THE EARLY MORNING SCARE

A funny thing happened to me the other morning. It seems my wife TLW (The Little Woman)

purchased me a new phone that is an android I think. If you don’t know what an android is, it is a person that has robotic insides but looks like a human on the outside. In other words it is like a husband! This definition comes via #2 Son.

Anyway, I was having my coffee and I don’t like my cell phone on until after 10 am, because the battery lasts longer into the day that way. TLW purchased a new case to wear on my belt so the phone isn’t in my side pocket. But it seems that every time I put the phone in the holster, it would somehow turn on, frustrating me. This went on about three or four times before 7:00 am!

Around 7:15 am, thinking my phone is off: it suddenly comes alive! On the other end is Tessie, my older sister (much older) calling me to tell me she is off to see my 95-year old mother. Henry Mom’s friend has called to say he needs Tessie, my older sister (much older) with urgency. She in turn calls me and I am off to Mom’s house.

When I arrive at Mom’s Tessie, my older sister (much older) is already there. As I was driving, it seemed like every slow driver in the county was in front of me, every light turned red on me and it seemed I would never get to Mom’s house.

Turns out, Mom had fallen while on the way to her den. Henry had trouble getting her up and so called my sister Tessie, my older sister (much older). Mom had no feeling in her legs and was temporarily numb, but the feeling came back and she was fine the rest of the day.

But it was strange that the phone would behave like it did!

THE FASHION POLICE HAVE ARRIVED!

I really try to mind my business every morning. Really, I do, I give her the paper to read first, I don’t talk to her as she is watching another husband get murdered on a recorded Criminal Intent and listen sympathetically when she talks, but TLW (The Little Woman) has certain criteria that I must be held to.

The other morning for example she came into the den where I was minding my own business, doing nothing but writing on my laptop. I know when I over stayed my time in the den because she enters with a fast shuffle, looking down with a frown on her face and she is talking.

“Joe, you know you have a lot of jeans in your drawer and some of them are very old. You should go into the drawer and toss the ones that are all worn. Throw them out, when things get old, throw them out, what are you saving them for?”

“Well, we’ve kept each other around, I figured…”

“And another thing, I’m moving your socks from the cubby hole in your dresser into the drawers on the bottom. I already tossed a bunch of old socks out. I’m mixing your white socks with the remainder of your black ones. You will need the space for your winter shirts that will take up more room then your summer ones.”

“I’d like to toss…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“By the way, do you have a clean pressed suit for the wedding Sunday?”

“Wedding?”

“Yes, we have a wedding to go to on Sunday.”

“Oh, yeah, we do. I don’t know, I know I don’t do any gardening it them!”

Now this could be the kitchen needing to be redecorated, or our bedroom needing a fresh coat of paint, she does the same thing to me, shuffles in very business like and begins the process of ruining my future, bring me to tears and putting me on suicide watch, it is almost a patented method.

Her methodology is designed to get me seriously listening, paying attention to the details and leaving me no room to plead my case, and it works!

Now I love my jeans old. The older the more comfortable they are. I hate new clothes and I hate new shoes. Socks? Ah!

You spend a great deal of time breaking in jeans to make them feel comfortable, and like my shirts, any stains only takes away the agony of worrying about staining them, since once I get pizza juice on a shirt, it becomes a I don’t care anymore shirt, worn by an old guy with nowhere to go but to someday visit his new grandchild, who will see me in a new shirt, pants and shoes and maybe socks other than white!

TLW has no sentiment for my attachment to comfortable clothes. Hey, I’m no one special, just an ordinary 39 year old with no place to go, so why all the excitement?

The Little Woman on the other hand is always buying herself new clothes, or shoes or tops, me, new underwear is an event, the last time I bought a pair of socks for myself, I was mad at what Jimmy Carter was doing in the White House. I’m just not the type to fuss anymore. Oh, I used to, when I worked all my clothes were color coordinated, and people noticed. But my feet would be tired at the end of a day with the shoes on, my neck constricted because of a tie and I was always brushing or watching or covering shirts and pants from possible stains. I want a break now, leave me alone, let me wallow in my own stains, frayed jeans and spotty striped shirts or t-shirts with places I have been to, all in color and comfortably stained!

LES MISERABLES

Somewhere in Port Jefferson New York, sits a theater that has a production going that would compete with anything Broadway has to offer! The Theater is Theatre Three and the production is Les Misérables.

Victor Hugo

As you might know, Les Misérables is a historical novel by Victor Hugo, considered the greatest novel of the 19^th Century, and has been converted to the stage and even the screen, countless times. It is a masterpiece about the French Revolution masterfully written in a historical context.

