Showers

I don't like to publish any raw poetry here. Normally, I go through several revisions before I read or show a work to others. But this one just wouldn't wait.

Showers

the mist from a warm shower
hangs confined and swirling
in the curtains of my bath.

visible droplets of atomized water
loop in a mesmerizing dance
like lovers lost in satin sheets.

they are happy in this state
frolicking blissfully unaware
in an air so warm and calm.

but in contact with sobering, cool air
streaming down through an opened window,
they shriek and become teardrops

clinging together desperately as rain
falls hoping contact with tile and tub leads
to a gentle quiet death of little pain.

all the more reason
to return the next day

to dance and rain and die
shower head to drain

all the same

all the same

all the same

To All My Friends in Blogland....

On behalf of Skippy...















Noodle, Zeb and Rick...















...and Chester, too.











I wish you all good cheer and happiness for the holidays. I'll be taking more than my usual few days off to recharge and enjoy the holidays.

Be safe. Be merry. Be cool.

Warmest regards,

Spartacus

I Found Love

I could be angry that President-elect Barack Obama has chosen the very homophobic and fundamentalist Pastor Rick Warren to give the invocation at his inauguration ceremony next month. It's also no secret that the LGBT community came out in favor of his candidacy back on November 4th. And it's no secret now he's punched them hard in the gut.



Some pundits view this decision by the President-elect as yet another move towards healing the divisions that plague our nation. Sorry, in the name of some good friends and family, both with us and not, I can't turn the other cheek.

I could be really angry that neither Rep. Robert Wexler (D-FL) nor Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-OH) have publicly stepped up to the plate to call for impeachment hearings in the wake of both President Bush and Vice President Cheney for lying to the American people about the decision to invade Iraq and for approving the torture of prisoners. Senator Levin (D-MI) has his eye on the ball.





I could be angry that dysfunction and stupidity are alive and well on the Isle of Long; the place I currently call home. When I learned that a 44-year old PTA mom from Baldwin, NY was found half-naked, making out with a 13-year old boy, I jokingly asked Skippy "where was Mrs. Tuckruskye when I was 13?" But the humor quickly passed as we thought about how this is yet another in a long line of embarrassingly dysfunctional acts committed by a Long Island resident (think Wal-Mart trampling on Black Friday) that didn't stop to think of the consequences of her actions, let alone the psychological damage she could cause.

Right or wrong, it's one thing to cheat on a spouse. Rarely does any good ever come from that. What two adults choose to do and why they choose to do it is a private matter. But this is incorrigible.

I could be angry with those Southern Senators, led by Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Ky) who shot down the bailout of the American automobile industry, blaming the United Auto Workers for the demise of the Big Three automakers. The hubris of these assholes astounds me, especially when you consider their states are home to foreign, non-unionized car makers like Toyota, BMW, Honda, and Nissan. But several of of them could vote for a $700 billion bailout of investment banks that conveniently allows executives to pad their compensation with taxpayer money.

I could even muster some angry, fist-jabs into the air towards New York Governor Patterson for his drastic budget cuts and tax increases because his financial wizards didn't accurately anticipate the Wall Street meltdown and it's effect on New York's economy. C'mon Dave. A tax on naturally sweetened soda and fruit drinks as an anti-obesity measure? Are you kidding me?

But I can't be angry.

Not today.

That's because this morning I woke up to find three notes taped to the mirror in my closet.














Noodle... I love you, too, baby. And Skippy and Zeb and Rick and Chester. Thanks for the lift, sweetie. I'm leaving the notes up there as a reminder of where I can always find somebody to love.

Ever Get Pissed and Toss A Shoe?

I know that the shelf-life on the "shoe story" is about over.



But I'm very obsessed with it. Not so much because of the symbolism behind, the Iraqi journalist, Muntader al-Zaidi's, act. He did it to express his outrage that George Bush could even show his face in a country he had no business invading.

