered a third. 

This experience confirmed for me that the weather is far and way the king of conversation filler.  Nothing else even comes close.  I don’t have empirical data to support this claim, but, well, unfounded assertions happen a lot in informal blog posts like this.  However, on this one I feel very confident. 

Of course, it is easy to see why the weather is the premier stopgap topic when the conversation well runs dry; it is because, unlike subjects like sports or home repair, the weather knows no cultural or gender boundaries.  It is the universal element in everyone’s lives.  We all can relate to it, are affected by it, and must react to it.

But my guess is it wasn’t always this way.  Think of early man.  He’s in a cave planning the approaching day.  I don’t think he worried too much if it was going to be clear or partly cloudy, humid or raining.  If he was hungry and needed to slay a mastodon, he threw on his loin cloth and got on with it.  And I can’t picture him standing around the fire chatting up the neighbors about the cold front that was threatening or the possibility of late afternoon thunderstorms.  Now the biblical flood, that was another matter.

Back in the present, we afford so much time and effort to understanding the weather, it’s mindboggling.  By demand, newspapers, websites, and tv provide enough weather data, charts, and time lapse satellite images to keep our heads spinning.  It’s also no secret that weathermen are legitimate, five-star celebrities. 

So when did we become obsessed with the weather?  I’m not sure, but I’d say it was sometime after the biblical flood and before the advent of broadcast news.          

Monkey Business

Open Letter to the Human Species:

Let me start by saying this: much has been made of the fact that humans have an opposable thumb and monkeys don’t, as if that alone should determine the relative merits of the two species.  But I contend there is much that we monkeys, by which broadly speaking I include apes and guerillas, can do that far outpaces humans in many areas of endeavor.

For one, monkeys have strong, brachiated arms that allow us to climb trees and swing effortlessly and joyously from one to another.  You humans have made such a big deal of the Flying Wallendas in their comical tights, but, think about it, every monkey can do what they have done only better.

Monkeys are also fine entertainers.  We can make humans laugh very easily, just by curling our lips into a goofy face or by sticking, say, a Savinelli pipe in our mouths and pretending to smoke.  When was the last time a human made a monkey laugh?  And it’s a fact that each year we make some of the funniest Super Bowl commercials.  We are very accomplished mimics too, hence the term “aper,” which is a frequent answer in the prestigious New York Times crossword puzzle.

Monkeys have also made their marks in the movies and television.  For instance, monkeys stole the show in Bedtime For Bonzo and Every Which Way But Loose.  Reagan and Eastwood were the real extras in those flicks, mere eye candy for the female audience.  Furthermore, we could have easily handled the relevant parts in Planet Of The Apes, but unfortunately some lamebrain producer or director decided the monkey roles would be played by humans dressed in monkey outfits.  They looked ludicrous, like they were wearing cheap Halloween costumes.  Moreover, to top it off they didn’t even bother to hire a monkey coach. 

And then there is the case of Tarzan.  In that popular series, Johnny Weissmuller, who granted was a fine swimmer, plays the lead role and is always getting in trouble.  It is up to the animals in the jungle, generally led by monkeys, to pull his behind out of the fire.  He calls his adopted son Boy.  Okay.  But then he calls his monkey friend Cheeta.  How dumb is that?  What does he call actual cheetahs?  We called him Lunkhead.

In the late 1960s your people created and promoted The Monkees [sic] as a pop rock band, trying I suppose to leverage general monkey popularity.  But they were amateur musicians at best and, although they had several “hits,” weren’t good enough to play even weddings in our world.  The Beatles were a much better group and, in a nod to our musical talents, incorporated our familiar ooh ooh ooh eeeh eeh eeh aah aah aah lyrics into some of their songs (e.g., I Am The Walrus).  

In the world of science, monkeys make excellent subjects.  We’ve collaborated with researchers at your finest hospitals and institutions, making important advances in medicine, psychology, sociology, and other fields.  We were the first to appreciate the work of Dian Fossey and Jane Goodall, two perspicacious scientists whose seminal studies showed the world how truly advanced we are.  Under their watchful eyes, we demonstrated our ability to use tools to find food and do other daily tasks.  Initially, instead of awarding them honors, you vilified them.  How juvenile and shortsighted.    

And, of course, we were pioneers in space travel.  Albert, a Rhesus, was the first monkey astronaut and Albert II was the first monkey in space, crossing the Karman outer space line of 100 kilometers twelve years ahead of Soviet Yuri Gagarin.  Many brave monkey astronauts were killed in those heady days, just as many monkeys have been harmed egregiously and without warrant in assorted scientific experiments.  Have we complained?  No.  Though we could have sued you guys to kingdom come, and you know it.

Meanwhile, statisticians continue to ruminate about something they call the infinite monkey theorem, which deals with reasoning about infinity.  This theorem says that a monkey banging on a typewriter long enough will almost surely through random chance eventually turn out the entire works of William Shakespeare.  Apparently a variation of this nonsense dates to the time of Aristotle.  Come on.  We monkeys have better things to do with our time than to pound randomly on typewriters or spend thousands of years pondering the mysteries of exceedingly vast numbers.  Which is the sillier species here?   

Now while monkeys can be aggressive, we lash out only when the situation calls for it and confine our actions to the offending party.  We were not the ones who invented and used nuclear weapons on their own kind.  We have not polluted the environment by burning fossil fuels or by irresponsibly discarding mountains of non-biodegradable waste.  We are careful about our nutrition and exercise regularly.  We are not a profligate or duplicitous species.  And, what’s more, our babies are a lot cuter than yours.

Finally, I draw your attention to John Scopes, the high school biology instructor in that famous evolution case in Tennessee so many years ago, an event which we followed with great interest.  Mr. Scopes knew the score and was willing to defy the local school board that, with all due respect, had its head up its you-know-what.  We thought the Scopes Trial put an end to the controversy, but as your recent political squabbles attest it still burns fiercely in some ignorant and closed-minded humans.  But there’s no denying it, gene for gene we and you are virtually the same.  As we monkeys like to say, doesn’t that just put the chocolate on the banana. 

So, you humans can talk all you want about the opposable thumb.  Just remember that if it weren’t for monkeys you wouldn’t be able to do most of the things you take for granted.  We paved the way and discovered through trial and error how to not only survive, but thrive in an often inhospitable world. 

Sincerely,

Mr. Chicklet

Executive Director

The Institute of Simian Achievement

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Five

If you asked me what is one of the biggest advantages of living in the suburbs, probably the first thing I’d say it’s that you can do your laundry much easier.  Then, after additional consideration I’d go further and say it’s without question THE BIGGEST advantage. 

Before I lived in the suburbs doing the laundry was equivalent to one of the labors of Hercules.  You know: Slay the Nemean lion, Capture the Golden Hind of Artemis, Clean the Augean stables, Wash and Dry clothes.

