Tax dollars at work

My building is surrounded by a park. A huge park.  Probably one of the biggest parks in the entire city.  So it is no surprise that my tax dollars are used to fund construction companys that make major changes to and keep up the appearance of the park's landscaping.
I could understand and appreciate the idea of refurbishing the tiny memorial imbedded into the park across the street.  And I could even tolerate the facelift which a playground received behind my building, even though the job lasted for thirteen months months without fixing my favorite swing.
I can't take it anymore now.  

The current project underway is rediculous, juvenile, detracks from the beauty of the scenery, and is a freakin' waste of our tax dollars.  I never complained about issues like this before, they never  bothered me as much, but the job underway is so laughable it's hard for me to keep silent this time.

Everyday when I walk to work, like so many of my neighbors, I pass through a park behind my building.  Our reasoning is quite simple - can you say "shortcut?"  A small playground greets me when I enter the park and further along a lush meadow with a baseball field is speckeled with the more athletic types amongst us.  Even a few dogs race about with their owners in tow.  A little bit passed the meadow there is a small parking lot and here is where I make my shortcut even shorter.  That is until last week.  My shortcut inside my shortcut was cut short.  That is, closed due construction.  But why?

Maybe someone in charge of our tax dollars woke up on the wrong side of their bed and said, "mmmm, how can I waste more money today?  Ah yes, let's close that parking lot near Jimmy and make a road across the meadow and straight through the flowerbeds that are just blooming.  Yes, that's the ticket. Then let's buy some really expensive grass seed and feed it to the pigeons instead of using it to grow grass.  Of course, we just have to chop down some perfectly good trees in the process and re-do their new street curb so it's one half inch wider to use up the concrete I overbought last week."

Sorry to vent  but maybe you can understand my frustration.  My old shortcut is now longer , my tree house has been reappropriated as eminent domain and I am surrounded by fat pigeons.

Always remember your third birthday

Dear Sammy

I know you are probably overwhelmed with excitement right now, from opening gift after gift after gift.  So please excuse this interruption from your uncle Jimmy.  When I was your very same age, my uncle Eddie passed on to me some sage advice that I want to pass on to you. 

He said to me "Lil' Buddy" He always called me that because I was his little buddy and  he was my best pal.  Whether you know this or not, I affectionatley called your daddy "lil' Buddy" too.  And I still think of him that way.

My uncle Eddie or should I say our uncle Eddie once gave me some advice that proved insightful.  He said "Lil' Buddy, always remember your third birthday because it is the most important year of you life."

I was perplexed, bewildered and confused. I didn't know what to say or how to respond so I shrugged my shoulders and said "Huh?"  Wait, come to think of it "Huh" was a major portion of my vocabulary back then.  Yup,  I could only say, "Mom", "Pooh-pooh", and "Huh".

My uncle explained his advice to me in great detail. He said:

"The big 3.  That's the year for serious life-shapping events. Get ready to ask yourself which political party you want to be affiliated with,  mail away for your first passport,  learn which computer platform suits you best, Apple or PC, ask your pop for spare keys to his new car, and more, much more.

So Sammy enjoy the day and have fun riding your new bike, but sorry gal, from here on be prepared to work.

Giant bear hugs and love,
Uncle Jimmy

Happy Birthday Sammy

You're a very lucky little lady, Sammy.  Besides today being your third birthday, one probably filled with surprises and love, you also have a family who will cherish you forever.

Big birthday hugs from Uncle Jimmy (Paddy)

Something has to change

When I started this blog I had dreams of adding a new post every single day.  And I did for a while. I rambled at first and then made small comments about my day but then something changed.  I decided to share with you an imaginary trip to Ireland since my actual visit was postponed due to Billie's injury.  Then I realized I was developing a trend of spending    an exorbitant amount of time writing and blogging and less time sleeping.  My body craved for naps and naps it began to receive.  Unfortunately these little interludes of rest would materialize while I was still sitting in front of my computer.  First my finger ceased typing then my eyelids slowly sealed shut.  On occassion I was left with an impression -- a keyboard impression on my forehead.

No doubt something had to change.  So stories were wittled down to essays and essays became paragraphs to help me gain my missing sleep.
My new plan was simple which combines the rest that is needed and the creativity I craved.  