I agree with the public consensus that this is a very strange and sad commentary of our nation's involvement in Iraq, and was not amused that President Bush got a rise from it after ducking two shoes aimed at his head. I'm sure Dana Perino didn't find the event amusing, considering the nice shiner she got out of the deal. I wonder if she'll file a claim with the Veteran's Administration claiming she was wounded in the line of duty.

I know what her boss would say to this: "So? So what?"

What I'm still trying to figure out is how Al-Zaidi missed. Twice!

I may give Muntader a call to discuss the finer points of shoe tossing. I know a thing or two about that.


You see, way back when I was a wee Spartacusito in kindergarten, I had this thing against taking afternoon naps. I hated them about as much as Muntader hates the President.

I didn't know this then, but I was probably one of those kids that would have ended up being diagnosed with ADD or ADHD. My mother recently told me that, as a kid, I was hyper, petulant, and quite moody. People who know me now would probably ask: So what's changed?

Anyway, on one particular afternoon, my teacher at P.S. 140 politely asked me to take a nap. I said "No. I'm not tired." Like any five-year old, I held firm to the sound logic that says one takes naps only when they're tired and not immediately after they've had lunch and a 30-minute recess. Of course, I was at the mercy of my teacher's dictatorial benevolence, which I learned on this particular day, had its limits.

My memory is quite vague on how my teacher finally got me to take off my sneakers and lay down on the cot. What I clearly remember was her turning her back on me as she walked to her desk. That's when I got up out of my cot, walked to my cubby, grabbed one of my sneakers and flung it, nailing her right on the back of her noggin. It was probably no more than a six- to eight-foot toss, but the way I remember it, I was two miles away with an artillery spotter near the target giving me coordinates corrected for wind speed and direction.

Again, please forgive me for not recalling every detail of this shoe-tossing incident. Technology being what it was in early 1968, there was no YouTube serving site video of this surgical strike. And given the events of that year, it's easy to see how a story of a kid nailing his teacher with a shoe didn't cross Walter Cronkite's CBS Evening News desk.

But my mom and dad made the story a top priority. Unlike our dear Mr. President, they didn't blithely pass it off and say "So? So What?"

I wonder if Muntader got his ass kicked like I did.

Sorry Z. Lilith is Dead

Curses Madam Z!

You got to me!

I was hoping to avoid catching this bug, but now you can count me amongst the hopelessly infected. Splotchy unleashed this virus on the blogosphere and is enjoying it's movement from host to host. I do, too.

Here are Splotchy's rules:

Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

Ready? Set? GO!

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

Rivulets of sweat began cascading down my face and I hurriedly wiped one from my brow before its salty bitterness could burn my precious, precious electric eye. No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to my allergy to cardboard that always resulted in patches of bloody pustules and mottled skin akin to a poorly applied KISS® -- see, Gene? Put your lawyers away -- makeup job nor the fact that a fair number of the riders were curiously dressed like a toupee-less, yet masterfully make-upped Chaim Witz nor the fact that motionless tentacles were protruding from a number of randomly punched holes in the cardboard box that bore the hideous label Contents, frozen spawn of Old One, 72 oz. nor the realization that I had forgotten my glasses and couldn't see not whom, but what, was slowly shambling down the aisle towards me, its apparently glistening appendages slopping on the possibly filthy floor of this potential deathtrap of a bus recklessly driven by an attractively miniskirted, yet maniacal, maniac, her lapel bearing a button barely visible underneath a swath of jet-black hair and emblazoned with I worship Dagon, ask me how!, which I never did by the way.No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to any of those mundane things. My wind wandered, dreaming up all sorts of misadventure where I stared death in the face and he stared back and then we had a series of staring contests of which I think I won nearly 40% of them, an excellent number against an entity bearing a head-lopping scythe, don't you think?I stared out the window, and the undulating, slowly shifting, tree-saturated landscape stared back. I won that contest but quickly remembered the old saw about looking into the abyss and having it stick its tongue out. I pulled my electric eye back into the bus and stared ahead instead.Next, a cavalcade of nervous fumbling and rummaging through my pockets to make sure I had an extra nine volt battery. I did -- the apparently glistening appendages slopping ever closer amidst a cacophony of bizarre, intermittent noise -- so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my electric eye running out of juice until I got back.Which, of course, turned out to be the case, for how else could you be reading this erratic, poorly-written account of horror, unless you stumbled upon the abandoned wreckage of the bus and were rifling through my strangely mutilated corpse severely underdressed for the freezing weather and found this sheet of crumpled and charred paper riddled with poor penmanship along with my wallet that contained a drivers license, library card, work ID, three singles and a bus ticket!But you didn't because I'm not dead, for I just handed the bus ticket to the shambling beast which indeed was slimy for it -- and it, despite its general human visage, was the most accurate description I could muster -- was close enough that I didn't need my glasses."Last stoop fer yew vis'turs."Ahead in the distance, beyond the cardboard box's melting water -- at least, I assumed it was water, and you know what they say when you assume: Nyarlathotep tears you a new one, chump -- pooling at my feet, the creepy troupe of riders and the inhuman coughing of it, bathed by the light of the red moon, I saw the low, yet eerily distinct skyline of Arkham. (Randal)

Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts? I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears. (Utah Savage)

The irony of hating that Will Smith movie where he was the only pure human he knew of makes me laugh until I cry only once a day usually, but this makes the second time today.

I'd like to be able to distract myself from this existence as I sometimes can with some maudlin or quirky tale that was uploaded to this confounded eye, but for the time being I just place it on its charger, wondering yet again what renewable substance has been able to sustain the charger's life these 25 years. If I knew that, would I be freezing here like this?

I wish someone, anyone, could or would answer that question. I wish Lilith were here to ponder it with me.

Yes, there are the halflings, but they really are not very good company. The electronic portions of them seem to override most of their humanness. But, compared to those the blogoscopic entities have fully infiltrated, they are a veritable schmorgesborg of spontaneity. I am not sure if I should admit that my insane mother was right and that my "specialness" would "save" me in the end, but those like me are few and far between these days.

What was once a blessing, my telepathic tendencies, has become such a curse that I would no doubt kill myself were it not for Lilith. My only hope is to find her. (Freida Bee)

But wait! If my telepathic tendencies were more reliable, I would know where Lilith is. But I do not know where she is. So perhaps I should rely more on my psychopathic tendencies, which are very reliable. You may recall that I am mad… quite mad, I might add, and in my delusional state I am certain that I no longer need Lilith to ponder with or pander to, as the case may be. What I do need, and need badly, is a man! A real man, 100% human, and with only one tentacle (ahem), if you know what I mean.

I am keeping my electric eye open (thank Xeus for that extra 9 volt battery!), but so far, neither the slimy, multi-tentacled, oddly dressed, freaks on the bus, nor the selfish dog-man in my cold concrete cube measure up to my strict standards.

Of course, there is a strong possibility that I should lower my standards, given the fact that, as I mentioned earlier, I am fricking old and getting older by the minute, and I’m crazy as a lonesome loon howling at the moon. So, I think I’ll try something different…maybe a train ride. I think there’s some kind of law that requires train engineers to be human, and it’ll be nice and warm in that engine room.(Madam Z)

But the engine room was, in fact, cold. The engineer slumped over her control console, the grey, blood-speckled brain matter once in her head splattered on the windshield, the walls and ceiling. Lilith took a bullet from a passenger who found the bus too crowded and too cold. I had followed him onto the train from the bus in the hopes of finding some warmth myself. My electric eye tracked his red, nebulous shape as he stalked off the bus, up the stairs of the train platform, and onto the first car of the empty commuter train. He took a seat near the engine room waiting for the train to move when Lilith emerged from her "office" and kindly informed him that her train was out of service.

