BOO!

Now when I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn on Halloween, my parents didn’t take me by the hand and go door to door with me while I was dressed in some silly little costume yelling: “Trick or treat.” Nope, we went as we were, little bums, with maybe someone rich enough to own a mask. We got our parents old cloths and wore their hats and ties and sometimes the girls would wear gobs of lipstick, with their Mother’s hats. We went with nothing to hold the loot in, just our grubby little paws and pockets. If you wore the mask you were the leader, to be admired, and you did the talking, because no one knew who you were, after all, you were wearing a mask!

Many a time we would get old socks without holes in them, fill them with flour and a heavy piece of chalk to weight them down, tie a knot to close them at the end then tie a long cord to the knot. We would spin the sock over our heads and like a lariat let it fly against someone’s person, leaving a big powder look and pain from the chalk as it crashed into a victim.

Door to door was really stoop-to-stoop, ringing the bell for each floor and yelling out: “Trick or treat,” and waiting for the occupants of each floor to toss down the loot, through the stair well. There really weren’t any tricks, just treats, as we all knew each other. The treats were mostly pennies or nickels and fruit, yet sometimes we actually got candy. Once in a while we got advice such as: “If you little bastards don’t get the hell out of here, I swear…”

There were some mom and pop stores that were very kind and there were mom and pop stores that were unkind. Loretta the produce lady was good to us, always gave us candy, while sloppy John, her competition just chased us and swore in Italian as we sped by his fruit and vegetables, looking to knock something over if we could.

The fun started right after school, as we ran home to change our clothing, and getting into our “costumes.” It would be starting to turn dark, with the air nippy and biting our cheeks, no one questioning what you were suppose to be, we were all bums, period.

The thing about this tradition was it was repeated on Thanksgiving day, where we went again door-to-door, or stoop-to-stoop looking for treats and yelling as we pressed each door bell: “Happy Thanksgiving!”

THE CELL PHONE, JUST ANOTHER FAÇADE

Since the introduction of the cell phone, the phone is getting smaller and smaller, yet more and more important than ever before.

The users of cell phones seem to be taking on an air of self -importance that is greater and greater than ever before!

In the midst of all this, I am becoming less and less important than ever before. It seems no one ever calls me on my cell phone any more. If you don’t get at least 3 calls an hour, you are no longer relevant to the world at large. There is nothing like the swagger I see when someone speaks into his or her cell phone, for the entire world to hear.

I was thinking of going to the mall tomorrow, holding the cell phone to my ear, talking into it out loud. But not only talking loudly, but also saying something that makes me sound important.

For instance:
“ Yes that’s right, one million dollars into pork belly futures” or
“ Get Trump on the horn and tell him we have a deal, but only under MY conditions” or how about “tell Steinbrenner I’m willing to make a deal if he can fly up to New York today to sign off on it.” Of course I could throw in an FBI reference, or even a Presidential line or two.

Using the cell phone requires that you be able to carry it on your hip or belt, making it look like a gun or some kind of important instrument. How you wear it is just as important as how you us it. I notice that a lot of young ladies can walk, chew gum and reach into their pocket book, pull out the phone and dial all with one hand! Of course they would be talking whether or not they had a phone in their ear.

I carry my phone just for show or emergencies. A flat tire, or hunger, and I want to be able to call for AAA or Pizza Stop on a moments notice.

Men seem to be the biggest abusers of the phone in a public place. Using some of the yuppiness of the past, looking so in, that they must make everyone sick as they speak up, swinging their elbow for punctuation and emphasis.

If I was to give you my cell phone number, would anyone of you call me, say tomorrow at 10:00 am while I sit in the middle of the mall? Please, I need the importance.

THE TIME HAS COME, BACK IN TIME

This is the time of the year when we set back our clocks and hopefully not revert to old habits too. When I got up this morning,
TLW (The Little Woman) said:

“You forgot to set the clocks back.”

Me, being the shlub that I am, took it in stride and buried my head in the sports pages. It wasn’t going to end there.

TLW: “I had to reset all the clocks this morning.”
Me: “Wow!” “Sorry”
TLW: “That’s OK.”
Me: “Did you do the one on my night stand?”
TLW: “No, and I didn’t do the one over the TV, because I’m too short to reach, and also the one in #2 Son’s Room.”
Me: “So actually, you didn’t do ALL the clocks, just some.”
This last statement was greeted with her usual appreciation of my quick wit, stoned silence, and ignoring my very being.

There is a lesson here for all you guys out there who are either just married, or married a few years, or about to get married.

Shut up whenever possible.

THIS IS THE WAY WE WASH OUR FLOORS OR DESPERATE HOUSEHUSBAND

Last night we happened to be talking about some of the people in TLW’s (The Little Woman) place of business. Someone asked TLW if she gave me a honey do list everyday.