Be on the look-out here for one short story and many shorter essays.

Aqueduct

Aqueduct, or the Big "A" as many nicknamed it was a magnificent and boastfully large racetrack for thoroughbred race horses.  Covering opulent real estate, the immense elliptical track was made of dirt,while the inner course was layered in turf. An immaculately manicured lawn with two corresponding ponds decorated the innermost area.  Completing this picture was a commanding two-tiered grandstand which faced both courses and could be seen for miles and miles.

While in elemenary school, The Big A proved to be more than a mere racetrack, it was my trusty alarm clock.  Every thirty minutes, I heard the thunderous roar from racing spectators reach a fevor pitch when the thoroughbreds sped towards the finsh line in front of the grandstand.  Many times the intensity of the cheering spurred small breaks in class.

My dad, his friend Ziggy, and my Uncle Al enjoyed, what they called, "the horses."  Dad found himself in the "doghouse" because of them, Ziggy found them fascinating and bought one, but it was Uncle Al who would inexplicably win big due to them.

I could never quite figure out why many have an attraction to this.  What was the allure?  Some said thoroghbreds were beautiful whereas I found them dirty or slimy and always stinky.  On my first visit to the Big A the only joy I found wasn't looking at a race but gathering losing tickets that were scattered throughout grounds of the grandstand.

My second trip to the Big A, or to be more precise, the Big A parking lot proved to be a resounding success.  My brother and I meandered thru row after row of the newly tranformed flea market which offered discounts on hammers to housewares.  Our goal awaited us as we were approached the exit- two steel rimed radial tires that set us back a whopping five bucks.

The landscape at Aqueduct altered once more with the addition of Resorts World Casino where that flea market had once thrived.  But the largest and most luxurios extension to Aqueduct Raceway combined entertainment, dining, and gaming under one roof. Resorts World Casino has prooven to be a sure bet to make The Big A an even Bigger A.

I just read a post on "Facebook" and it's something I think many of you should see.  So here it is:

 I would like to wish the best husband a very Happy Anniversary ! 33years, I love you even more Jack ! Here's to 33 more !!!! Love you with all my heart!!!!

My sister-in-law wrote it and I know what she said is true.
But there's more. . .
About thirty-five years ago I was running up the stairs in my house when I heard my mother's voice.  "Crap" I thought, "she caught me running on the stairs again."
I turned and sat on a step then faced my mom who was in our dining room looking up at me.  Yet her face didn't have a scowl that comes with one of her lectures.  No, not a scowl at all.  I stood and leaned on the bannister to see her smiling at me.  "Uh-oh,  the smile, that means I'm really in trouble" I suspected.  My fears quickly disolved when she said, "Your brother just told me he is in love."
"You mean, like I love tuna fish?" I said weakly.
She shook her head and smiled again to say, "No, like I love your father"
Now it was my turn to smile.
And I have been smiling for you guys for the last thirty-three years.
Congradulations and love with all of my heart.