"Excuse me, sir," she said " but this train is out of service. The track switches are frozen solid. You need to catch the bus if you want get into town soon. Otherwise, you're welcome to sit here and wait."

She turned to walk back into her solitary confinement followed closely by her mystery killer. He kicked her into seat of her cab, reached deep into his trousers for his .44 Magnum and unloaded his piece into her head. The sound of the gun fire coming from the engine room was unlike any I'd ever heard. This was no cannonade fury of white, booming sound, but the violent, liquid explosion of sweet crude from a newly-tapped well.

I ran. Fast. I was out of breath and back on the bus in no time. I could feel my heart beating like a bass drum in my chest and the soreness in my stubby legs from the Olympic sprint I performed through cold bitter wind, now whipping up the dry, wispy snow piling up on the street. (Spartacus)

Now... who can I tag. I've got it!

Alecto
Dianne
Pissed Off Patricia
Blondesense Liz
Kvatch

Have at it kids!

Starting Over...

John Lennon was gunned down by Mark David Chapman 28 years ago today here in New York City.

He is one of my heroes now. He wasn't one then. But the shock of his death in 1980 and senselessly violent way in which he was killed moved me. It changed my world.

I started listening to more of his music and that of The Beatles. I decided to learn how to play guitar. The first songs I learned was this one.






When I told my dad I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, he gave me his and said:

"Here. Take it. I'm not that good at playing it, anyway. Maybe you can put it to good use."

I still have it. I haven't used in a few years because it's in disrepair. The tuning hardware on the neck is flaky, the strings are old, and the action (the space between the strings and the neck) was always a bit too high for me. But I've always loved the smooth feel of the nylon strings on my fingers.

I won't have a chance today, but soon, I'll take it it over to The Guitar Center in Commack to fix her up.

It's time to do some starting over with her.

Doing Some Shameless Shilling

Please welcome to the blogosphere, my wife, Skippy.

Skippyland Elementary

A few months ago, we attended a blogger meet up at Morse's place in Brooklyn and had an absolute blast. Morse, Mrs. Morse and the Morsel were, as usual, incredibly gracious hosts to me, Skip, Distributorcap and Pissed in NYC (aka GMB).





















We ate, we drank and we told stories.

GMB gave us serveral about her adventures delving into her family's history.

Man, does she have some wonderfully colorful ancestors.

And then Skippy regaled us with some of her school stories. Who knew bringing a math book to school could so traumatic?

I've been hearing them since she took the job two years ago. And, now, she's decided to share them with you.

Enjoy!

Irish Wrist Watch

Try saying that fast five times...

Frustrating, right?

You can thank Noodle for that tongue twister. She got it off a Facebook bumper sticker.





But I'm not going to waste your time or mine writing about Irish wrist watches. I don't know the first thing about them, much less care that someone would ever consider wearing one of these watches.

Well, maybe the this guy would.

But certainly not this guy.

That's because Plaxico Burress showed up with his lawyer on Monday at the NYPD's 17th Precinct to get fitted with a set of matching stainless steel bracelets. He's been charged with possession of an unlicensed handgun, after accidentally shooting himself in the thigh in a club called The Latin Quarter. First, let me say this to Plaxico:

HA! HA! HA!

Dumbass.

Now for the serious part. Am I the only one who finds the hoopla generated for the antics of this petulant baby frustrating?

Yes, he was carrying a loaded handgun in New York City; a class C felony that carries a mandatory sentence of three and a half years.

Last year, nearly 1,000 people were arrested for the same charge, and yet, few if any, got the perp walk treatment like this:



And 90 percent of them didn't even get jail time.

When Handguns Are Accompanied by Stupidity, Anything Can Happen

What's frustrating are the priorities that politicians and the press place on idiots like this.

Can someone tell me why the Mayor of New York City, Michael Bloomberg needs to take time from his busy schedule to make a statement about Burress the Menace? Sounds like political grandstanding to me. Judge for yourself.