From that the conversation moved to cleaning the floors. I sweep the kitchen and hallway everyday, and on Friday I wash the floor. Apparently the conversation got out of hand, and before I knew it, I had advice on how to better wash the floors, and find the dirt only TLW would see!

The thing that scares me is I’m eager to get started on her suggestions! The problem is she really got into the suggestion mode, and I can’t remember all she had to say.

TLW started to take out mops and brooms and cleaning fluids that she suggested I use in certain situations. I decided to get my golf club bag and fill it with the brooms and mops as I play my way through the kitchen floor, Sweeping and swabbing, scrubbing and rubbing as I try to use less strokes and more elbow grease to ace each floor. Yes, I will keep a scorecard.

Well I guess I’m becoming a bit of a nut case, looking for dust and spots and dirt and trying to erase it all away, and don’t forget dinner, I still have to make dinner! Who knew retirement would be so much work?

Actually what I really like is; if I don’t want to do something, I don’t and no one makes me.

As for that honey do list - there isn’t any.

HIPPIES VS. THE MAN!

By #2 Son

It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon. Walking around Southern California, one might notice the faint odor of patchouli in the air, as a strange creature is awakening from his sleep. We are in the natural habitat of the Hippie, a hairy, mostly nocturnal creature that wanders about freely without even the slightest hint of shame.

One thing we know about hippies, is they want to be naked all the time. This is because Southern California is a very warm place to live. This fact is interesting, yet potentially dangerous. For instance, some hippies (like Tommy Chong) are slightly unattractive and shouldn’t be naked.

We also know the hippies smoke marijuana all the time. Based on scientific evidence, we are now able to know that cartoon-watching is a direct result of marijuana use. This leads many hippies to become hungry and have the munchies. It is interesting to note that hippies never get fat because all hippies are vegetarians.

There are two types of hippies. Orthodox and primitive hippies have quite a few differences. Orthodox hippies are hippies that use technology. It is therefore easy to classify anybody who drives a Prius, anybody who uses wind energy for their homes, or anybody who uses solar power, as an orthodox hippie.

These people are the most hip. They are against the war, but are more concerned about saving the environment and tend to live in areas like San Diego and Los Angeles. These hippies hold a vegetarian diet, but still eat cheese and drink milk. Also, they eat sushi every chance they get. Since they eat fish on occasion, they are considered “vegiquarians.”
Primitive hippies are people who live on their own. Primitive hippies are usually ex-members of Hare Krishna and never drive. If you do see a primitive hippie in public or on the road, he’s probably using public transportation and not wearing shoes.

The diet of primitive hippies is always vegan. They refrain from consuming all products that come from animals. They don’t wear leather, they don’t drink milk, they don’t eat cheese and they certainly don’t eat meat.

The primitive hippie never needs exorcise because he is always hiking barefoot. It is important to note that walking barefoot is an exercise in itself and requires a lot of energy.

This type of hippie is allergic to politics, so he tends to stay out of that particular realm. Usually, the primitive hippie lives in the desert in a mobile home. He has fourteen dogs, twelve cats, a rooster, two lizards and a hamster that all run freely around his property. He bathes with them.

Right now, a hippie is kayaking in a local lake, where he is soon to meet his predator: The Man.

There arte two types of the man. One species lives in the northeast of the United States, and one lives in the south. The man who lives in the northeast is called a neocon, and the man who lives in the south is called a redneck.

Neocons tend to have more monetary assts than rednecks. They wear expensive suits that are produced in Bangladesh for the price of a bowl of rice and a jug of milk. They are usually businessmen, and tend to be outnumbered in places like New York, New Jersey and Conneticut.

One thing that is common among neocons is that they always drive sports utility vehicles. These people tend to believe that all poor people are poor because they deserve it, and they can really become rich if they wanted to. When they hear the Nike has shipped their textile factories overseas, and are paying their workers in beans, they consider it a favor on behalf of American corporations.

It is true that neocons eat meat, but it is also a fact that they choose choice cuts and more expensive types of food. The Neocon is usually seen eating filet mignon while his next door neighbor has no health insurance.

Then there are the rednecks. Much like the primitive hippie, the hippie also lives in a motor home. However, he tends to live in places like Alabama and Georgia, or basically anywhere in the bible belt.

Rednecks are almost always religious fundamentalists. They consider everything written in the bible as fact. They are convinced that homosexuals, liberals and people who have sex outside of marriage are all going to suffer in hell.

They are usually seen worshipping people like televangelist Pat Robertson. The redneck moves around in an old Ford pickup truck. Sometimes, he paints a confederate flag on the hood of his car. However, he doesn’t believe he is going to hell for it.

Rednecks listen to gospel music all the time. They usually aren’t very fond of immigrants A neocon from New York would not be able to understand the language of a Redneck from Georgia.