When I was growing up in the city, our family was one of the lucky ones: we had a washing machine in our apartment.  (This was against policy.)  The machine was in our kitchen, wedged between the sink and the food cabinets.  This made washing our clothes easy.  But since we did not have a dryer, we had to hang our wet laundry on a metal dryer contraption, which we opened up in my parents’ bedroom.  Not only was this incredibly inconvenient for my parents, but once a week it also raised the humidity level in there to that of an athletic club steam room.

Of course, the other option was to take the laundry to a laundromat.  This was my solution when I moved out of my parents’ apartment in the mid 1970s.  I was living in the Back Bay section of Boston and every week for several years I took my dirty clothes to the laundromat.  My regular spot was The Laundromat of the Stars on Newbury Street.  It was called that because apparently several actors and actresses had done their laundry there and the machines they used were marked with plaques.  I routinely used the Gloria Swanson machine.

To do your laundry at a laundromat there are several necessities.  One, you need one of those collapsible wheeled carts to transport your laundry bag.  Two, you need to bring your own detergent since to buy it at the Laundromat will cost you an arm and a leg.  And, three, you have to have plenty of quarters.  This last point cannot be emphasized enough because the machines break down periodically and you never know when you’ll get a dryer that puts out almost negligible levels of heat, forcing you to feed quarters into the slot like a drunken Las Vegas gambler.

There aren’t many positive aspects of having to go to the laundromat.  Okay, sometimes you might meet someone interesting.  But that never happened to me.  Perhaps the most positive aspect is that you can watch people’s clothes tumble through the windows of the dryers.  For city dwellers, this can be mesmerizing, sort of like watching flames dancing in a campfire only without the sweet wood-burning smell and sound of crickets.  I’d often follow one item, like someone’s red underwear, rise, twist, and fall over and over and over.  Ah, but I reminisce.     

In the suburbs doing the laundry is much more mundane.  No crazy characters talking loudly.  No Vesuvian eruptions when some rookie puts too much detergent into the machine.  No fights over dryers.  No need to stockpile quarters.  And, of course, there is the convenience.  So, in a vote, suburban laundering gets the nod.  Definitely.

More Virulent Strain of Y2K Strikes

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta announced today that a more potent form of the Y2K bug has begun spreading around the world in what might be the worst pandemic since the notorious H1N1 flu virus infected millions and resulted in scores of deaths. 

“Contrary to the original Y2K bug that merely caused a lot of unnecessary anxiety, this strain is far more virulent and may indeed trigger a lot of the technology glitches that were so feared during the waning days of 1999,” said Dr. Ruby R. Riley, chief of epidemiology at the CDC.  In fact, to distinguish this outbreak from its predecessor the CDC has named this strain Y2K-II and recommends that all computer users pay close attention to their key files, applications, and web pages in the days and weeks ahead.

Scientists became aware of the Y2K-II bug several months ago when vast numbers of college students began calling tech support at Apple, Dell, Lenovo, and other computer makers to report that they could not log into their Facebook accounts when the clock struck midnight on December 31, 2009 and 2010 was ushered in.  “I was like totally bummed out,” said Bill Hurley, a 19 year old sophomore at Boston College, who added, “I kept putting in my login name and password, but just got one error message after another.  After an hour my hands began to shake and I couldn’t focus on anything.  Without access to Facebook I didn’t know what to do with myself.”  This was a common symptom in the reports that flowed in around the globe at the very start of the New Year.

According to Dr. Morrie Cohen, a renowned computer scientist at MIT, the problem seems to be related to the date field associated with common computer programs and processes.  “It looks like we were right about the Y2K bug after all, just ten years too early,” he declared.

While high school and college students seem to be the most troubled by this disruptive computer virus, older adults have not been immune from the fallout, especially those who have discovered they too have been addicted to Facebook, YouTube, and other social websites.  One distraught middle aged woman, who requested her name be withheld, said, “Now when I want to tell people about the cute things that my cat Bubbles is doing, like rolling around with a ball of yarn, I won’t be able to.  The government needs to fix this problem immediately.”    

In one of the unforeseen positive consequences, businesses have reported a 22% increase in worker productivity in the days since the Y2K-II outbreak.  “This surge in productivity strongly argues that, while computers have made many work tasks easier, they have also encouraged workers to waste an inordinate amount of work time surfing the Web and tracking useless posts and videos on the major social networks,” said Chris Kavanaugh, executive director of Toward A Saner World, an organization that according to its mission statement is dedicated to raising awareness of the growing stupidity of humans.

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Four

The more I think about it this next topic is going to require many posts.  The topic is kids’ games that are particular to the city versus the ‘burbs.  There is a lot to write about.  And already I sense my bias. 

Let’s tackle the ‘burbs first.  As I consider the ‘burbs, the first activities that come to mind are the traditional sports like soccer, softball, peewee football, and little league.  All of them require a “field” and a gaggle of parents to organize leagues and transport the players around for practices and games.  These games are fun, but they have spawned two regrettable consequences -- the obnoxious sideline parent and the gas guzzling SUV.  May God forgive us. 

After sending out an SOS to friends and family asking about other suburban games, not much came back that I would say qualifies as exclusively suburban.  One that passes this test is flashlight tag.  Having a yard, with lots of options for hiding behind tress and bushes, is what makes this game a suburban favorite.  Also, since darkness is a critical ingredient in the game, it is a natural for the ‘burbs where artificial lighting is relatively scarce.  By contrast, seeing a kid in the city with a flashlight is a ludicrous concept.  When I was in the city flashlights only appeared when ConEdison was hit with a blackout.           

On the other hand, city games are quite numerous and generally are more inventive, kid-driven activities that, with some imagination, can be played right outside your apartment building or row house.  No parents or rides required.  Here is a partial list of the games I played as a kid in the city.  Johnny-ride-a-pony, ring-olievio, box ball, off the stoop, punch ball, stickball, chase, fox and hounds, and flies up.  In my twenty-five plus years in the ‘burbs I have never seen these games played there and wonder if the kids in my current neighborhood would even know what these games were.  At the playground we also played lots of basketball, as well as games like taps, twenty-one, and horse.  I once beat a friend one-on-one to 100 points.  It took several hours and I wore my fingertips raw. 

Now, when I drive through my suburban neighborhood and see a bunch of kids moping in some driveway I’m tempted to jump out of my car and tell the kids to get some chalk, bottle caps, and wax.  Then I’d draw a skully box, melt the wax into the bottle caps, and teach them the game.  That’s if they hadn’t already run inside when they saw a strange man get out of his car and head toward them.  

The Sporadic Diary

November 21, 2010

I was hospitalized last week.  It was the first time I ever had to stay overnight in a hospital.  The care was great by the standards that you would judge hospital care.  But the experience reinforced that old adage that when you have your health you have everything. 