Theatre Three has always come through in the past with some great productions. There was Singing in the Rain and Scrooge and Spelling Bee and now, the best thing they have ever done, Les Misérables!

Theatre Three, 412 Main Street, Port Jefferson, NY 11777 631-928-9100.

“Do you hear the people sing?” THEATRE THREE opens its 44th season with the most popular musical in the world. Epic and uplifting, here is the story of Jean Valjean, unjustly imprisoned for nineteen years, and his journey to a new life. Featuring a powerhouse score—“One Day More,” “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” “On My Own,” and “I Dreamed a Dream” —LES MISÉRABLES is an inspiring affirmation of the human spirit. THEATRE THREE’s Steve McCoy stars as Valjean, LES MISÉRABLES promises to be one of the most memorable theatre events of the year.

From Theatre Three’s website

The cast was phenomenal, the acting, the singing and the direction, costuming everything, just incredible. This production should be called Les Incredibles!

The hero, Jean Valjean is played by Steve McCoy, who is indeed the real McCoy, his rich Baritone voice his ability to age and convincingly grow the part, his ability to become transformed a gain the sympathy of the audience was just perfect.

Original Illustration

But let’s not forget Javert, played by Ed Brennan, the villain and antagonist of Valjean, maintains his symbolic representation of the oppression that weights down the poor peasants of mid-1800 France. He too, takes you to new heights with his voice, and his command of the role of Javert.

I could go on and on about this production, and it would all be good, like the youngsters such as young Cosette, played by both Sophia Guarnaschelli and Karina Vartanian, the cast too large to mention yet too good not to. They were all great in their roles.

The illustration you see is of Cosette and is a portrait by Emile Bayard, from the original edition of Les Misérables (1862). It has become the icon of the play and novel, and has endured as such since it was first drawn for the original novel.

My suggestion to you, go see it before it is gone! Don’t walk, run.

THE EVENING

As a never-ending service to my faithful readers, another of my hard-hitting critiques or restaurant reviews conducted by the food editors of DelBloggolo.

Can YOU find the front door?

This time out we present Le Soir, (The Evening) a charming looking little French restaurant that leaves you with two big surprises if you’ve never eaten in it.

“...‘outstanding’ French destination in Bayport proffering ‘exquisitely prepared’ dinners; the service is ‘amazing’ too...”
                                        2011 - 2012 Zagat Guide, Long Island Restaurants

Le Soir Restaurant * 825 Montauk Highway * Bayport, New York 11705 * 631.472.9090  www.lesoirbayport.com

Sitting just off the main drag of Montauk Highway in Bayport, on Long Island’s south shore a tiny but inviting looking eatery for refined tastes and a touch of elegance. It is to celebrate a special occasion or not, it is a cozy place until you are seated.

Rather bland looking decor!

I happened to be in the mood for Escargots Bourguignons, or snails in garlic butter, one of my favorite appetizers I learned to eat from the French restaurants that populate New York City in my younger years as an advertising designer. Since I would be away in Westchester all day for a meeting, and TLW (The Little Woman) was working, we decided to have dinner out when we finally joined up at the end of the day. Making reservations for 7:30, we arrived at the eatery and as we parked the car, the aroma from the kitchen immediately hit me, inviting me in. I hadn’t been there in over 30 years, but do remember it, even to the point of my meal that evening!

There was some confusion as where to enter the restaurant and discovered it hidden behind an unwelcoming shed-like door on the out of view side of the building, after some diners were leaving! Uncertain we entered and what seemed to be the server’s station behind the kitchen and a small bar at the end of the entrance with three or four bar stools. We asked if this was indeed the entrance and was assured it was,

Off to the dining room we went and were seated at a small table for two, in an unfortunate spot in the place. I sat in the line of the traffic of the servers and customers as they entered. Since there were few people dining, it didn’t seem to bother me at first, then as the night wore on I was suddenly feeling the thumping of the waitresses and customers as the filed past my seat, and had some of the customers standing next to me waiting to be seated in a large party of ten, their asses sticking practically in my face!

TLW ordered the Risotto de Crevettes, Tomates Rôti et Asperges, Sauce Vermouth 

Jumbo Shrimp Risotto, Roasted Tomatoes and Asparagus, Vermouth Sauce, and I ordered the Coquilles Saint Jacques Sautée, Vinaigrette de Jerez 

Pan-Fried Sea Scallops, Raisin Pine Nut Vinaigrette

Both dishes were outstanding as was the wine, a dry Port that filled the bill. I am not a lover of white wine, find it flavorless and dull, but enjoy a dry rich red, which we ordered for ourselves after our usual cocktails and escargots, which I savored with some crusty buttered bread that I dipped into the left-over juices of the vacant sections or escargots! (My favorite part of the whole process!)