They usually dress in flannel shirts and work boots. Most rednecks have mullets and listen to Lynard Skynard. They also tend to be slightly overweight, but that is always burned off with a hard days work.

However, all types of hippies and all types of man have one thing in common: they are all avid supporters of freedom of speech. Though we may disagree, and sometimes would like to shut each other up, we consider each person’s right to speak a fundamental necessity. With this state of mind, it could be possible for hippies and the man to live in harmony and come to a compromise to create a new generation of polar opposites.

IT’S GRAND TO BE GREAT, OR IS IT GREAT TO BE GRAND?

Yesterday TLW (The Little Woman) and I went to a funeral parlor to say goodbye to a sister of a friend we know. As we were sitting with the family, we were talking about relatives who had come from Buffalo to mourn the passing. The conversation turned to great aunts and uncles, and someone or course had to throw in a curve ball and mention “Grand” nephew, and what the difference was between a great and grand nephew. No one seems to be sure, including TLW what the differences are!

This is one of life’s questions that always go unanswered, and are best saved for just such occasions as funeral parlors, where they can be left behind. I mean, who really cares, unless something is stipulated in a will with my name attached to it, then I care.

If you met some of my relatives, you would say: “Great, ^%$@*&I&^ great!” When I didn’t see them, it was: GRAND! I had great uncles who couldn’t wait to see you, they were grand, I had great uncles who didn’t know you, and I thought that was great. Am I confusing you? Well, why not, it qualifies you to jump into the conversation.

My Grandmother was “Grand”, and so was my Grandfather, so what did it make my aunts and uncles? If they slipped me a few bucks when my parents weren’t looking, they were not only “great” but “grand.” If they didn’t they were “Cheap.”

Where am I taking you with all this? I don’t know, but it was great writing to you, and I had a grand old time doing it.

Thank you.

THE RITE OF PASSAGE, OR OH THIS HYPERACTIVITY IS KILLING ME!

Today goes down as a proud day for an 18 year old that “resides” in one of my bedrooms. I don’t want to say “lives” because no one could possibly live in that mess.

A used 2006 Tan Nissan Altima now occupies space on my curb as #2 Son has his first car, and I have an “I spent over $100 on something” headache. Between the cost of the car, the insurance, the inspection, the photo inspection, plates and money I gave him for gas, not to mention the brake job he needs, it is indeed a large headache.

#2 Son was very hyper the whole day, busting my chops, tip tapping his pen on the car door and on the wooden seats in the DMV. His mouth was in over drive, as I finally had to beg him to “Shut up.” Today is the most he has spoken to us in years! Happy as happy can be.

I felt like a real father today, going to the seller, the DMV and back to the seller to get the car. You would think he’s take care of the little details, but no, he was so sky high, I had to put a leash on his neck so he wouldn’t float away. As we walked from my car to his to attach the plates, he says: “WE NEED TOOLS!?”

Old Dad, the one he barely tolerates, the one who is not to be told anything, whips out his “Mr. 7 Hands Apollo Screw Drivers with built in flash” and proceeds to put on the new plates. “Wow, you come prepared”! says the young prodigy.

Not for THIS headache.

PARANOID-OR THE PUBLIC REST ROOM DILEMMA

Every now and then I must use the public rest rooms for reasons that are quite obvious. A little makeup refresher, maybe to rest a while, even to wash my hands or face, or perhaps because I’m just tired of dancing.

Whenever I enter one, I immediately make an assessment of the place, and decide if I want to continue to use it. Often the place calls me, if I am about to embark on a long trip via plane or train, or even by the horseless carriage.

Many times the Little Woman will automatically wait for me to go as she knows I will, before stepping out to the car! 35 years with the same woman, it gets so she knows my every move. She has of course never gone in 35 years that I have known her as my wife!

It is when its time to leave the room that trouble starts for me. I get the Monk or Howard Hughes complex, grab a paper towel after I have washed my hands and stare at the doorknob or handle and insulate my hand with it to prevent germs from contacting me. I don’t think it is unreasonable, and think it IS practical.

One of my children when he was little would enter with me and immediately make a loud vocal assessment of the place, especially if it was smelly or filthy. If he didn’t like it, I took him out, not because of health reasons, but because I was just embarrassed to stay there any longer!

I had a friend who worked for me, and on a company “Take your child to work” day brought his 4-year old son to work. He took him to the rest room and the little fellow used the urinal. After he was done, he started to gyrate his hips and his father getting curious asked: “Why are you doing that?” His reply: “Whenever I go to the bathroom, and I finish, Mommy says I should shake.”

AN EDUCATED WASH AND DRY, OR FOLDING SLOGANS

Every now and then I have to do the wash, and consequently, take everything out of the dryer and fold. It has become a real education. Almost a serial of readings, and I find myself running out of time as I take the time to read.