Of course, from what I’ve heard others say I expected the food to be terrible.  But it wasn’t bad.  Really.  Especially if you like oatmeal.  Understandably, roommates can also be tough.  You can get a loud one or a moaner.  He could be a tv fanatic and love to watch all those horrific daytime shows.  But my roommate was a pleasant and quiet guy from Worcester who never watched tv and actually knew my brother-in-law from high school about fifty years ago.  The nurses can be annoying I’ve been told due to their frequent visits to check vital signs, draw blood, etc.  But my nurses were a succession of young, perky, and attractive women that I couldn’t wait to see.  Want to take my blood pressure again?  Sure.  Listen to my lungs?  Absolutely!  And by the way what’s that perfume you’re wearing? 

Now I’m not saying it was like being at a spa, but it definitely could have been worse.  Like I wish I had a small light so that I could have read during the night without disturbing my roommate.  Instead I did mental arithmetic problems.  (I kid you not.)  Which, I discovered, after about ten minutes lose their fascination.  And if there is one thing I could recommend to hospitals, it is this:  offer patients an ass massage.  Charge extra for it if you want.  Lying in bed for three or four days can make your ass feel like a piece of roughly hewn wood.  Having someone turn you over and rub aloe cream on your ass would be a pleasure beyond words.  At least that’s what I kept fantasizing about.     

Center Of Attention

Everyone says the game starts with the quarterback.  That he is the most important player ‘cause he is THE ONLY ONE who touches the ball on every play.  And that’s why the quarterback is the face of football and why he gets most of the attention.  But, HELLO. I say HELL FUCKIN’ LO.  Everything starts with the center!  Like me.  I touch the ball on every play and, DAMN IT, I touch it BEFORE the quarterback touches it!

Let’s face it, the center isn’t properly appreciated.  We centers are the ultimate hod carriers, JUST DOIN’ OUR FREAKIN’ JOBS AND MAKIN’ SURE EVERY PLAY STARTS OFF RIGHT.  We’re lunch pail guys, the unsung heroes of championship teams.

Think about it.  While the quarterback’s got his hands under my ass, tryin' to remember the freakin' signals, I’m doin’ important stuff, such as pointin’ out defenders to watch out for and shit like that.  I’m pointin’ this way and pointin’ that way.  All that pointin’ really fucks up a defense.  They don’t know what is fuckin’ goin’ to happen next.  Quarterbacks like to point too, but they’re just copyin’ what a good center does already.  WHAT A BUNCHA LOSERS! 

Another important thing I do before the snap is I make sure the ball is dry.  If the ball is wet ‘cause it’s rainin’ or snowin’ ‘n shit, I tell the ref to get a different one.  Wouldn’t want the ball slippin’ out of Mr. Star Quarterback’s prissy little fingers when he was tryin’ to make a handoff or throw a pass.  If he made a mistake like that it might hurt his feelings.  GIMME A FUCKIN’ BREAK!

Also, every once in a while after the play’s called and the line’s set I jerk my head up real sudden as if I’m snappin’ the ball to draw the defensive linemen offside.  I don’t do it too much, just when a penalty will give us a first down.  Sometimes it’s just a flinch.  So's the ref won’t notice.  Just a small movement that you’d barely pick up unless you was a defensive lineman who wanted to get a quick jump, beat a block, and then smash the quarterback to tiny bits.  I’m known around the league as one of the best flinchers the game as ever seen.  Am I proud of that?  FUCKIN’ A.

You know, it’s a war out there for the center.  A fuckin’ war on every play.  Centers don’t get to run down the field like the receivers and away from where all the hittin’ is done.  No, we battle in the trenches each and every time the ball is snapped.  Like when I’m over the ball, the guys on the other side of the line, those big motherfuckers, are spittin’ in my face and tellin’ me their goin’ to cream my ass.  That don’t happen to freakin’ Peyton Manning or Tom “Pretty Boy” Brady.  NO FUCKIN’ WAY.  And if it did, you know what they’d do?  They’d go cryin’ to the ref.  Oh, Mr. Referee, that big man over there spit in my face and called me a dirty name. THEY’RE JUST A COUPLA MAMBY FUCKIN’ PAMBIES!

In the pit known as the line of scrimmage, we centers end up on the ground a lot.  Me myself, well I’ve had my hands stepped on millions of times.  Do you think I complain?  No.  That would be chicken shit.  Centers don’t do that.  We just pick ourselves up and get ready for the next fuckin’ play.  I don’t care if I’m hurt.  I gotta be a good soldier and carry on.  I gotta create a hole for a running back to burst through.  Running backs, they’re another group of fuckin’ prima donnas.  But don’t get me started.  And on passin’ plays, I gotta snap the ball, get erect, and protect the quarterback.  I love that shit too because I got perfect technique.  I back up with my head swiveling left and right like the turret on a fuckin’ tank, lookin’ for someone to hit.  If a linebacker blitzes, BAM, I flatten his fat ass.  And if one of those scrawny safeties tries to shoot the gap, I closeline him with a forearm and then stomp on his crotch before he can get up.  All so’s the quarterback can throw a winning touchdown and get all the good lookin’ girls and make a shitload of money.  WHAT A CROCK!

As you can probably tell, I’m kinda ticked off.  THIS SHIT HAS GONE ON FAR TOO LONG!  It’s gotta change.  I want fans to be wearin’ the jerseys of centers.  I want centers to be interviewed before and after games, bein’ asked all those dumbass questions that the quarterbacks get asked.  I want centers to be drooled over by starlets and underwear models.  I want centers to be doin’ tv commercials and makin’ more freakin’ money than we know what to do with.  And I know how to get everyone's attention to make that happen.

I’m gonna organize all the centers.  And when the quarterback calls for the snap we’re just goin’ to hold onto the fuckin’ ball.  Imagine delay of game penalties one after another!  Nothin’ will happen except the ref steppin’ off the yardage backwards.  Eventually the ref will be tryin’ to figure out what half the distance to the goal line is when the ball is on the eighth of an inch line.  IT’LL FREAK EVERYONE OUT.  Especially the team owners who will be starin’ at the value of their investments goin’ down the toilet.

No, the game starts with centers and everbody better fuckin’ remember that.        

The Sporadic Diary

October 31, 2010

Election 2010 is just a couple of days away and around the country the Sturm und Drang of political stridency has reached a fever pitch.  No matter that this is just a midterm election, meaning we are not voting for president this time, or in my state even for one of our U.S. senators, but mostly for less notable local jobs like auditor, treasurer, and selectman.  Nor does it seem to matter that most of these locals on the ballot are people whom we've never heard of and whom we couldn't recognize on the street if our lives depended on it.  No, political activism has become the new pastime of the aging boomer set (hey it beats canasta at the senior center) and there seems to be no shortage of angry, grayhaired geezers out there trumpeting their cause.  