The décor was nothing to get excited about, as it was restored after a fire a few years ago. The main issues I have with the experience are the loudness of the place for one, something the Zagat review failed miserably at mentioning. The noise level was so bad I was dying to finish up and get out, but if the loudness wasn’t enough, the price of everything sure was. For the portions, they were sufficient, and very well executed: it was still way over priced. The drinks were obscenely priced to the point of gouging and although I paid, I will never go back there again.

I give it 1½ Dels out of 5.

THE BATTLE OF THE SAINTS

Or was I named correctly?

The mothers of yesteryear, TLW’s (The Little Woman’s) and mine and I’m sure many Christian mothers all over the globe subscribed to the theory that saints could do stuff because they were the link to God.

St. Antnee of Brooklyn

You have St. Anthony, the saint for lost causes, if you lose something, like your car keys or sandwich, you got down on your knees and prayed until someone handed you the car keys. No one would hand you a sandwich, that would be gone forever.

Hurting, lonely or in need? You just dropped on those knees and called out to St. Jude. He would get you over the pain, especially in your knees from waiting for St. Anthony to find the car keys. The Beatles popularized him in the 60’s if you remember.

Now St. Joseph and his cousin from Cupertino carry most of the load. They are responsible for a lot. So much so that God needed 2 St. Josephs! All you air travelers, go pray to St. Joe of Cupertino, an astronaut? Go to Joe of Cupertino. Need to be a carpenter and you didn’t measure twice to cut once? Pray to St. Joseph.

Is your little pooch hurting, needs love, and a scooper? St. Francis of Assisi is your saint. Nice prayer and music to go along with the peace and serenity you may need in your life.

I myself have witnessed the miracle take place right before my eyes. (all four)

St. TLW of East Islip

OK, this is a stretch

TLW related to me how she was made to kneel along with her three sibs, in front of the couch to pray for something lost, and would invoke the influence of St. Anthony of Padua to maybe put in a good word with God. It was the Friday night before our flight to Phoenix, when TLW (The Little Woman) informs me that #2 Son is missing his wallet! “What are we going to do, he needs his license to get by security at the airline. All his photo ID is in his wallet.” Being a man of calm and cool collection, I suggested we kill him and then since we have our ID, just the two of us would go.

TLW after some inner debate decided that that would be impossible, since we would need time to fool the forensic experts, and besides, it could be messy.

Being a saintly woman, she turned to me and says: “I am going to do what my Mother made us do when we needed something to be found. She would make us get down on our knees and pray to St. Anthony. That is what I am going to do, and don’t you say a word.”

Being how TLW has a sharp pointy finger when she uses it on me, I immediately did my part and lowered the TV. After all, I didn’t want to interfere with prayerful intervention by both St. Anthony and the Holy Mother TLW.

Down on both knees she went, hands clasps, and head in a prayerful mode. Silence overcame the household, a peacefulness and calm, as TLW head bowed like a little schoolgirl in her white Communion dress prayed. Arising from her deep prayer and meditation, she announced in my direction that she would now begin the process of seeking the wallet.

After 2 minutes or less, she came marching down the stairway and into the den, wallet waved high, announcing: “Don’t you or your two sons ever make fun of ME, when it comes to St. Anthony, or my religiousness.”

Today I am a believer.

I REMEMBER IT WELL

I decided to take a stroll down memory lane last week and visit my old neighborhood in Brooklyn. Now visiting the Bushwick section, or the East New York or Bed-Sty areas are done only one of three ways: either you are in command of a military unit with air support, are using your memory which is not reliable as it once was, or you can go on Earth Google and knock yourself out! I choose to knock myself out, and was surprised at what I found.

The first impression I got was how much everything changed yet remained the same. The same street I grew up on had shrunk quite a bit, there were buildings that seemed to lose their grandness, and familiar landmarks were either gone or changed. I’m sure you all have done and discovered the same things.

Once there were historic old neighborhoods based on architecturally distinctive buildings. Old edifices that came from an era of a once great and growing metropolis that were built for permanency in stone and marble or granite, that now are replaced by cheap looking materials that will have a very short lifespan and absolutely no beauty. Sad. No longer do you see as many brownstones, or columns, or tributes to the old master craftsmen who left their imprimatur by the beauty and skills they possessed. Churches that once spoke grandly of God are now vacant lots with poorly designed buildings that leave you hungry for more design, disgust with what they left and anger that we allowed ourselves to see the beauty destroyed or left in disarray.