What am I reading you ask? #2 Son’s T-shirts of course, spread across every one, all in different colors are the various causes he supports. Some of these shirts are purchased to push my buttons, (I pay to have my buttons pushed,) some are statements designed to disagree with me, some are to show his independence from conformity, and some: I have to get back to you about.

It all started with his buying stuff from the Old Soviet Union store, on line of course. Red with a big golden hammer and sickle, the T-shirt comes in the mail from Russia, written in a strange looking strained calligraphy, addressed to “Comrade #2 Son” who has the foresight to get Mom to charge it to Dad’s account via a charge card. Some have pictures of Karl Marx or Lenin, and so far none of Joe Stalin. But all praise the “Worker’s Paradise” and wail against the inequities of capitalism toward the workers of the world! At my expense, on my charge card, mailed to my capitalist address. One shirt is for the Working Party, with a slogan about some kind of bad thing that must be happening to workers somewhere in the world.

Comrade #2 Son was recently rewarded with a used car that he needs for school and his social life, and my sanity. He has very strict requirements before I could purchase it. Does it have a CD player, because after all, he can’t use his $250 Worker’s I-Pod while driving one of his little comrade girlfriends around? You’ve seen them: long purple hair, tight jeans and paper jewelry all designed to attract the masses of workers.

Parents of the Workers of the World unite, you have nothing to lose but your endless chain of charge card bills for commie slogan T-shirts! LONG LIVE CAPITALISM-MAKE HIM PAY FOR HIS OWN STUFF, AND WHILE HE’S AT IT, HE CAN WASH THEM TOO.

LOOKING FOR A USED CAR

Yesterday and the day before were spent looking for a used car. Taking #2 Son in tow, we drove out to a used car lot and started looking. Kicking tires is not my favorite pastime, and asking suspicious looking characters questions about cars is no fun. Granted the media has made these people suspicious looking, and probably unfairly, but you can’t help but be suspicious of them anyway.

If my Dad had decided to buy me a used car, especially my first car ever, I would have been so happy, I would have pushed it uphill if need be, and stuck my foot out the door if I had to, to stop.

#2 Son has certain criterion for purchasing with my money. For instance, if it doesn’t look like a staff car for the mafia, it doesn’t work for him. If it doesn’t have a CD player, forget about it. If it is within reason of my affordability, we are aiming far too low.

My first car was a very convenient mode of transportation. It was attached to other cars on tracks, or it gave off emissions that could choke a bus, in fact it was a bus.

Today I have a hot lead-given to me by my trust worthy mechanic whose has vouched for this lead and its owner. I spoke with my trusted mechanic over the phone, so I assume it was him on the other end. The blue book value is $1,000 more than the asking price and if the trust worthy mechanic recommends it: I think I should bite.

I got strict instructions from the donee, #2 Son not to buy anything without his approval first! Talk about your quilliones.

RE: 2006 METS-
R.I.P. but “Wait till next year!”

HOLD MY BREATH AND HOPE HE ASKS FOR HER CAR

The moment I was dreading arrived.

I can’t say it came on unexpectedly, but it still struck me by surprise. Not 24 hours after earning his license, #2 Son says to me: “I need a ride to Thompson’s house.”

Coupled with the knowledge that he was going to the movies that evening, and was using one of the cars for that, I summoned up courage that I didn’t know I had and reluctantly lent him my car. I gave him some very definite instructions about what he could do and not do, and advice on the physical consequences of any damage to my car, including his smoking in it, as I gave him the keys and he drove off.

I wondered how many times he was going to bring it to a car wash, how many times he would fill it up after using it, and how many times I was going to wonder: “How many times?”

Letting go is very difficult. I have heard of empty nest syndrome, but never experienced it before, but as I gazed out into my driveway, and saw the emptiness of the space occupied by my car, a tear started to well up in the corner of my eye.

Pray for my car, please.

THE JOY OF VICTORY- THE AGONY OF DEFEET

Today I have to buy a used car.

You can’t buy a better day than yesterday. If you are a father, yesterday stood out with the best of them. #2 Son got his license! Yes, despite some let downs, he overcame all those disappointments and did it. Not only did he do it, he did it like a pro.

When your kid runs into a rough patch, it seems to hurt you more than your kid, and when the kid handles it better than you can, you are really proud of him.

I treated him to lunch, right after the road test, and we both really felt good about him. He has a heart bigger than the great outdoors, and I hope he remembers to thank his Mom for all she did for him to get his license. The small joys of our little victories make us all 10 feet tall. What makes me feel great is that #1 Son who is a few thousand miles away, I know was with him in spirit, and encouraging every step of the way. I really have a great family, and we hang together. They can make jokes about me, but I love that and wouldn’t have it any other way.