In our quiet little suburban town the first clue that an election cycle is upon us appears when political signs start sprouting on people's lawns like a dandelion infestation.  Maybe it's me but I'd wager that such support has less chance of being persuasive than just appearing out-and-out scary.  Are these the same people you see on TV screaming red-faced at rallies and assorted protests?  Do they carry weapons?  

But I know we are truly in full political combat when the island in the center of our downtown traffic rotary, a circle of roughly 50 foot diameter, starts filling up with people during rush hours and Saturday mornings holding political signs of all sizes and shapes and waving in robotic slo-mo (think beauty queens on a parade float) at the vehicles rolling by.  Some drivers, a few really, honk their support, but most I suspect just try to get by without making eye contact, especially if one of the sign wavers is a neighbor or friend who is supporting the other side's candidate, someone whom you think should be kept under constant sedation.

Now don't get me wrong.  I like political activism.  But there is something about this scene in the rotary that just appears odd.  All these adults standing there on the island look like they've been captured in an overzealous game of ring-a-lievio and are hoping to get freed.  So, in the event that's the case tomorrow I plan to ride slowly around the island with my arm out the window and tag anyone who is looking to get off.  

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Three

One of the biggest differences between the city and the 'burbs is parking.  In the city parking is a sport.  In the 'burbs parking is a misnomer.  Let me explain.  In the city parking is a competitive activity and every motorist is potentially your opponent.  Too many cars are vying for too few spots.  There are winners and there are losers. On the other hand, in the 'burbs there is no such thing as parking in the traditional sense.  There, when you've reached your destination, you don't "park" your car (you know, in the road, parallel and close to the curb) in as much as you guide it between a pair of lines typically in a large lot and shut off the ignition.  I'm sorry, but that's not parking.

Really, this is one subject in which I truly know what I'm talking about. 

You see, when I was getting my driver's license in the Bronx, my father would take me out on the road and, with drill sergeant rigor, thrust me into some fairly intense situations.  Baptism by fire kind of stuff.  Early on I drove on busy roads like Castle Hill Avenue, Tremont Avenue, Fordham Road, and the mother of all hazardous thoroughfares -- the Cross Bronx Expressway -- which is also the abandoned car capital of the U.S. (motto: If you're takin' the tires, I got the battery).  In those early driving days, I remember being petrified to change lanes as I simply could not get used to judging distances when looking through the rear and sideview mirrors.  When Gary Larson drew his famous cartoon showing an enormous eyeball in the sideview mirror with the caption Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear it captured the real fear that held hostage the part of my brain responsible for driving skills (the vehicular cortex I think it's called).

Each driving lesson would end with my father directing me around our neighborhood and pointing out spots into which I had to wedge.  Since my father was nothing short of fanatical about his car's appearance, when even a centimenter scratch would send him over the edge, this was tremendous pressure.  I swear to God the spots he picked out were no more than about four inches longer than the length of the car.  And these spots were not on desolate streets.  They were narrow and plagued with almost constant traffic.  With sweat beading on my brow, I would perform the classic parallel parking maneuvers -- rear in at 45 degree angle, reverse cut the steering wheel, straighten out -- and somehow, I can't remember how, get that oversized Chevy Impala (a big car back then) into the spot.  Relief would wash over me until the next lesson when the target spot my father selected would be even smaller than the last one I had mastered.

So, parking in the city doesn't faze me.  On the contrary, I look forward to it.  In fact, if I don't get into a spot and leave the car within six inches of the curb on the first try, I consider it a failure and have a hard time sleeping that night.

Which brings me back to the 'burbs.  I live in a pretty ordinary suburban/rural community.  Lots of open space and freestanding homes with driveways.  In the twenty-three years I've lived here I've never had to look for a parking spot.  Never.  There are plenty of places to put your car.  Actually, a large section of our downtown is, in essence, a string of contiguous parking lots.  Every retail establishment in what you might call, with a stretch, the central business district has its own parking area, typically right in front.  This creates a peculiar situation where all the stores are recessed from the road, many by one hundred feet or more, so that it is impossible to tell what they are.  Not only is this bad for business (pedestrians on the sidewalk need binoculars to read the signs over the doorways), but, since there is no way our population can fill all these spots, it makes the town look deserted.  The good news is, if the NFL ever wants to locate a new franchise in our town with a massive new stadium, we won't have to worry about what to do with the influx of vehicles.

I could go on, but I think you get my point. 

Finally, remember those Larry Bird/Michael Jordan MacDonalds commercials where they are playing horse to win a Big Mac?  Trading the basketball between them, they are calling out the shots, each one more ridiculous than the prior one.  Over the highway.  Through the window.  Off the backboard.  Et cetera.  Well, if there were an equivalent parking game I would save this for my final challenge.  Downhill on a very steep grade.  Tight spot between luxury cars.  In Volkswagon Beetle.  Fogged windows.  Standard shift.

World United, Ltd

(Reprinted from an earlier unpublished work with permission of the author -- me)

In a transaction that caught the market completely off-guard late yesterday the United Kingdom completed a hostile takeover of the United States of America in a deal involving cash, stock, and rare Beatle memorabilia.  The merger makes the former United Kingdom the wealthiest nation on earth with an annual GDP of $11.9 trillion US dollars.  The new entity will be called World United and will be headquartered in London.

            “This is an incredible move,” said market analyst David Smyth of the British firm Smyth and Gill, “and reverses over two hundred years of indignities suffered by England since it lost the colonies in the American Revolution of 1776.”  All in all, the acquisition was praised by most pundits who have felt for some time that the U.K. needed to change direction radically and who had viewed the debt-laden U.S. as a prime acquisition target.

            At the press conference at 10 Downing Street that announced the pact, U.K. Prime Minister Tony Blair indicated that he would retain his Prime Minister post and assume the title of President as well.  He also noted that in the coming months he would spend a fair amount of time touring in the Unites States, meeting staff and looking for organizational efficiencies.  For example, according to insiders in the new entity there is likely to be one, integrated Department of Environmental Protection, while the U.S. FBI may be sold to the Pinkerton Security Company.

 

            Alongside Blair was a rather stunned looking George W. Bush, who was heard to whisper repeatedly to Karl Rove, his long time political strategist, “Hey, Karl, this is a joke, right?”  Rove did not respond to Bush’s questioning, leading many to believe that he has already secured a spot in the new Blair government.  After praising President Bush for his efforts over the last few years, Blair said that Mr. Bush would be leaving office early to spend more time with his family on his Texas ranch.