Once there was a little park that had a uniqueness to it, which filled my imagination and gave me joy and happy memories. Its main entrance was a triangular portal that had old-fashioned park benches, with little gardens and swings as you advanced through it. The swings ran along the wrought iron fencing that surrounded the park and paralleled the Broadway Junction elevated tracks. I would watch as each train rolled by, its wheels sparking and the cars leaning into the turn that connected Broadway to the Fulton Street terminus, as my sister or mother pushed me on the swing. There were the sand boxes and the big kids swings, and of course the giant concrete pools that were filled with more kids than water on a hot August afternoon.

I remember the butcher shop on the corner of Broadway and Hull Street, as my sister and I would purchase meat and see it wrapped in that brown paper, and as the butcher wrapped it so neatly, the overhead el would be rattling, signaling the passing of another train. It seemed that every sound, smell and sight had a reminder that we were in Brooklyn.

The church was indeed the center of our lives, and I hated it. It seemed that I was always under the scrutiny of the brothers and lay teachers of the school, a prison like structure that like a prison, separated the boys from the girls. I guess third grade pregnancies are a nightmare for the administrators, and punishment was always swift, severe and meant to hurt as much as possible. But the church was a source of keeping everyone from anarchy or mayhem. We all feared God, were taught to fear God, and we in turn were to teach our children the same fear. This may have not been your experience in life, but it was mine, and fearing God meant that fearing your teacher, the priests, the police and every person with the slightest authority was in order. To this day I rebel against it even though I ironically in some cases followed and am grateful for the good things it left me with.

As I clicked my way around the neighbor hood, the el that terminated on Fulton Street, just doors away from my grandmothers house was gone. In place of the overhead shadows was a wide-open foreign sense that was not grandma’s hood. Not even Louie’s men’s store where you could buy any Levi style there was on the corner of Rockaway Avenue and Fulton was there anymore. Safire’s Women’s clothing shop, Hoffman’s Bakery were all gone forever from the street that sparkled with business and a thriving neighborhood, all leaving bits and pieces in my memory. Stopping in front of my grandmother house, I wondered what lay behind the wall I see on my computer screen, is the smell of her cooking still lingering in the hallways as you entered? Was grandpa Ralph’s cellar still stacked with home made wine and the most incredible vinegar you ever tasted still sit bottled and lined against the walls? And where are all the old Italian gentlemen who sat outside the Republican Club next door, arguing in Italian and with their hands about politics, and their wives? Did someone call them in long ago?

There was a candy store run by a little bald Jewish man named Sam. He was a kind soul who had a nasty wife, and the only reason people went to his candy store was because of him. He sold not only candy but egg-creams, mellow rolls made by Breyer’s Ice Cream Company, the NY Daily News, NY Daily Mirror, NY Times, NY Post, The Herald Tribune and Journal American in the days when there were morning, afternoon and even evening 'owl' editions. These papers sat outside his window on a newsstand, and if you went inside on your right was the magazines and more importantly comic books, booths that all ran parallel to the long counter which ended with the phone booth and candy case..

It is good to look back once in a while, but not often. You restock your memory base and hope that someday your grandchild will want to know what life was like in your day. For me I will tell him or her that everyday was beautiful, because they all led up to my talking to my grandchild and telling him to remember all he can too.

I GET NO RESPECT!

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Rodney Dangerfield always said it and I always prove it.

I am the chairman of the Membership Committee for AHRC Suffolk. It is our job as a committee to get new members; it translates into more voice at the state level when it comes to voting and affecting decision-making at the state level with other chapters. The most seats a chapter can have on the Board of Governors of which I am a member, is six. There is also the Delegate Assembly which has many seats according to membership, and this can be an unlimited number.

When I took over as chair, we had 4 state board seats and now we have 6 in Albany, and the delegates that go to the convention in October was when I took over 42, it is now 112. These are good numbers and so we get to my story.

I was recently asked to come down to our school for an open night for parents, to meet the child’s teachers and assistants, I was suppose to help out the staff get new members. As I sat at the main entrance as the parents arrived, I handed them a brochure and letter I had written and asked them to join. Suddenly the coordinator of the event calls me aside and asks if I would say something about membership to an audience of about 200 parents and siblings. Although I was totally unprepared with any remarks, I said yes, after all this is a passion of mine, the agency.

As I stood at the side of the podium the program director of the school introduced me as a member of the Board of Directors who had served the board for a ‘long, long time.’ It was my lead to loosen up both the audience and me.