After the driving test, I had to go to a doctor’s appointment about my Daughter, who was happy and surprised to find me there. She took me by the hand and walked me around the waiting room for one whole hour as we waited for the doctor. By the end of the visit, my feet were aching, but I wrote it off because #2 son made the day glorious.

Forgive my pride, but #2 Son is coming on strong

WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR!

You are probably wondering: “Where did I hear that before?”

No, it isn’t what I’d tell my parents after every report card, but the mantra of a Dodger fan growing up in Brooklyn in the 40’s and 50’s.

It looks like “next year” is indeed next year if the new Bums of Queens don’t get it together soon, and why are there little red pubic hairs growing under the lips of all those Cardinal fans?

Not being a bad sport, I will give the Cardinals credit; they are playing way over their heads, roughly around their waists.
I for one do not care for their rowdy penchant for screaming and waving those stupid towels, and wish they would put them away, in their proper place, roughly somewhere between their cheeks.

My Mets played great all year, and one lousy slump is not going to ruin it for me, no sir, I will hate the Cardinals no matter what, chin pubic hairs and all.

So all you Met fans out there, get out from under the beds, behind the sofas, and in the trees and …

WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR, if we must!

SUMMER SOLDIER, SUNSHINE MET FAN

TLW (The Little Woman) was awaiting me this morning, asking if the Mets won, as I trudged down the steps to the den, with a cup of coffee in my hand. I was exhausted from the night before, as I rooted for the Mets against the St. Louis Cards, into the late evening, dying and sighing over every pitch, holding my breath at each swing, keeping my heart in my chest at every line drive and dribble that occurred at the baseball palace known as Shea Stadium.

I am in a very serious point of my life now, as I have successfully urged on the Mets through the 2006 season, carrying them to this point. A lot has gone into it, much angst, pain and sorrow, along with elation, gratification and special spells I cast upon opposing teams throughout the 2006 season.

Being a fan is difficult, it requires much baseball fan savvy, rooting techniques that have been refined for over 55 years, first with Brooklyn, and now with the Mets. This is not done lightly, one must completely cleanse ones mind of outside distraction and concentrate. As a fan you must be able to think ahead of the manager, make decisions that affect the outcome of the game, and be able to call the manager a “Blockhead” when he doesn’t make the right move.

Since this is the playoffs, I’m thinking of opening up a press conference after each game to discuss my decisions and the outcome, but since I need my sleep, I will not.

As I sat down to have my cup of java, I responded to TLW’s question with an unqualified “YES!” No I wasn’t quoting Marv Albert, (Besides I don’t own a dress,) but expressing my elation and glee over my job well done the night before.

After answering her question in the affirmative, and seeing somewhat of a sense of satisfaction on her pretty face, I decided that I could do that too! Why go through all the physical and mental abuse when I can just wake up in the morning, look at the paper or TV and get the results. After all, while I was rooting, dying, and sighing, she was upstairs asleep!

I’m telling you, TLW is using me! Playing me like a team of old Cards!

I KNOW WHAT I WANT-JUST ASK TLW

Hardly a day goes by that I don't stand corrected. Standing corrected means getting it straight from TLW (The Little Woman), and not disputing it.

Without checking out facts, without any confirmation of any kind, without a kind of corroboration, TLW can give me the scoop. I on the other hand have a pooper-scooper to pick up the pieces as she knocks down the theories I may have, one at a time.

Being right all the time was never my inclination, although I do from time to time get it right! Just recently I said it was raining, and TLW concurred.

A few days ago the local nut case in the neighborhood seemed too have disappeared. I noticed his car was gone, and the house darkened. This was a whole day of observation on my part, so I knew I would be correct when I announced the news to TLW. The moment was ripe, the setting perfect, I would spring the news on her, and be credited with a major scoop. So I thought.

ME: “Guess what.”
TLW: “What?”
ME: “The Nut Case moved!”
TLW: “How do you know?”
ME: “There was no one there all day, the car is gone and the house is dark!”
TLW: “No he's not, I just know he didn't.”
ME: To myself: “We'll see smarty pants.”

The next day, the Nut Case was watering his lawn and his car was parked in the driveway.

I think the Nut Case and TLW set me up, but pass me my pooper-scooper, please.

GRANDPA RALPH

I only had two grandparents that I ever knew: both were from my father’s side, his Mother and Stepfather. We called my Father’s stepfather “Grandpa.” Once in a while we called him: “Grandpa Ralph”, my Grandmother called him Rafael. She wanted me to be named after him, but dear old Mom would not hear of it.

Grandpa was my real Grandfather’s best friend, when Grandpa Joe died from the Spanish Influenza; Grandpa Ralph married my grandmother and her three children. He must have loved her a lot because who would marry someone with three children?

Both my real and second Grandfathers were pals who went into the U.S. Army together, with Grandpa Ralph serving in the Calvary during World War I.