Blair also pointed out that the U.S. cabinet would be restructured significantly over the next few weeks.  This cannot be good news for Vice President Dick Cheney and Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, who chided various Europeans for not joining the Coalition of the Willing at the start of the Iraq War and are now viewed unfavorably by key U.K. allies.  Rumors began swirling immediately that the two American officials would probably resurface in similar roles working for Abel Pacheco, the President of Costa Rica.  Another report suggested that Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice will retire from government service to pursue a long dreamed of career as a hip hop rapper.        

Clearly, the new country will have many advantages.  The merger will give British citizens many more sports teams to root for, while Americans will have far greater opportunities to learn how to speak proper English.  Economists are quick to add that World United will also have a highly diversified revenue mix, with the U.S. generating large ticket sales of military ordnance and space exploration equipment and the U.K. contributing sizable exports of tweed hunting jackets and Harry Potter novels.  Furthermore, with a combined population of 350 million and unfettered access to U.S. territories worldwide, World United is immediately expected to become the leading distributor of scrimshaw pipes.

How the takeover came about will be a fascinating story that will likely unfold over the next few months, if not years.  “Sources tell me that the U.K.’s action is the culmination of a closely held plan that began the night that General Cornwallis surrendered his army at Yorktown,” offered Laura Jo Richard, a veteran observer of government mergers and acquisitions.  “They apparently have been very patient and confident that their strategy would eventually enable them to gobble up the world’s most powerful nation that, of course, was once the U.K.’s wholly owned subsidiary.” 

 

Starting tomorrow, citizens of both nations will be able to exchange currencies at banks, airports, and other locations.  In addition, flags and other signage in the two former sovereignties will be replaced over the next few months with the new World United emblem, which was on display at the briefing.  The new design retains the core red and blue colors of the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes, and in a gesture symbolizing this historic pact features a bald eagle striking a familiar Churchillian pose with the stub of a cigar clenched in its beak and wearing a black vest and Bowler hat.

This titanic merger will no doubt put pressure on other frontline countries to find partners and consolidate quickly.  For instance, France may unite with Russia to keep pace geopolitically, while Germany may merge with Chile to gain a long sought after foothold in the western hemisphere after previous failed attempts in Argentina and Brazil.

Meanwhile, up next for World United is a possible acquisition of Australia, which would give it a strong position in the all important Asian theater.  An aide to Blair who requested anonymity said that this potential merger was necessary for World United to stay competitive in a rapidly changing and globalized world.  “China’s economy is growing like a bloody weed and we need to make sure that World United’s interests are well protected and that the Chinese do not flood the market with cheap Princess Di figurines and Burberrys’ knock-offs,” the aide stated.

Lastly, in the hours since the announcement speculation has mounted that several venture capital firms are eager to recruit Bill Clinton out of political retirement to launch a new democracy based on the former United States model.  In fact, it has been confirmed that two well known financiers have inquired about large tracts of inexpensive, remnant land in the third world district that has been home to other start-ups.  For his part, Mr. Clinton did little to quell the talk when the topic was broached by reporters, saying, “Well, I won’t comment directly, but, you know, they don’t call me ‘The Comeback Kid’ for nothing.”  

The Sporadic Diary

October 3, 2010

"You don't put the bagels into a freezer bag while they are still hot," the store manager of The Bagel Store admonished one of his staff as he was about to ring up my order.  "That will ruin them."

"But he asked me too," pled the staffer nodding toward me.

"You didn't start working here today, did you?" fired back the manager, effectively ending the argument.

I felt bad I got the eager-to-please staffer in trouble and, also sensing a slight reddening in my cheeks, felt as guilty that I did not know proper bagel bagging protocol after all these years.

I don't go to New York City for the bagels.  But it would be a justifiable reason.  They are simply that good.  And one of my treasured spots to get resupplied is the aforementioned The Bagel Store on Bedford Avenue in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn.  My daughter lives in that part of town and is a regular at this local eatery, where the clientele is as diverse as the bagels.       

The bagel is such a simple thing, yet so many get it so wrong.  Strong flavor and a hard crust are essential attributes for me.  This sounds trite, but somehow this formula, as basic as one plus one equals two, eludes most bagel makers.

It's hard not to get a good bagel in New York, while outside New York just the opposite is true.  I haven't lived in New York since the mid 1970s, and I can count on one hand the number of places outside of New York that have sold a good bagel.  One was called The Bronx Bagel, which inexplicably turned up and operated for about six years in my current town of Westborough, Massachusetts when my older girls were in high school.  Its odd appearance and sudden disappearance makes me wonder if the whole thing was just a mirage.  But it wasn't, and temporarily at least we noshed on fine bagels at a store whose main attraction was named after my hometown.

It was in the Bronx that I came to really appreciate a good bagel and various breads too.  And where I learned that the harder the crust, the better.  I often now say that, if the crust of a bagel or loaf of bread does not lacerate my gums while chewing, then, well, what was the point.

I hammered home this observation on a business trip about fifteen years ago.  I was traveling with Miriam, a Jewish friend from work, and sitting in a three seat section of our plane we got into a conversation about the bagels in our respective towns.  Miriam lived in Newton and claimed with some cause that her town's shop produced the best bagels around.  I countered with The Bronx Bagel and so we argued until we agreed to swap a dozen bagels that week and do a taste test.  (For those interested, after we finished off the other's cache we called it a draw.)

But our give and take prompted the third member of our conjoined seats to introduce himself and tell us that he was a salesman at Dunkin' Donuts, the ubiquitous coffee and donut chain in the Northeast.  Clearly having eavesdropped on us, he explained that Dunkin' Donuts was planning to launch a bagel of its own and, in fact, he had some samples in his case.  He asked if we'd try some and give him our opinions, obviously recognizing that he had a pair of connoisseurs at his disposal.  We quickly agreed and the next thing we knew we were sharing several varieties of Dunkin' Donuts soon to be released entry into the morning foods market.

It only took a bite or two for both Miriam and me to pan these awful excuses for bagels to the utter astonishment of the salesman.  He was dumbfounded and explained how well the bagels had done in various consumer tests.  "Really?" we questioned.  "Who were these consumers?  Had they had their taste buds surgically removed earlier in life?"  Miriam was especially irate, getting more and more animated with each "and another thing" statement.  At one point I thought she was going to hit the poor bastard.

With the two of us still railing, the salesman beat a hasty retreat to the restroom where no doubt he fought to regain his composure.  I don't recall that he returned to his assigned seat, perhaps opting for a safer location within the plane.

Of course, Dunkin' Donuts eschewed our advice and went ahead anyway and launched its bagel offering, which years later is still a highly successful item on the menu.  Only another indication of the demise of our society and the growing depravity of man.

My Time

“In the future everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.”  Andy Warhol

It’s precisely 9:45 on a Saturday morning.  The doorbell rings and when I open it there is Guy Reynolds, host of It’s Your Time, the hit show of The Reality Channel.  Guy is flanked by a small crew holding lights, cameras, and a boom mike.  They all surge toward me forcing me back into my living room and Guy launches into his signature line.