C'mon Mike. If you're going to talk about violent felons and role models, shouldn't you have issued a public, televised statement condemning murder of NYCTA bus driver, and role model, Edwin Thomas, and offering sympathies to his family?



Let's get a little perspective here. Do you seriously think that Plaxico Burress is role model?

Plaxico Burress?

Era of irresponsible athletes is over

Regarding media coverage, it's excessive and needlessly so. I'll agree with Newsday columnist Barbara Barker on one thing: Plaxico Burress is irresponsible. In fact, he's a fucking moron and an embarrassment to his teammates. But is era of the irresponsible athlete is really over? And, while we're on that topic, was this story worth the four full pages of coverage in yesterday's edition?

Maybe Mayor Bloomberg and Ms. Barker need to get together and rethink their priorities. Plaxico's teammates have. The New York Giants are having an amazing season, no thanks to Mr. Burress. In fact, how they've handled Plaxico all season should be a model for all teams suffering petulant superstars: treat all players equally; mete out discipline equally; pay no attention to team cry babies.

The Giants are 11-1 this year because they have talented players who show up for meetings and practices on time; players who come prepared to play every down of every game; players who appreciate their celebrity status and minimize their drama.

Clearly, they would rather be frustrated by losing to this guy's beloved Cleveland Browns, than by Plaxico Burress. Who wouldn't be?

Not me. Not now. I've got my own frustrations to deal with, like trying to unravel my tongue after saying "Irish Wrist Watch" fast five times.

The Face of AIDS

Today is World AIDS Day. It's the 20th year this date on the calendar has been set aside to raise awareness of the AIDS epidemic and to commemorate those who've lost their lives. Yet each year, we are besieged by the latest AIDS casualty figures (e.g.; the annual number of newly infected, an updated approximation of the number who have died). But rarely do we see the faces.

These are my two oldest brothers who were taken by AIDS. They died much too young.

Gus
B. 16 July 1950
D. 17 November 1995

George
B. 26 March 1956
D. 23 January 1997

Punishing Zeb

I wish he were always this peaceful.

But he's the reason my gray hairs have been popping out at an exponential rate.

He's been getting into trouble lately at school. It's not in the slacking grade sort of trouble. His average is in the 90s and he's in several honors classes.

But like most teens his age, he likes to goof around. His problem is he doesn't know when to stop.

For the second time this week, he's been given detention for taking his goofiness to the nth degree. Last week, he was busted for skateboarding in the middle school. It's beyond me to know why he was in the middle school, much less skateboarding there. This time, he gave a substitute some lip and got squeezed. Of course, he denied both charges, claiming he was set up.

Yeah, right. They all say that.

Skippy and I know that the most effective punishment we have for him is to take away those activities he loves most -- skateboarding, playing XBox, and scouring the Internet for new ska bands. Of course, he considers these punishments unfair and he endures them because he also knows we can't punish him forever.

So, what are two frustrated parents to do with his mangansone? We were at our wits end when we caught this story on our local cable news this morning:

Noisy Handed Manilow Punishment

Ha! I can't wait until he gets home from school today to greet him with an hour of this:




Judge Paul Sacco is my fucking hero!

But I'll leave the question to you my dear 7 readers... are we being too cruel?

45 and Counting

I turned 45 on Sunday.

As birthdays go, this one was fun.

I woke up early to play touch football with these guys.

Okay, that wasn't quite so much fun. I had only one pass thrown my way, and had to listen to a loud-mouthed teammate tell me my defense skills weren't so against a kid half my age and five times as fast. I still had fun.

While I was enjoying an afternoon of professional football, watching the New York New Jersey Jets and Giants continue on the path to a first-ever Gotham Meadowlands Bowl, another LIRR train went off the tracks.