Spot and Spock

"C'mon Mom, pleeease. . .just one gift?  I  pleaded with my mother .
It was the night before Christmas and Jack and I tried our best to finagle just one gift from our parents before we headed off to sleep and anxiously await Santa Claus.  My parents, particularly my dad, had developed a tradition of allowing their young sons to open one gift each on the night before Christmas.  Naturally, we assumed this night would be no different. But for some strange reason, Mom seemed to be a bit hesitant.
"You always. . . pleease. . ."my little brother implored.
"Ask you father." Mom said.
Dad was grinning "Only if your mother says it's ok."
I looked at Jack and he smiled back at me.  We both knew it was only a matter of time before my dad would relent to our wishes.   Unexpectedly, mom threw in a twist with, "If you guys want it that bad, you have to guess what it is.  Here goes.  It's black and white, has four legs, and doesn't need batteries`
This time, Jack looked at me and I frowned at him then shrugged our shoulders in surrender and retreated back  to bed.  Every single guess I could muster  needed batteries.  Besides none of them were black and white.   All except for one.  I closed my eyes to dream of my new End Table that  would await for us under the Christmas tree the following morning.
A short while later, which seemed like an eternity, Jack was opening his last present.  I was still searching for my black and white end table when mom announced to us,
"Your father has one more present that Santa left for you guys"
I can still I picture the image of an energetic fox terrier puppy leading my stocky and burly dad into our livingroom. That should have been my first clue I would be "in for a handful" with my four legged surprise for years to come.
Spotty, as I originally named the terrier, was full of spirit and endless animation.  He rarely stood still. Whether running or walking or leaping or eating, Spotty always did it with passion.
One halloween, after Jack and I returned from "Trick or Treating", Spot chose to examine our shopping bags filled with sweets.  After poking his head through one handle Spot became trapped and ran blindly throughout or dining room with a halloween paper bag afixed to his head.
Spots curiosity landed him in another pretty unusual predicament.  Once while searching out a warm place to siesta in our basement he squished below our huge boilers and cuddled against the facing brick wall.  Jack, my mom and I heard him barking but our search for him proved to be futile, until Jack yelled, "HERE HE IS!!!!!"
Everyone turned to see my brother crouched near dad's workbench while pointing underneathe the two massive gas tanks that rest nearby.  The room was dark except for one single lightbulb that hung over a front-loading washing machine which was raised on a foot high cement pedestal with a slop sink next to it.  Across from the old machine a greenish wooden beam helped support the ceiling structure and at its base lie Spots dog dishes.  A few feet further to the left of my dad's wooden work bench an angry white furnace with two small black cast-iron metal doors grumbled intermittently.  The furnace worked in tandem with a  five foot beige cylindrical
contraption which heated water.
Kneeling on the concrete floor Jack tried in vain to urge Spot to come out from under the gas tanks and my mother did her best too.  Maybe I helped somehow, I don't know, but I do know someone had the outstanding idea to get our next door neighbor, Mrs. Dillon involved.  Her method was to softly cajole Spot to gain his trust, then to playfully tap him with a broomstick.  Within a very short our black and white puppy was back in our arms just covered with soot.
Spot was our first dog but he wasn't our last dog.  That distinction belonged to a wily part german shepherd we called "Spock."  We didn't buy our second dog rather our second dog chose us.  Let me explain.
For quite some time Jack and I decided to live without the additional responsibility of a pet.  This all changed one hot summer day when Jack and his girlfriend, Joanne were in the midst of installing our swimming pool and a part german sheperd part mut wandered into the backyard where they were working.  Joanne realized the dog was thirsty and gave it some water while Jack called me at work to discuss the possibility of taking in a stranger-a dog.

"Let's call him Spock"  I said referring to the dogs pointy ears.

"Spock it is."

Our dog Spock was a unique kind of dog.  Everyone who met him probably has a different "Spock" story they favor.  Some fancy the sight of our dog scaling our backyard six foot high stockade fence.  Others prefer his feat of chewing through our wooden pantry door after he became trapped in the little room. I favor a much different story.

Spock slept in my small bed and I sleep like the dead.  He would fall asleep curled up like a donut  His nose would rest right on top of his tail.  One night, probably while having a doggy nightmare, Spock stretched his legs touching the wall nearby and slowly inch by inch edged me off the bed.  My body thumped to the floor but my head ended up wedged tightly between my bed and the wooden desk nearby.   I remained in this unique position sleeping soundly until the very next moring.  

On extremely cold days my neck still creaks.

If you have a Spot or Spock story to share, like "Spock", I'm all ears. 

 

The x-ray technician

X-rays don't lie.  I counted two titanium plates and eleven screws in Billie's mending left ankle.  Speaking of x-rays, I noticed that the technicians who operate these space-age machines have their own language. Whether they work at hospitals, laboratories, or even clinic offices, all are an entirely different breed of the medical profession.  X-ray technicians are more laid-back than all of them.  And that's how it should be.
These medical technicians, or artisans of electromagnetic radiation as I sometimes say.  Wait a sec, I never said electromagnetic radiation in my life.  Who am I kidding. . .I was trying to show off. Sorry about that.  People who know how to work x-ray machines  dress and talk different.  I don't mean different in a wierd way but a more relaxed fashion.  Take the clothes, for example.  Some smocks have skeletal designs, others sport  baseball team logos, while many have the technicians nickname embroidered on it somewhere.  I can understand an x-ray technician a heckuvalot better than a physician.  I don't know about you, but I would rather hear "Manny" say to me "turn to your right and hold you breath" than  "Doctor Emanuel" order "upward rotation of the scapula and inhale." I have no clue what doctors say when they talk to me.  I guess that sorta explains why I get sick so often.
X-ray technicians are funny people.  They set up this huge machine, adjust all the proper dials, change the heavy frames that hold the unexposed film, align the patient with the film, grab that beatup heavy vest then run out of the room.  To be honest, if I was them, after doing all that preparation, I think I'd stick around for awhile and admire my own accomplishments.  But that's me. . .
I do sometimes wonder if these technicians carry wallet size x-rays of their family to show other x-ray technicians.  I can just imagine how their conversation would sound, maybe something like:

"Hey, hey, Manny. . . you have a beautiful family. Nice bone structures." 

"Here's a film of Manny Junior as a toddler." 

"Boy, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree here,Manny." His friend observed, "He has your eyeball sockets."

"I have one more of the entire family facing left, but I keep that one framed in my darkroom."

 I think if I was an x-ray technician, I would furious at D.C. Comics.  Never have I read, in all the countless issues of Superman, the appearrance of an x-ray technician with their trusty lead apron come to Superman's aid when he was near any Kryptonite.


Not fair.  I suggest we start a letter writing campaign immediately.


O, by the way, Billie was fitted with a ski boot last week.  More P.E. to come.

Paddy's Place: Don't laugh, I could have been arrested for this

Paddy's Place: Don't laugh, I could have been arrested for this:       Before you start assuming I was once involved in a failed bank robbery or that I almost pushed an old lady under a bus or anything l...

Don't laugh, I could have been arrested for this

      Before you start assuming I was once involved in a failed bank robbery or that I almost pushed an old lady under a bus or anything like that, let me get something straight with all of you.  I was never in any shape or form a hardened criminal. Not in the least.  So, please get those thoughts out of your minds right now. And do me a big favor if you have any small kids that are with you reading this; turn them away from your computer screen.  I don't want them to get the wrong impression of me.

     Good

     Thank you. Now let me continue. . .

     Many years ago when I was very young and foolish I (like so millions of other kids my age), dabbled quite harmlessly into a bad habit of not smoking cigarettes.  I smoked something else.  Now I can imagine your eyebrows are starting to raise in disapproval about now and if I was you my eyebrows would be up there too.  Please remember I said I was young and foolish.  But no matter, what’s done is done and although I wish I could undo it I can't.

     However this story is a bit more complicated than what I already told you.  Allow me to explain the rest.

     Earlier that week I had returned from a ten-day vacation on the islands of Tahiti and Bora Bora.  Imagine that, my very first flying experience landed me smack in the middle of the most beautiful islands on the globe.  Made from volcanoes, Tahiti and Bora Bora were flush with distinctive tropical foliage and peppered with hibiscus flowers colored sunburst yellow and others a sultry hot pink.  Tall prominent palm trees shaded the land from the blazing rays of the sun as the surrounding pearl-colored beach was cooled by a gentle lapping of the Pacific waves.  An incessant beating of the overhead sun warmed the freezing ocean to body temperature.  So it was not uncommon to stroll the beach and walk through the water without feeling any difference at all.  All in all this land truly felt like an isle of paradise.  Everything seemed perfect--or so I had thought.

     A slight crimp in my plans arose when I discovered that the island natives who worked at the small airport on Tahiti had unknowingly forgot to remove my luggage from my plane.  What made matters even worse was that the luggage contained my anti-convulsant medicine and it was already in flight to San Francisco.  An entire week passed without my medicine and I never had any the expected negative effects.  Absurdly I toyed with the thought I was cured of epilepsy.  And purposely avoided any medicine when I returned home to New York.

     However, this foolishness finally came back to haunt me.  I should have known it would only be a matter of time.  One night my body violently ravaged itself in powerful and unnerving convulsions   The worst part that I can remember of that night was the look of fright in my brother’s eyes.
 
     He felt helpless but dialed 911 and waited for a calm reassuring voice and shouted, "Someone get over here, fast.  My brother is having a gran mal siezure."

     Several minutes earlier two happy-go-lucky plain clothes cops were driving down 121st street in Queens.  They had a good reason to be so happy.  Today they had tied their record for the amount of drug busts in one day.