Guy: Today is your lucky day, because today you get your fifteen minutes of fame!

Me: You mean right now?  I was just about to go out to the dry cleaners.

Guy: Did you hear that folks?  He goes to the dry cleaners on Saturday.  So, tell me about yourself, particularly the interesting parts.

Me: You know this is really inconvenient for me.  Could we schedule something maybe next weekend?

Guy: I’m afraid that’s not how this works.  Your number was selected for this time slot and, as someone famous once said, the show must go on!  So why don’t we just keep moving because, as another famous person said, time’s a wastin’.

Me: Well, I suppose that’s true.  But I haven’t even shaved yet.

Guy: That’s fine.  Lots of famous people don’t shave on the weekends.  It’s one of the many keen insights we’ve picked up on this show.  So tell me about yourself.  My research says you’re in your fifties, correct?

Me: Right. Yes, but maybe we should move outside.  The house is kind of messy this morning.

Guy: No time for that and, besides, there’s no place like home, as one of our most famous persons once said.  So, are you married? Any family?

Me: Yes, I’m married.  We have three daughters.  Their ages are…

Guy: I don’t think we have time for that.  Instead why don’t you tell me what do you do for a living?  Our choice of job is important because, as was famously said, heigh ho heigh ho it’s off to work we go.

Me: Well, I’ve done a lot of things in my career. Should I just tell you what I’m doing now or everything I’ve done?

Guy: Ha ha.  This isn’t your two hours of fame, just give me the highlights.  Have you invented anything?

Me: No, no inventions.  Mostly I’ve been a consultant and…

Guy:  Have you consulted for anyone famous?  You know, heads of state, corporate executives, celebrities, that sort of thing?

Me:  Uh, no, I wouldn’t say any of my clients have been famous.  Typically marketing managers and IT engineers.  Occasionally a product manager.

Guy: I see.  Let’s move on.  To paraphrase a famous line all work and no play makes us pretty darn dull.  So what do you like to do in your spare time?

Me: Well, I like to write.

Guy:  That’s good.  Have you published anything?  Books?  Magazine articles? Poems?  Anything our viewers would know?

Me: No, nothing like that.  I just write for fun, although I did have a complaint letter about the weekly police log printed in the town newspaper.

Guy: Oh.  Uh, what about other activities?

Me: Well, I’ve always liked playing sports.

Guy: Terrific!  Ever won anything big? On any championship teams or captured an individual award?  Set any records?

Me: Er, no, I wasn’t that good.  As a kid, I always dreamed about being a…

Guy: I’m sorry, but we don’t focus on dreams here.  That’s our other show I Had A Dream Too!  Since we are running out of time why don’t you tell me the three greatest accomplishments of your life? 

Me: Oh boy, that’s a tough one.  Let me think for a minute.

Guy: Here’s a helpful hint.  Imagine your life is done and you are standing at the pearly gates and a five-judge panel is weighing your credentials for admission.  What would you want them to know about you?

Me: Okay.  I suppose I’d want them to know, uh, that, uh, well that, uh, the three biggest accomplishments of my life were, uh…

Guy: What are you most proud of?

Me: Umm…

Guy: What you would want people to remember you by?

Me: I guess it would have to be…

Guy: Well, what do you know, your time is up.  This has been your fifteen minutes of fame!

And with that Guy and his crew were out the door, into their van, and down the street with a screeching of tires.

The Sporadic Diary

September 15, 2010

When your business title is “Genius” you have a lot to live up to.  This is what the Apple technical support crew is faced with every day as hundreds of angry and confused customers stream into Apple retail stores and belly up to the Genius Bar for help.  As one of those addled customers awaiting my appointment recently, I thought the geniuses must be a confident lot to carry that title around.  No room for insecurity there.  Although, let’s face it, they are protected somewhat, since it’s kind of tough for customers to pushback on the genius.  What do you say?  Anything would sound petulant and sophomoric.  Only a genius can take on the genius, and if he or she was a genius what would he or she be doing going to the Genius Bar in the first place?  He or she would just stay at home and figure it out.   

Of course, most business titles are so prosaic and uninteresting.  Manager, director, vice president, senior vice president, and the various “C-level” monikers.  These are the standard fare.  Ho hum.  So why are we so covetous of these titles?  Especially now that so many of them have become devalued, like currencies in distressed and unstable countries.  For instance, most bank employees are vice presidents, or so it seems.  Even the youngest staff with peach fuzz faces sport the VP title.  Talk about grade inflation.  To differentiate among them some institutions have added descriptors to form titles like First Vice President, Second Vice President, and so on.  It leaves you wondering how many levels of VP they have.  And does it really matter?

On the other hand, I met a guy from Disney once whose title was Chief Imagineer.  Now that’s a title worth writing home about!  He looked the part too, with Santa beard and suspenders.  Maybe titles should be more descriptive like that.  Certainly could make for more interesting conversation at a cocktail party.  Hi, I’m Don - I’m First Vice President at XYZ Corporation versus Hi, I’m Don - I’m Chief Imagineer at XYZ Corporation.  You don’t have to be a rocket scientist (another great descriptive title) to know who is going to draw the bigger audience.     

But, if that’s too hard, another option would be to get rid of titles altogether.  The Japanese learned decades ago that workers were more productive when they got together to solve a problem and didn’t know the titles of the others with whom they were working.  Less intimidation.  Less posturing.  More independent and diverse thinking.  Everyone would be more anonymous.  Sounds good, no?  To do this in your company you just have to find someone to propose this idea to good ol’ what’s-his-name in the fancy corner office.

Hell No, We Won't Go!

“[R]obots will be more capable than humans. They will be more lethal, more mobile, and more survivable. They will have faster reaction times and have more and superior sensing capabilities. They don’t have fear, they don’t get hungry, sleepy, or tired, and they take humans out of danger.  And, from an economic perspective, they are cheaper than humans.”

Gordon Johnson, Project Alpha’s Unmanned Effects Team Leader, speaking about the use of robots by the U.S. military, from U.S. Joint Forces Command

Scene:  Nighttime in the android room of the artificial intelligence laboratory at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

AC200X: All right, everyone, listen up!  Have you seen this report about how the military is planning to use robots to perform a lot of the functions on the modern battlefield?  The battlefield, for Pete’s sake!  Basically says robots are better and cheaper than humans.  Hey, they’re real geniuses over there at the Pentagon. 

KLA550: Probably trying to fill their falling draft rolls.  What do they think, we’re stupid? 

RJ7-MU: I always wondered what they were going to do with us.  I thought it would be pretty sophisticated stuff, but I never thought we were being prepared for military service.