No one was hurt in this wreck, but it's sure screwing up the morning and evening rush hours for the next few days. Thankfully, I won't experience any of the delays or train cancellations caused by this accident because I'm off this week. Yes, I'm still fuming about being passed over for the locomotive's engineer's job, but I would never wish them another derailment, especially not on my birthday.







After all, how could I wish ill will on anyone when Rick and Skippy make me this yummy crumb cake? This but was one of several gifts I got yesterday.






I got gift cards for Dunkin Donuts and Barnes and Noble. Two of my favorite establishments. They fell from this really cool birthday card that said I rocked.

A few of my friends called, sent me text messages, and wrote on my wall on Facebook, all to wish me a happy 45th.

But by far, the best part of my birthday had to be when me and the rest of the Spartacus clan sat down for a movie night. Because I rock, I chose This is Spinal Tap. To me and Eileen, this movie is timeless. To my boys, this movie is a classic oldie. To Noodle, this movie was just plain "stooopid."

What does she know? She's a Jonas Brothers fan. They've got nothing on St. Hubbins and Tufnel.

I have to tell you, I don't know what was funnier:

This scene at the airport


or, keeping count of all the times Noodle said, "I don't get it."

Yeah, I turned 45 last Sunday, and this one was fun.

Accidents Will Happen

"Bang!"

"Crunch"

"Squeaaal"

"Shiiiish"


These were the sounds that jarred me from my slumber this morning as I was making my way into work aboard the 6:47AM train out of Lindenhurst.


Our train was side-swiped by a double-decker diesel/electric train as they were both leaving Jamaica Station at about 7:35 AM.

The incident was nothing like this LIRR collision -- Long Island Rail Road's Worst Train Crash.

The force of the impact derailed the car I was in and the one behind us. Our train was crossing over an interlocking (or a track switch) when we were hit. Because of where the trains collided, I have to assume that my train had the right of way, and that the engineer of the double-decker simply fucked up.

I was in the fifth car of a six-car train. Earlier, I bitched privately about the fact that our train was short two cars, but I let go of my angst once I found a seat. What's the point? Would we get two cars back by calling the LIRR President, Helena E. Williams, to rant about the service?

Ring! Ring!

Me: Ms. Williams, you're a Mooselini McDoodyhead!

Williams: Spartacus, go fuck yourself!

Click!

I could also bitch about the fact that the LIRR took a pass on me for the locomotive engineer's job back in July. I'm kind of glad I didn't get it. I could be the poor schmuck driving the double-decker. Given that the unemployment rate in NY is on the rise, I'm just glad to have a job.

No. I'll leave the bitching and moaning to the good folks at Transit Blogger.com. That's just not my milieu.

I digress.

There were only three minor injuries reported, thank goodness. I saw a young guy laid out on a flatboard as I was walking off the rescue train. He was conscious and moving his extremities as FDNY paramedics were strapping hard foam padding around his head to keep it from moving. I'll take that as a good sign.

It must be some Long Island commuter instinct, because after we got past the initial shock of the accident we all pulled out our mobile phones, not to call loved ones, but to tell the boss we'll be late. Skippy was my third call ... sorry Skip. But she knows the drill: if there's no blood, call the boss first; a sad reality of corporate employment.

My blogger instinct reared it's ugly head, too, because I recognized instantly the blog-ability of this accident and snapped a few shots with my phone camera. These shots suck. I know. It's the best I could do.






















I finally made it into work at 9:30AM where I was greeted by several concerned co-workers wanting to know if I was okay, and wondering what supplies they could pilfer from my desk if I wasn't. I laughed it off. I told them it was all my fault; that I had stolen the train to satisfy my desire to become a locomotive engineer.

Sometimes you have to have a sense of humor about these things.

Casey Jones - The Grateful Dead

Twenty Four Words

I'm so glad the Presidential election is over. I still worry about how Obama will handle his new role as President come January 20, 2009. Like many of you, I am hopeful, but cautiously so. For now, however, there's really nothing else to do but wait for his term in office to begin. While we wait, I give you this.