All the years that I knew my grandfather, he never worked, but retired from construction, the very same construction crews that built NYC. He was at home all day, would work in his garden, pruning fig trees, grape vines and a large healthy vegetable garden. All of this in the middle of Brooklyn on a small plot of land, while also repairing and maintaining a three family apartment house.

He would take the grapes from his vine and make wine, the tomatoes and basil from his garden and make sauce, and I would take his figs from his fig tree and eat them without even washing them!

When Dad was young, he would get up at 4 in the morning and go to the Bronx on a horse and wagon, my Grandfather asleep at the reins and the horse stopping and going according to the lights, all the way to the Bronx, then back to Brooklyn!

Grandpa Ralph was a slender man that stood about 5’8’ or 5’ 9” and had a white moustache and wore a grey fedora all day long. Spoke perfect broken English, and perfect Italian swear words, that I picked up on.

In the afternoon, right after his lunch with wine would find Grandpa asleep in his kitchen chair, with his leg crossed. He could sit that way for hours without it ever going to sleep!

Around late afternoon, he would sit with the little kids in front of the TV that sat in the kitchen and watch the entire kiddy’s shows, and I often wondered if he did that to learn English a little better.

He followed orders like any good husband, whatever Francesca wanted, Ralph got her, before the snap of her finger was ever completed.

When He died in 1956, there was a funeral and wake that included all of East New York, Bushwick and Bed Sty.

Ralph was nobody’s hero, no one ever really needed him, but he was universally respected. The respect came from his willingness to marry a young widow with children he loved, and a penchant for doing everything with ease and perfection.

OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY!

Well, the Yankees are ready for their next opponent in the 2006 ALDS. Good old George Steinbrenner has guaranteed a World Series this year. Yes indeed, he even stated when asked if he was concerned about playing the N.Y. Mets after they had just beaten the L.A. Dodgers in the first game of their series: “No, not the way they played today”

What! The Yankees are eliminated! Are you sure?? Can’t be! But George said…!

Yes, I read the papers with eagerness this morning, savoring the Mets sweep of the Dodgers, and the Yankees loss. Then to enhance my enjoyment, went to the Yankee Network, called the “Oh No! Network” home of N.Y. Yankee Baseball. Of course I had made sure to watch the Yankees lose their game to the Tigers, and then follow-up by watching the Mets beat the Dodgers in three straight last night, so I knew today was a glorious day!

Since 2001, the Yankees have spent over 1 billion dollars ($1,000,000,000,000) in U.S. dollars, not winning one World Series! Tsk, Tsk!

God bless George Steinbrenner. I just feel sorry for Torre, Jeter, Posada and Bernie Williams, the rest, well, too bad.

HOW BOUT DEM METS?

HOW BOUT DEM YANKS????

The season can be over for all I care as of today. It was indeed a great baseball year for DelBloggolo and NY Met Baseball.

To all you Yankee fans: This is to you and your arrogance, especially to that wise guy I met in the supermarket the other day: See blog (Thursday, October 05, 2006,“I’M PITTIED.”)

METS stands for: My Entire Team SWEET.

Pardon me for gloating, but this may never happen again.

My Mets are a mix of everything that IS New York. Hispanic, Black, White and mostly poor people, working hard to make a living and trying to win, they never show up in a limo at work, and play their music loud enough to allow each other to hear.

I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK, BECAUSE I’M OLD

Now that I’ve gotten older, all the decorum of the past has been thrown to the wayside. I don’t get embarrassed at all anymore, and frankly speaking, Ii don’t give a damn. I can easily make fun of myself, including my looks, body functions and tastes.

As you get older, its kind of fun to say what you want, whenever you want to say it, without fear of repercussions. There are no taboos, noting is sacred except my private life. It’s getting so that even TLW (The little Woman) is getting the same way! Imagine that!

If you look at the history of older people, anyone over 55 years of age you notice they are all the same, with the same attitude. Get behind one on the highway, doing 20 mph in a 65 mph zone.

Have you ever tried to pass one in a crowded supermarket? They tend to block the aisles, and look annoyed if you dare to bother them.

Remember Senator John Glenn, going off into space in his 70”s? The joke was that he would be orbiting the earth in a capsule, doing 20 mph circling right while his left blinker is left on.

The one lesson I learned from getting older is that when you are finally old enough to give advice, you don’t!

If you don’t agree with me, to hell with you.

MY MAGNETISM KNOWS NO BOUNDS

This morning I departed from my usual routine and decided to shave in the bedroom with my electric shaver. I usually do this in the bathroom, but today decided to change the venue. My bedroom door has a full-length mirror attached to it, to capture my long face on Monday mornings when I used to go to work.