“Good evening, as Vickie stated: I’ve been on the board for a very long time, and that makes me old, and if I’m old I’m entitled to say anything I want!”

Suddenly there is a shout out of the audience: “Yeah!” A child's voice had caused some laughter!

This does not deter me from continuing, and ramble forward with my appeal, telling the audience how important it is for them to join and give us a stronger voice as advocates. As I wind it up, I look over toward the side where I was standing and start to thank the people there, but come across one person who I know and respect, but can’t bring her name to mind, and it finally comes to me and feeling a little sheepish say: “Well, I did say I was old!” Once again, a voice shouts out: “Yeah” This is bringing down the house. It turns out the heckler was a very young lady of school age with developmental disabilities shouting out her enthusiasm.

I am the only man in the whole of the world to be heckled by a person with developmental disabilities! I probably deserve it.

JUST DRIFTING

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Today, October 1^st, is a beautiful sunny cloudless lazy day with a temperature up near 80. Being that there will be so few of these days left soon, I decided to take my sketch pad and drive over to Lake Ronkonkoma, with nothing in mind and a pad in hand. On a lonely Tuesday afternoon about 1:00pm off I go and arrive at a section I never go to, a beach and playground with picnic tables and trees, an ideal place for a hot day. With the calmness of the lake, the sky cerulean overhead and the calm roaming of the lake by geese, mallards and the spot shading of tall trees, there is nothing I wish to sketch or study, nothing seems to inspire me.

I am starting to feel lonely, or at the least transparent, no one to talk to, no one to share a joke or observation with, just the sense of being isolated in this picturesque or bucolic world!

At a picnic table sits a lonely figure, a young man about mid-thirties or early forties. A laptop is open as he studies it while battling the sun high overhead. He stares into the portal of everything relevant in this world, while ignoring the world itself. A father with his little daughter, maybe 2 years of age walk along the water’s edge, watching the geese float by in single file, one family eying another in God’s little acre. Across the way sits a very colorful playground, filled with other young children, some shouting while their parents sit on the park benches that surround the park and just watch.

I wonder if these are unemployed people fighting to keep busy in a slowed down economy, or did they just take this beautiful day to play hooky?

Across the lake is an old restaurant, been there for all the 30 or so years I’ve lived around here, and it was very old when I first arrived. The tavern being dismantled by a huge crane and crew of men, splintered pieces of frame and skeletal framework from craftsmen of yesteryear are all that is left of the historic place, one piece of life being replaced for another.

And with this going on, all this life and destruction, I am uninspired! Amid all the natural beauty, all the gift of weather, and the freedom to enjoy it, I can’t inspire myself, there is nothing I wish to see for the first time and record it’s impressions on my mind and soul.

Sadly I return to my car, and like the lazy day and serenity of the lake, I drive at a leisure rate of speed, just watching the world, like the geese, drift by.

YOU DON’T SAY!

As a young fellow growing up within earshot of my parents, more often than not one of them would say something without the other being in the room! This was an occurrence everyday and at first was a little disconcerting. Then I noticed other grownups doing it, and I started to feel better about my parent’s mental health.

Of course I did mention to them that they did talk to themselves, and would get such answers like Moms, “Sure, raising you who wouldn’t?” or Dad: “Eh, with 5 kids running around wouldn’t you as a parent?” This may have explained it all, but being a large part of the reason is a little unsettling.

As I got older I would laugh at it and usually make some comment, something to remind them that they should only do that in private.

The other day I got up from my chair in the den and passed the TV where they were showing a re-run of a terrible play by the Jets the day before. I don’t think it important to mention which play it was since they all are terrible plays. I immediately went into a discourse of semi-obscenities and disparaging remarks, basically calling them bums, to myself, all alone, just like mom and dad did so often.

I was wondering how often during the day I do this talking to myself? My fear is I’ll do it in public, get loud and get into a shouting match with myself and be escorted out of where ever I am having this discourse.

But why do I do it, because I want to verbalize my feeling at the moment and therefore just thinking would not suffice.

Don't let her fool you-she hurt!

Now all this is well and good as they say, but normal people just say things, we Italians also give visual signals to accompany the words, an orchestrated hand sign that could be in lieu of words. Mom was best at this, sometimes grouping all her fingers together pointed upwards, a frown on her face and a puzzled look in her eyes that said in essence: What the hell???

When mom went into this ‘condition’, one was prone to ask: What’s wrong? Her answer was usually: “Ah!” This two-letter word covered all the issues visiting her mind at the time all at once. This could mean my father’s remarks, the state of politics and the cost of bread, all at once. Mom never held grudges: she just kept her issues together to react to all at once. This was efficient and saved her a lot of time.