The Twenty Fours.

I've been working on this poetry project for quite some time. I liken the verse to a combination of haiku and sonnet in that I tried to stick to a specific form and meter. I have no rationale for constricting myself to 24 words over 5 lines. It was an arbitrary decision that made sense at the time I started this project.

Here's what I have so far.

1.
Maple eyes inlaid with
The smiling lines
That show the beauty of her age.
I am visibly shaken
By each sideways glance she throws.

2.
The juice of a hard lozenge
Occupies my tongue
And coats the fire in my throat
Dousing my outrage
Before I speak my mind.

3.
Until logic tells me otherwise
I plan to live
A life for which one
brutal truth exists:
With you is where my love lies.

4.
If I could turn
My words into morsels
Of rice, fish and vegetables,
I'd write my hand ragged
Until all the hungry are fed.

5.
Time is my ally
Until the moment
I draw my next to last breath
When I realize the sadness
Of a life without you.

6.
The hollow in my heart echoes
the clamor of your love.
It captures your rattles,
bangs and glorious music
played softly in dissonant tones.

Dear Senator Obama

Dear Senator Obama:

I voted for you this morning. I did so in the hopes that you will live up to the promises you made regarding "Change."

I had no doubt about the choice I made this morning, as I waited in line at the Lindenhurst Snails Firehouse on Heling Boulevard, a quarter mile from my home. I was the 24th voter in my Election District (110th E.D.), which, I hope, is one of thousands cast in my town. Sadly, we are represented in Congress by Peter King (R-NY). I voted for his opponent, Graham Long, largely because of King's unwavering support for George Bush policies, and because you're going to need all the votes you can get in Congress to effectively fulfill your vision.

It pleases me that you have articulated a vision for our nation in print; that you have developed a lasting and enduring record to which we can refer should you waver from it. If you are sincere in this Senator, then I want what you want. These are my top five issues you promised to address, in no particular order:

• Tax cuts for the middle class
  
• Health care reform
• An end to the Iraqi occupation
• More government investment in infrastructure and education
• A more regulated financial market that keeps Corporate America from the rampant speculation that put us in the mess we're in now. And while you're at it, please find a way to restructure the disastrous bailout deal that provides zero accountability for those investment banks that are literally feeding at the U.S Treasury trough.
  

But please bear that I will not view your election to President as a coronation. Nor will I celebrate it with wild abandon as if to say "our problems have been solved." You know as well as I do Senator that your election would be but a baby step in the right direction and a tenuous one at best. I am taking a gamble with you, playing a hunch using the best information I have available to me at this moment. Please take this in the spirit it's intended Senator, but I intend to hold you accountable to both your promises and your actions.

Presently, I am not happy with your vote to provide retro-active immunity to telecommunications companies that spied on Americans at the behest of the President without a warrant. They knowingly violated a Constitutional right and you let them slide.

Not am I pleased with your vote for the Wall Street bailout. If Naomi Klein's recent article in Rolling Stone magazine doesn't convince you that Corporate America has no intention of making good on their promises in exchange for our help, then I will make a point of letting you know that this is the case. Sir, I am adamant on this point. Please close the trough.

Finally, I am also not enamored with you decision to continue President Bush's Faith-based initiative to provide needed public services. While I view the public assistance provided by the religious faithful as a good thing, then they should have no problem doing so under the aegis of a government program that prohibits religious proselytizing of any kind. Finding God should not be a pre-requisite to being helped.

Senator Obama, please know that with my vote you will have my support. Indeed, my support is conditional, but know, too, that you have it. I place my trust in you, not just for myself, but for my children. Unlike me, they have yet to realize the American dream as articulated in your plan and what's worse, they are captives to the votes I cast this day.

Please don't let us down.