     The taller one scratched his blond hair as he turned to his partner and exalted, "Six good busts. Six good busts and the day isn't half over.  I tell ya', I think we'll hit number seven today."

     His dark haired partner  smiled and advised, "Easy, partner. . . Don't get too cocky."

     "Do you think we'll get a plaque when we make 7?" the other one mused.

     "9-0-2- Mary" crackled the police radio "9-0-2-Mary on 1-1-4-4-4, 1-2-1- Street"
     His partner piped up with "that's a medical emergency"
     The blond-haired cop pointed to a house with a flagpole and fir tree out front and barked, "Over there!!!"
      The red two-door Ford Gran Torino skidded to a stop right in front of our house and the two happy-go-lucky plain clothes cops jumped out.
 
     "What's up?"  Starsky and Hutch asked my brother who was standing at our front door.

     Jack looked perplexed yet pointed to the staircase inside and directed,  "He's up there.  Top of the stairs and turn left, second room."

     The two undercover officers pounced up the green carpeted stairs at 114-44. When Hutch reached the second step at the top of the stairs he heard a squeak, paused then pulled out his revolver and warned,"Shhhhush . . . I have a bad feeling.  Someone is up here."  Starsky smacked his partner in the back of his head and garbled, "Of course there is, dumbo.  Now put that gun away."

     It was clear his partner could nor stop dwelling upon breaking his drug bust record but holstered his weapon nonetheless.  Together they entered the middle room and saw me, half-conscious and slowly recovering from the intensity of a gran mal epileptic seizure.  I was completely covered in my own perspiration and all the bedclothes were in a heap on the floor.  Hutch turned to Jack at the doorway and asked, "What's the deal, here?"

     After Jack explained the situation in detail he implored, "Please do your best."

     Starsky asked Jack, "Doesn't your brother take some sort of medicine for this?"

     Jack remarked angrily, "Heck no, he takes medicine to prevent that."

     "Right. . .right. . .I meant that." Starsky continued, "Where does he keep it?"

     "Top drawer of his dresser, I guess." Jack said.

     Upon hearing the word dresser, I bolted upright in my bed.  Then began waving my arms in desperation to get my brother’s attention.  While Hutch slowly headed to the dresser, his partner said, "Oh no, another seizure.  Quick anyone find that medicine . . ."

     I continued to point and wave my arms wildly as Hutch got closer to my dresser

     Starsksy studied my hand gestures and saw me point to my ear and make little circles.

     The cop shouted "Silly. . .ah, crazy. . .stupid, no, idiot"

     Jack faced Starsky and mumbled, “Dimwit”

     Starsky added, “fool, dunce. . .donkey”

     “Ass-hooole” Jack crooned

     "Dope?" said Hutch looking at the contents of the top dresser drawer.

     "Tsk. . .tsk. . .tsk. Look-ey, look-ey, what do we have here.  If it isn't my record breaking seventh drug bust of the day." Hutch lauded.

     A light bulb flashed on inside of Jack's head and it turned on at just the right time.  "Not so fast guys, I have to interrupt," Jack said.  "You guys can't do anything, you're only TV cops and your show was cancelled last fall."

     Hutch shrugged at Starsky and Starsky frowned at Hutch, and then faded away to the land of reruns.


     The morale to this tale is quite simple:  Remember to take your medicine, keep them with you on long flights, and always keep your drawers clean. 

Three cheers for my wife Billie: you might say she saved the day.

This morning when I awoke, I turned to my wife and told her I screwed up my blog last night.  I'm sure most of you think that is not most certainly earth-shatterring news.  There are much more important events that we should be concerned with. Is Michael Phelps elligible for Olympic gold despite being part fish and Should New York City street signs remain in all capital letters are just just two serious questions we should ponder instead.

Whether you choose to meditate on those two life-altering queries or not, the fact remains I screwed up my blog last night.

Whether it was by mistake or sheer computer wizardry,  I demolished two stories I wrote that I though you may enjoy.  All I could muster to say was "Crap."

An hour ago Billie advised me she discovered she recovered one of the storys.  You can be sure my recovered mistake will be on  this blog after I thank Billie for saving the day.