Mom’s communication skills were extraordinary to say the least. My bedroom was not too far from the kitchen and the walls that held up her cabinets. If I ever did something that offended her, such as leave a dirty plate out or a sock in the living room, the next morning while I was tucked away in my bed, dreaming of supper or lunch, quietly she would open every cabinet door and then go about slamming them shut until I jumped out of bed and took care of the matter! She got exercise and I got up early, all part of her many energy efficient tactics in raising her family and keeping even dad in line.

Her best and most efficient way to communicate however did not involve words, but a simple act of reaching for a wooden spoon, which did wonders. She could smack me upside my head AND start dinner! I marvel at her efficient way to run her household.

WHERE’S GRANDPA?

It was the late 70’s and a big camping trip was in progress. My brother-in-law John, my older sister Tessie (much older) and her children along with Dad, a true city slicker and Mom, Mrs. Slicker along with her youngest child and her friend would attempt to tame the wilds of Maine. Yes, into the heart of Mother Nature’s domain they would all ‘camp’ among the wild life of fir and fern of the wild!

Mom was prepared as the most accustomed to camping, having spent many an afternoon at Callahan-Kelley Park in Brooklyn with a baby stroller or carriage. Dad was a man of the wild, but it had to do mostly with the Independent A-train running into Manhattan to Canal Street.

Our leader!

Being the camper Mom is: she packed for the long arduous affair by preparing real camping food, which included a big pot of gravy to survive the wilderness and a few boxes of macaroni.  Hearing what she planned to bring, I happened  to mention that was more pasta sauce than the Italian army carried! The discussion was soon terminated by the appearance of a wooden spoon! Dad too was prepared, wearing his plaid shorts and black dress shoes and black rayon socks, exposing enough leg to keep the rabbits away.

There are always some inconveniences when camping, things that a true camper is willing to endure for the sake of the sense of adventure. Some of them were mosquitoes, bugs and no sidewalks, as well as having to hike a bit to the communal toilet down the road, things that were over looked in the excitement and planning of this magical adventure. Of course one had to withstand the lack of conveniences such as refrigerators not large enough to hold a large gravy pot or a refrigerator large enough to hold anything.

The real campers with a pot of gravy

The first morning dawned and slowly the brave and determined group awoke one by one. The ladies first, gathering together at the picnic table, discussing things such as husbands, working to clean houses and in-laws. About mid-morning it was determined to awaken grandpa. But no one could account for grandpa, Grandpa was nowhere around, there was no accounting for grandpa! Where’s grandpa was the refrain, first in curious repetition, then in sheer random panic. Grandpa was nowhere to be found. Was he abducted by aliens, no, migrant workers never came this far north at this time of the year Mom said. Did the local Indian population for a ransom kidnap him? No, that can’t be because no one brought enough cash. Besides they would need the cash for the tolls.

A search party was quickly assembled, with the mission to find grandpa. Mom gave the order to find grandpa no matter what the cost: up to $2.95 worth. Mom believed in the concept of diminishing returns.

Out set the party, narrowing their search down to the public rest room and the road leading to it. And miracle of miracles: there sat Dad, at the bus station at mid Sunday morning waiting for a bus to take him home.

It seemed even though dad was dressed for this expedition through the wild, was amply supplied with provisions by Ronzoni, he was what we call in camping parlance, unhappy and wanting to get back home, A.S.A.P, damned if anyone tries to stop him! Dad had had it, the bugs, the sleepless night before and the fact that he was out of cigarettes and no TV!

And so this brave band of pioneers, adventurers and brave souls, turned themselves around and headed back toward civilization, right after they finished the ziti and meatballs, with as mom says: “A nice salad.”

So dad put the kabosh on any trips beyond the local deli where he lived or his job., retiring to his chair and TV, to camp out and watch others try the depths of mother nature.

Somewhat a sad true story.

AND THE BEAT GOES ON

My usual Sunday morning starts off by coming downstairs from my shower and dressing to the strains of: Mozart? No, Wagner? No. Perhaps: Hayden, no?  The washing machine: yes.

busy, busy, busy

 To show she is no slouch, TLW, (The Little Woman) who is on the payroll of a local farmer to awaken his chickens, is busily at work sorting pictures and cutting cardboard backings for a large manila envelope she plans on putting in the mail.

All this was going on before dawn; TLW was setting the world on fire before anyone has awakened enough to even look for matches! As I watched a smile crossed my face and she asked why I was smiling. “Because I’m married to you!” was my reply. That should be enough answer to any women who asks her husband such a question. The whole scene brought me back in time when I was just a young graphic designer in a New York City As agency high above the streets of Manhattan.