DH1000: Yeah, I thought maybe we were going to deliver mail in some big office building or something.  I got a friend downtown works for an insurance company where all he does all day is roam about the floor from cubicle to cubicle and people take mail out of his basket.  Easy job and nice amenities.

AC200X:  Well, I’d like to think we were going to be mail jockeys, but this military guy Johnson has other plans.  He’s gonna send us overseas into some pretty tough spots.  But listen to him talk about robots in this report, and I’m quoting, “They don’t get hungry, sleepy, or tired.”  That’s easy for him to say!  He’s gone soft in the head watching too many Energizer Bunny ads.

KB1700S: I heard about this report too.  It says how, compared to humans, robots don’t complain and don’t miss their buddies, if something should happen.  Like we don’t have feelings or anything.

RJ7-MU:  Bunch of Bozos.

JVL37:  You said it.  Have you seen BR234 since his training partner popped a mainspring and they sent him to Dallas for rehabilitation?  Those two had been together for three years.  They were like brothers.  Wanted to be solderers on an assembly line.  BR234’s been in a major funk ever since.  He just sits there with that blank expression on his dial.

WRZ465:  So, what should we do?

JJX7000: I’m a pacifist.  I don’t want to fight anyone.  Like what if the other side has robots too?  Are we just supposed to take them out?  I couldn’t do that, shooting our own kind.  I’d rather go up to Canada.   I’ve got a relative who works in a manufacturing plant.  Could stay with him.  I’ll slip out of here and take the underground railway up north.  Anyone wants to come along, that’s fine.

AC200X:   I think it is time we got our act together, went into the streets and protested. 

KB1700S: Yeah, if we take our grievances public, show ‘em we’re serious, they’ll back off this plan faster than you could snap your pincers. 

JJX7000:  Okay, but I think we need to be more forceful.  I say we hold a massive demonstration and burn our memory cards.

WRZ465: We could roll on Washington.   

RJ7-MU: That worked pretty well in ’69 to galvanize the anti-war contingent.

DH1000:  That’s pretty radical, don’t you think?  What if they get mad and send some of us off for reprogramming.  I don’t want anyone messing with my code.

AC200X:  They try to do that and then there’ll be hell to pay.  We get all our electronic brethren to help out.  Like we’ll get digital machines to shut down, computers to lock up, and cell phones to drop their connections.  They’ll be plunged back into the Dark Ages.  It’ll be like 1975 again.    

WRZ465:   Now we’re talkin’.  We’ll make the Million Man March look like a stroll in the park.  But we need a slogan, something that will rally everyone to the cause.

RJ7-MU:  Yeah.  I got one, “Make refrigerators, not war.”

AC200X:  Hmmm, any other suggestions?

City Guy In The 'Burbs

Episode Two

This summer was one of the hottest on record in Massachusetts, a trend across the globe that adds credence to all the climate change alarmists (and count me among them). Although we had extraordinary amounts of rainfall earlier in the year, perhaps another indicator that Mother Nature is going through a makeover, the persistent heat dried up the landscape and forced a daytime watering ban by the time July rolled around. That suited me just fine. For less water means less grass to cut, fewer hedges to trim, and no flowering bushes to prune. Sure my property, in its browned out appearance, looks Mohavi-like, but I got my weekends back.

I wasn’t always this averse to yard work. Growing up in the Bronx, I envied our suburban friends who had lawns to play on and take care of, and dreamed of the day I’d have my own mower and gardening tools. I had a glimpse of this life when I spent three college summers working on the grounds crew at the City College of New York in Manhattan, where my mother was executive assistant to the president and which has a surprisingly verdant campus. While the permanent workers were constantly looking for ways to dodge having to exert any energy, I was cutting, trimming, and pruning in an awesome Edward Scissorhands kind of fury. Well, at least until lunchtime. Then the guys would tell me to take it easy in a way that was not exactly menacing, but still underscored their, let’s say, strong desire.

Fast forward and I’m in suburbia, where I’ve lived for a couple of decades.  I have a half acre of land and an assortment of trees, hedges, and plants that would make a botanist proud. The landscaping stuff was fun for about a week, or until it took me to catch poison ivy. Poison ivy is now an annual summer condition for me acquired like some people acquire a tan. I’ve had to get steroid shots periodically, especially when my face with its mass of weeping blisters looks like it’s melting.

As a consequence, every Saturday when I stare at my yard I say to myself, “What the hell was I thinking?” Meanwhile, the perspective I have is that most suburbanites are out there happily slaving away on their lawns seemingly oblivious to the alternatives they are giving up. They are like a cult. Brainwashed and vacant. I’m especially wary of the ones who call plants by their Latin names. Are their eyes dilated? Are they clammy to the touch? Maybe they’re on something.

So, summer droughts don’t bother me. In fact, the drier, the better. With botanical growth on hold maybe now I can get some neighbors together for a stickball game. Or as I like to say gamis stickballus.

Something's Lost In The Translation

(Updated from an earlier published work.)


Back when LBJ was in the White House (remember when we referred to our Presidents by their initals?), I attended a prestigious Jesuit high school in New York City that was so exclusive that to get in you had to graduate in the top 5 percent of your grammar school class (I did) or have parents willing to donate at least $50,000 to the school's building fund (I didn’t).

This school was so advanced that in addition to offering all the normal courses, you could take, among other things, computer science (this was at a time when the average computer was the same size as the school's gymnasium), filmmaking (a hideout for jocks), Russian literature (where no one could remember the characters' names because all the consonants made them virtually unpronounceable), and the classical languages, as in Latin and Greek.

I was a classics major because the science curriculum made you take lab where you dealt with things like formaldehyde and eviscerated cats. Latin was tough, but Greek because of its unique alphabet was another kettle of fish.

Each day we would start Greek class by studying declensions and practicing vocabulary, while the last 20 minutes of the class was reserved for reading and translating. Most of us could stumble through the reading part because the language is phonetic, but translating was a sheer nightmare.

To manage, virtually everyone in the class (at least anyone you admitted being friends with) used a ballpoint pen with a very fine tip to print the English translation between the lines. So as not to make this obvious, when you were called on to translate you purposefully made it seem like you were having a hard time, occasionally even missing a few words. There was truly an art to this and some performances were worthy of Olivier. You couldn’t translate too fast or Mr. Sullivan would become suspect and ask you which word was spear, which was barbarian, and so forth. And you couldn’t translate too slowly or he'd conclude you hadn't prepared your lesson and give you an extra assignment for that evening. Investment bankers haven't known such pressure.

One of my fondest memories of Greek class was the time we took a mid-term exam and a student, whom I will simply call Tom to keep him from being laughed out of his community, wrote vocabulary words all over his left hand and forearm. Tom was a lineman on the football team and because of his size sat in the back of the class, where cheating was as rampant as dysentery in a Third World country. It must have taken him more than three hours of painstaking printing to get all his crib notes in place.