I left the door slightly ajar and proceeded to shave, looking for all the missed spots, and going into the crevices and deep valleys that now appear on my mug. I shave on occasion now, since I don’t always have a place to go, and I enjoy not shaving. Being how my face was made for radio and photo-less blogs, I feel some maintenance is in order.

While deep into the process of shaving, the door suddenly lurched toward me and I jumped back, startled (doesn’t take much, just doors and #2 son getting up when I call him) I looked around the other side but didn’t immediately see anyone. I looked down and there was my Cocker Spaniel nosing around to see what I was doing.

I went back to the task at hand when sure enough, the same lurch, the same startled reaction, but this time with an Italian swear word my Father taught me at his knee. Unlike the last time, this time a hanger with clothes appeared with this lovely little hand that looked so familiar. It was the Little Woman bringing ironed clothes into the room.

It seems that wherever I am in the house, it is the wrong spot to be in. If I’m in the kitchen, sure enough someone needs to be in that area too. I have to side step, or stick my rear end out for a drawer opening, or twist away while someone goes into the refrigerator. The kitchen is pretty good in size, and I can do a lot of dancing.

The kitchen is not the only place this happens. If I’m in the bathroom shaving, an arm reaches in to take the laundry basket, or some item out of the medicine cabinet, while I’m trying to follow my razor across my face! Let’s not forget the urgent knock and dance ritual if someone is in need immediately.

Even the garage has it’s moments, and I’m beginning to think my family, including the dog think I’m into some covert activity, and need watching.

Excuse me now, I need to move again.

I’M PITTIED

This morning I went to the supermarket to get a few things for dinner tonight and as I was on the checkout counter to pay, the lady taking the money made some comment about what I was buying (a joke) and the fellow behind me says: “For the Yankee game this afternoon?” “No said I, I’m looking forward to the Mets tonight.” Mr. big shot says: ”They ain’t goin’ nowhere without El Duque” “I’ll take my chances,” I said, and the lady says: “They’re both playing, what difference does it make?” Mr. Bigmouth says: “The Yanks will win, the Mets won’t.” With that comment he pats me on the back, while I wanted to pat him on the head with my fist.

Being how I always root for losers, I’m used to wanting to pat people on the head with my fist. Walking out of the supermarket feeling humble over a ball club is pretty silly, yet I feel humbled watching the Mets, Jets, and Islanders every year. Being a loser does not mean I’m a loser, just unlucky in my choice of teams. The Yankee fans can gloat, but I tried to watch the Yankees this very afternoon, and found even though they were losing at the time, and I hate them, I just couldn’t stand the boredom of it all.

HOW, IN THE NAME OF GOD, CAN ANYONE WATCH THOSE ROBOTS? There is nothing human about them, all you here are Derrick Jeter, and the most annoying phrase: “THE YANKEES WIN.” Never do you hear: “THE YANKEES WIN!”

The Mets are my kind of team, always drama, and surprise over a win, always a hardship to overcome, always trying to turn a clear, clean victory into a very close call.

When the Amazens lose a game, we Met fans wet our handkerchiefs and go on, when a Yankee lose occurs, the fans wet their pants and carry on.

I’M DRIVEN IN THE DARKNESS

The sun set early last night, as I swept around the final curve and into the parking lot at our local community college to collect Son #2.

I nervously sat in the darkness in lot #5 with a few minutes to spare and decided to get ready for the big event. As the moment I was dreading was about to begin, as I slid out of the driver’s seat and circled around behind my little truck, I kept thinking: “Do I want to do this?” I wondered if it was even legal, but took a deep breath and sat in the front seat next to the driver’s side.

The last few minutes ticked slowly by as I kept checking my watch and waited, keeping my eyes peeled for the familiar figure to descend the staircase that leads to parking lot #5, with his familiar gait, his legs and feet almost tumbling as he rolled down and approached the car.

This was it! He was going to drive in the dark for the first time, and I was going to wet my pants for the first time in 60 years. God, I wish I had a cigarette now: what ever made me quit? #2 climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, and as he did, asked me: “Why are you letting me drive now?”

We pulled away from the curve and slowly drove through the parking lot. Each turn was taken with confidence, almost professional like in approach. Every curve was navigated like a teamster, and the more relaxed I became in his confidence as he negotiated the lanes of Nicholls Road. He has arrived! My pants are clean! We have made it! All we need to do now is pass the damn road test.

SUMMER IS OVER-GET OVER IT

Those crazy hazy lazy days of summer are gone. They came quickly and left just as fast. I WILL NOT MISS IT AT ALL.

Yes, I know you think I’m crazy, but I don’t like to sweat, and the heat slows me down. All day long I walk slow, trying not to even jump to conclusions.