There was a man that occupied an office, related to the owner of the agency who did nothing. This is not an exaggeration: he did NOTHING! He would come in about 10 or 11 am, sit at his desk, and go through an art book or some very artsy magazine. He would pour himself vodka straight up and continue to peruse through his publication. He was an elderly man, married to the owner’s sister, and had use of only one arm, his left arm. His right arm was shortened and his hand and fingers just hung out there, unusable. But he was extremely handsome and extremely talented. He was also famous with a rich legacy. During the Great Depression, FDR choose him in the 1930’s to paint one of the ceiling murals that  graces Rockefeller Center!

But every day, the fellow would arrive at the office and sit in his chair, go through his reading material with a very expensive magnifying glass with a gold handle, his drink sitting there at 11:30 in the morning. He would get up from all that, come into my office and shoot the breeze with me while he occupied another drawing table and create this pencil sketches for a book publisher of westerns. He would then send it off to the publisher who would hire an illustrator to paint the scene.

Once he was done with his little chore, he would return back to his desk and off to lunch. Around 3:45 or 4:00 pm, this very talented man would return to the office, pour another vodka and fall asleep at his desk, out cold!

my drink of choice also!

This was an issue with many creative people I knew in the business, if you wanted to deal with them and make any sense out of it, you’d better see them before lunch, their liquid lunch! I once had an associate later in life who followed the same pattern, but instead of falling asleep after lunch, he became outrageous in his remarks, kind of fall down funny and said things that made me laugh all afternoon. There was so little reverence coming form him after a Jack Daniels Manhattan. He would start at lunch for two hours drinking, then return to the office and after five, rather than go home, went directly to the bar for a few more, then drive home about 30 miles away!

The funny thing is, I absolutely loved these guys.

I’M GETTING NERVOUS!

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Last Saturday morning, I came down from my shower at about 6:00 am, to TLW (The Little Woman) watching a recording of DATELINE on the TV.

hmmmm?

The story was about a woman who poisoned her husband, and TLW was deep into the story.

Suddenly she sees me and puts down her notebook.

Sitting in my chair with a cup of coffee in my hand as I sipped it, she says:

“Do you know that anti-freeze leaves no smell or odor in drinks?”

Since it is autumn, and not winter, I wonder why she would worry about my coffee getting too cold. Looking at my coffee and knowing that she couldn’t have spiked it since I poured in fresh water in the coffee maker and the pods are all sealed, I was safe at least for a while.

“But you don’t have to worry, you don’t drink those sugary drinks and it wouldn’t work in coffee.”

I look at my coffee and at her as she says: “but there are other ways!”

I sip my coffee and assure her. “I’m sure you can find another way, you are a smart woman.”

Sitting back in her chair with great satisfaction she now has a smug look on her face and a sense of control.

Thinking back on all the blogues I wrote at her expense, I wonder if she is playing with my head, or was this the first real sign of payback?

Mom has a saying her mother always told her and she keeps repeating and planting it in my head. “The way you make your bed is the way you sleep in it.” This was finally making sense in a real light.

I’ll say Goodbye now and I hope she doesn’t pull anything until I meet my grandchild for the first time.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY LOVELY NIECE ANNMARIE SCHNEIDER!

Annmarie is a Mom of two of the cutest kids who look just like me!

Aubrey Rose, Mom and Al Schneider

TEVYE

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"Dear God, you made many, many poor people.
I realize, of course, that it's no shame to be poor.
But it's no great honor either!
So, what would have been so terrible if I had a small fortune?"

If I were a rich man,
Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum.
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum.
If I were a wealthy man.
I wouldn't have to work hard.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy rich,
Idle-diddle-daidle-daidle man.

Recently I went to see a production at a local theatre of Fiddler on the Roof, and although the show was fun, I was for the first time disappointed in an amateur production of any kind.

Fiddler on the Roof first appeared on Broadway around 1964, and in the almost 50 years of reappearing on and off Broadway, it never disappointed. Then this certain production came along and it fell flat on its collective face. The acting was decent for the most part, but the casting, some of the costuming and the background music along with whoever directed this version was horrific!

As we left the production with a group of friends, people who are very nice, fun to have around and I enjoy their company: I expressed my displeasure of the main character’s (TEVYE) portrayal.

Someone challenged me asking if I thought I could do better, and I know I could not, I’m not an actor. Then that person asked if I thought of myself as a critic, I explained we all are, or we can’t go to these productions without critiquing them for our own sense of satisfaction. Let’s face it we are all critics.