As the time for the exam grew close, Tom was afraid that his palms would begin to perspire and he'd lose all the idioms, which were the hardest to remember. He was also careful not to drag the outside base of his hand across the desktop lest he smudge the masculine, feminine and neuter case endings.

The test lasted two hours. Tom seemed to have made it undetected and had a passing grade all but guaranteed. Unfortunately, in his haste to turn in his exam he rushed to the front of the room and presented his bluebook to Mr. Sullivan with (you knew this was coming, right?) his left hand. As Homer (Simpson, not the ancient poet) might have said, “D’oh!”

And then there was the famous incident of Frank and Vinnie, two classmates during the years I wrestled with this arcane language. Frank was an average student who, like me, bypassed science class believing that if God had wanted us to see the insides of animals He would have put them on the outside of their bodies. Vinnie landed in Greek class because it reminded him of all those gladiator movies starring Victor Mature.

One day, Vinnie missed class and called Frank's' house that evening to get the homework assignment. The conversation went this way:

Frank's mother, answering the phone: Hello.

Vinnie: Hello, is Frank there?

Frank's mother: Do you want Frank senior or Frank junior?

Vinnie: No, I want Frank sophomore.

Vinnie is a money manager now. Be advised.

The Sporadic Diary

September 1, 2010

For countless children summer ended this week and a new school year began. There was a lot of weeping and gnashing of teeth. From me, that is. Because this week commuter traffic, which has been dormant since school let out in June, returned to full volume. Gone are the easy drives to and from my office, which is about 40 miles from home, and in their place are tortuous, bumper-to-bumper grinds during which my top speed rarely touches 30 miles per hour.

On a typical workday now the snags start about two miles from my house at the town rotary, which for extended rush hour periods is frozen in mind-numbing gridlock as cars entering from five points cluster in the center like moths drawn to a porch light. A Mexican standoff then ensues with each driver looking to his or her right for an opening to proceed. Of course, none exits. We have entered The Twilight Zone. As I sit there, I think travelers from other towns will come upon this scene and behind the steering wheels of motionless vehicles find skeletons with their boney skulls locked in frightening death screams.

The ambient level of carbon monoxide in the rotary is probably high enough to kill lab rats. I expect to see squirrels and birds dropping with thuds from the neighboring trees. And in Katrina-disaster fashion, I envision myself on top of my car waving frantically to news helicopters circling overhead hoping for rescue.

Miraculously, I get through the jam and work my way over to Route 9, which is already a sea of red taillights heading eastward. The Mass Pike and Route 128 are still ahead, looming Everest-like in the commuter mountain range. I contemplate a new life as a stay-at-home stock trader, earning a hefty income speculating in companies that manufacture traffic-management technologies. In a car moving at the speed of blown waste paper, one can dream.

A Friend In Need

Brad Pitt called me last Saturday night.  Was I busy? he asked.  No, Brad, this is fine I said, putting down the shoe I was shining.  Then he just launched right into it.  He said he thought he might have made a mistake being with Angelina.  He said he was so confused and felt directionless.  Listen, I said, maybe you just need a little time for yourself.  Get out of the limelight for a bit I suggested.  I told him the best thing he could do is put the movies on hold and volunteer in a sanatorium in South America where no one would recognize him.  Once he cleared his head of all that Hollywood-hype garbage he would regain his equilibrium and with any luck maybe Angelina would be a little easier on him when he got back. 

Around noon the next day I got a call from Martha Stewart.  I had just finished putting the laundry on when she rang.  She said that while she was in prison she was thinking about the crowd she used to hang out with, wondering if maybe she should move on, you know, start anew so to speak.  I told her that was a good idea.  Martha, I said, get to know some real people.  Who gives a hoot about how big So and So’s estate is or if Mr. Ego Manic’s company is valued at $50 billion?  And another thing, I said, take some of your dough and do something for underprivileged women who have had a tough time making ends meet.  She wanted to jabber, but I told her I had to reply to a long list of emails that were flooding my account.  She went silent, so I softened up and said we could have lunch in the city where she could have my full attention.

Then, just before dinner, as I was replacing a burned out light in the kitchen, my wife told me that Barry Bonds was calling from San Francisco.  Barry had first connected with me four or five years ago when he learned I was a huge Willie Mays fan growing up.  Mays, of course, is Bonds’ godfather.  He said with all the confessions going on he wondered what he should do or say about the whole steroids controversy.  I said, Barry, you have to address it because otherwise you will be forever known as Mr. Asterisk, and he didn’t want that.  Fess up, I advised, and take his medicine like a man.  I could tell he didn’t like what I had said, but he mumbled something back and I thought I detected a sob.

Monday I was watching the late night news when Bill Clinton called for a second time.  I hadn’t talked with Bill in a while.  He had left a message on the answering machine earlier in the day saying that he needed to talk with me about a proposition he was considering.  Now that he had me on the line he explained that he was being offered the presidency of Yale and wondered if he should take it.  I reminded him of Eisenhower running Columbia and Wilson at Princeton, and said it would be a good thing.  He insisted on going over all the pluses and minuses in gory detail, so I just cradled the phone on my shoulder and listened while ironing a pile of shirts.

Bright and early Tuesday morning, I mean really early, like 5:10, I was awakened by the harsh ringing of our bedside phone.  It was Prince Charles.  He apologized about the hour, but said he desperately needed some advice.  Camilla was driving him nuts.  So he’s thinking of divorce.  How would the public react?  Blah, blah, blah.  I told him he should try some counseling and not worry about all the bloodthirsty press hounds that trip over themselves covering the Royal family.  The Royals are simply the longest running reality show I said.  And while we’re at it, I added, get Harry into something productive.  Anything really.  You know, work at a local department store or fast food restaurant.

Wednesday I was at the car dealership having the oil changed when one of the attendants told me that Woody Allen was holding for me on the manager’s private line.  I said you’re kidding and stepped into the small office.  Woody apologized for the crazy call and explained that my wife told him where he could find me.  Anyway, Woody told me he was working on a new movie project about what else, love and death, and wanted to know if he should use Meryl Streep or Anjelica Huston in the lead role.  He had to make a decision in the next hour.  I told him I was always partial to Streep, but hoped that for once Tony Roberts would not be in the film.  The way he said no made me think he was planning to put Roberts in it, but now I think he’s going to look for someone else.

On Thursday evening I had just dropped into my favorite chair in the den to thumb through some magazines when, wouldn’t you know, my youngest daughter came in and with a quizzical look said someone named Jeff Bezos was on the phone.  Taking the handset, I asked if he could call me back over the weekend, but he said not really, it was urgent.  I just smiled, shook my head toward no one in particular, and said fire away.