A goodbye ceremony was held at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC for the manager Frank Robinson of the Washington National’s baseball team. A Hall of Famer, with 51 years in baseball, and I thought that I should have a retirement ceremony for the 2006 Summer.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you with the end of the 2006 Summer. Mr. Summer, you have done so much for the people of the Northeast this year, allowing us to sweat, having to buy clothing that reveals we are indeed getting fat, and most of all the high price of gasoline that you subjected us to. Endless bar-b-q events, eating the same salads and hamburgers, franks and beer that we ate every week, frantic rushing around to co-ordinate a cookout filled my heart with joy. The countless lawn mowing, yard cleanups and watering have left us ever mindful of your presence. The joy of raking, sweeping and bagging full our hearts with eager anticipation as we bid you a fond farewell. And who can forget the men and women in their shorts and short dresses, tank tops and muscle shirts, revealing ugly tattoos and rolls of fat that helped to keep us from overeating as we gazed upon their presence. Not to mention the endless sound of rudeness as people chit-chatted on their cellular phones to the annoyance of everyone around them. The stores, office buildings and public places, all at sub-zero temperatures that caused all the ladies to wear sweaters in July, complaining it is too cold. Like a hot car seat, maybe burning your palms on a steering wheel? All that has to wait until next year.

I can’t wait for the next person to say: “Gee, I can’t wait for summer.” I have a pointed object I’d like to acquaint them with.

ATTENTION THIRD WORLD SHOPPERS… (OOPS

TLW (The Little Woman) and I decided to begin a new quest to spend down my financial security. She wanted to buy a new coffee table for the den, and thought Ikea was the place to look.

Fending off the crowds of people and herds of off-spring that make up the clientele at Ikea is a major job! The most astonishing thing was the fact that with all the chatter that goes on, NO ONE SPEAKS ENGLISH! I overheard a sales clerk with an Asian sounding accent trying to explain to a Spanish-speaking lady about a product she was holding in her hand. Both looked confused, with the sales clerk looking a little exasperated also. The joyous little children were screaming at the top pf their lungs in Espanola as they played on the shopping carts, and a little guy with a big head about 40 years old, shorter than TLW was running around the store, kicking the bottom of beds and looking at his watch! I thought that maybe he thinks he’s in a car show room. We were going to ask where the coffee tables were but were afraid that we wouldn’t be understood.

After looking at some tables and deciding nothing works for us, TLW got hungry and decided we should eat in the Ikea Café, a trendy little spot on the second floor, featuring good old Norse fare just like Mom used to make. Salmon, cucumber and shrimp dishes, all in dill, with Swedish meatballs and sour cream pervaded one’s eye and appetite. The people behind the counter selling and preparing the food were your typical Swedes: short, black hair and speaking Spanish.

A very tall blond fellow, sporting a huge smile that said: “Ya-this is good to eat, just like Sveden” was triumphantly carrying his tray of Swedish meatballs, salmon and sliced cucumber to a table.

Among the multitude of diners was a Chinese lady imbibing upon a concoction that Sven would envy. I thought it strange that there was an announcement that stated that: “Attention Third World Shoppers: If you purchase more than $100 in merchandise, Ikea will validate your green card or passport!”

HOBO CHAVEZ

I usually don’t get political in this blog, and can’t remember if I ever did before, but today I have to make a commentary about that bum from Venezuela, you know who I mean, the flake that blesses himself like he’s a good Christian, then before the whole world to see, acts very un-Christian like and insults my country.

I don’t care who the President of the US is, I’ll criticize him if I like, and if you live in this country, you can too, but no foreigner has the right when we host the stinkers at the United Nations. Throw the whole stinking bunch the hell out, we will have more parking spaces, less traffic scofflaws, less criminals, and a better percentage of quality people walking around.

He is giving oil at 40% off the price he inflates it to, to the people of Harlem. If he wants to help, let him help the poor in his own country, I’m sure they are not all millionaires. If he is so concerned about America’s poor, why doesn’t he help them all, sending money to Watts or the Ozarks, or the poor of Miami? Who is he kidding? Only the gullible, who love to knock their country, the politically naiveté would buy into his crap. Charlie Rangle should be outraged that he needs help to heat the homes of his very own people in Harlem, who by the way are our people as well. If you remember the 9/11 tragedy, you may recall all the people fleeing the scene, all were a certain color, grey ashen, with red, white and blue in their veins. Hobo Chavez and Fido Castro be damned. And while I’m at it: screw Osmelly Bin Laden.

Part of the problem is some don’t like the results of the past two elections, and the first of the last two in particular, both in this country and outside our borders. I think our system is flawed to some degree, but we all went into it playing by the same rules. Let’s get over it, turn the page and get on with making money, feeding our own poor. Let’s think about higher education and how we make it more affordable. Look for a better way to care for the elderly in the good old U.S.A. Maybe it’s time to stop helping the rest of the world if they hate us so much and wait for them to start killing each other again, begging us to come to save their sorry asses once again.