But if I am an actor, and I charged you to see a performance, but did not deliver a credible job of it, I would deserve to be criticized. Once you charge for something, all bets are off and you must deliver.

The role of Tevye is central to the whole story of Fiddler on the Roof. It is his story: it is he who speaks to both the audience and God! We focus on him and we begin to sympathize with him.  It is not only his story but also the history of the Jew in the world, making this play an important piece of work!

Marc Chagall 'Fiddler'

To portray this character, you must communicate the suffering, the piety and the devotion to your family. You must express the human suffering and expectations of the Jewish people, along with the sacred traditions and joys of simple hard life. You must take everyone out of their comfort zone who sits in the audience and take them back in time and lead them on a journey of the bondage to the land, and simple devotion to God.

After the wedding scene there is the pogrom, the destruction of the village that takes away the joys and peace of a people and replaces it with the harsh realities of life. This should have been portrayed with a passion, and enlisted the audience on the side of the suffering Tevye and his family! Instead it is delivered in a flat and uninspired way, especially when Tevye speaks to his god once more and makes another plea:

“Dear God, I know the Jewish people are your chosen people, but couldn’t you choose someone else for a change?” This is an iconic line: filled with all the history of oppression of the Jewish people through the centuries past and are still to come, yet is delivered like any of the many other lines in the play, uninspired and flat.

I will not mention where this play took place, or who the actor was, but I will say if you want to do such a play of this nature, research the characters better that you will portray, understand the passion, and feel the suffering, that makes for a great acting job! Reference Zero Mostel and Topo.

THE COMMITTEE CONVENES!

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Yes it is that time again, time for the Bellport High School Class of 1964 Fiftieth Class Reunion to meet for the first time!

The original cast

Most of the committee will be reunited to further the cause that reminds us we are 50 years older than dirt! Two new members are joining us. To make it easier for me, all the new members are named Joanne. Since this is the case, I decided to rename the balance of the committee Joanne also.

she hurts!

Included in that committee is Sista Tanj-Gerina, a former classmate from high school, now from the Sisters of Mano a Mano from the upper east side of Palermo. (Read: DelBloggolo Thursday, October 28, 2010)

By the time you are reading this, the meeting will have occurred, check my local hospital for my admission and hopefully discharge date from Sista Tanj-Gerina’s love taps.

The feeling I am getting is that everyone wants it in Bellport, and a dress casual seems to be popular. That is because at our age, we want a fresh suit for when we make our final exits! Speaking of which: there are so few of us now, I am thinking of holding the reunion in the back of a Volkswagen.

So sometime in June we will have a formal all who can make it reunion, with a nice buffet of soft foods, a few drinks (Probably Ensure) and a live DJ, we will borrow from the Salvation Army. I am trying to get sponsorship from Depends to foot the bill. Fresh glasses of water at each place setting to hold any loose dentures, and name tags, not that anyone can read them anymore.

YOU #&^$#*&% *@!^R$!

It seems they were out in force yesterday. Get in your car and take your life in your own hands day, it was so bad they should give away free Knucklehead dolls!

I’m on my way to the supermarket, tooling along very happily, singing a song from my childhood.

“Lazy Mary you better get up she answered me I am not able,

Lazy Mary you better get up, we need the sheets for the table.”

All of a sudden, a jeep is riding in the left lane while I’m in the right lane next him and being next to me deciding he needed to drive in my lane and makes a sudden move and I catch in time his sudden shift, while I break and swerve to the side, where he realizes I am next to him! He sheepishly looks at me to say he is sorry. So is his driving.

As I leave the parking lot of this very large and empty supermarket, I start to head toward the exit, where out of the corner of my eye is a Kamikazi pilot who must have

been a failure because he was still alive! This guy is racing across the marked parking spaces and heading right toward where I need to turn and moving like his crash will finally win the war for Japan! As we converge on the point where the stop sign is, we both screech to a halt. I look at the idiot and turn up my hands as if to say: What is going on? Stupid is offended that I should even ask why he is speeding in a parking lot, speeding across the clearly marked parking spots, and that he is even allowed to live. As I turn shaking my head, I hear him yell something as he speeds off once again.

If that wasn’t enough to make my day, I am sitting at a light, waiting for it to turn green, when I notice three big yellow school buses heading toward me in the opposite direction, their side of the light is green but starting to turn red, two get by within the limits of the law, but the third runs the red light! A school bus runs the red light and I stick my arm out the window as he is passing me and point to the light, which he knows he deliberately ran.

I’m tempted to walk to the supermarket for now on, but if these imbeciles are on the road, I doubt that even a sidewalk is safe.