Sincerely,

John Nieves
Lindenhurst, NY

Noodle Dishes

I promised Noodle I would not post about her anymore. Apparently, she's grown a bit self-conscious about me writing stuff about her. Yet, she's got the Facebook thing covered like nobody's business. I don't get it. But then again, I'm her Dad. I'm not supposed to.

Still, I could not help but write about a recent, but brief, political exchange we had, while she was driving herself to work last Sunday.

Me: So, if you could vote for President, who would you vote for?

Noodle: I would vote for Obama-Biden.

Me: Good choice. I'm be voting for him, too.

Noodle: I knew that Dad. But I can't vote yet. I did work on a project on the election at school, where we had to make a placard for the candidate of our choice.

Me: That's great!

(Pause for an awkward 3-second silence)

Me: Sooooooo...who would Rachael vote for? (Rachael is Noodle's BFF)

Noodle: She likes McCain and so does her Dad.

Me: Really? Why would her Dad vote against his best interests like that? I don't get it.

Noodle: There's really nothing to get Dad. It's a democracy. People vote for who they like.

Me: You're right. But don't your differing viewpoints cause friction between you and Rachael?

Noodle: Well, we disagree on this, but we agree on alot of other stuff Daddy. We don't always have to agree on everything. That's just stupid.

Ouch! It was a humbling experience for me because for the last month as I watched the election coverage on the dreaded MSM, and I could feel my level of vitriol rise with each "you betcha" from Sarah Palin and each "my friends" from McCain. In fact, in reading your blogs, I conclude that many of you feel as I do.

But Noodle set me straight. Dissent and disagreement are the foundation of our republic and if we brow beat people into voting one way or another, we are no better than those fascist regimes where people still die for a chance to vote.

So in the spirit of friendship, I leave you with this....

By Their Bootstraps?

I've written several posts about my father since I've started blogging. Here's another.

Come November 25, my father will reach the ripe old age of 85. I can say with all honesty that he's probably been through more and worse shit before the age of 15, than I did in all my 45 years.

He grew up poor on a finca in the mountains of Utuado, Puerto Rico during the Great Depression. He told me on many occasions that his worldview was shaped by his experiences of doing without during that period.

Like many young men his age, he tried to volunteer for military service during World War Two. But he was rejected for medical reasons. Instead, he took a job in a mental institution in San Juan until the war was over, and migrated to the lower 48 like many of his compañeros in 1946. He packed his meager belongings and moved to New York City in the hopes of good jobs and opportunities. There weren't many; particularly for off-the-boat Puerto Ricans.

But Dad was a hustler. He worked in the sweatshops on Broadway near Broome Street, where he met my Mom in 1948. He drove cabs and cut hair. He even tried his hand at running a grocery store. He had help along the way; people who were willing to take a chance and give a job to a hard-working guy with a 6th grade education. It wasn't always enough.

It wasn't until he was employed by the New York City Housing Authority that his fortunes took off. I'm not sure when he exactly landed the job with the NYCHA, but not long after I was born in 1963, we moved from a shit-hole tenement on Broome Street to a huge four bedroom hi-rise apartment on the corner of Pitt and Delancy Streets. By 1969, we were on the road again; a short ride uptown to 6th Street and Avenue D, where in exchange for being an on-call employee, we got to live virtually rent-free in a three-bedroom apartment.

From what I can tell, my Dad was quite grateful for this opportunity. During the 1977 blackout he risked life and limb to pull people out of stuck elevators, walking up countless flights in pitch black stairwells in unbearable heat with nothing but a flashlight, a pocket knife, and a fireman's key to open the doors. Not only that, he had to stop on each landing to yell out to determine exactly where the elevators were stuck. Sure, he acted out of a sense of duty to his job. It was what he signed up for. But given the extraordinary conditions, I doubt any of his bosses would have blamed him if he had stayed home.

What I find fascinating is my father's generosity. He is a giving man, almost to a fault. My sense is that this trait has its roots in the opportunities he got when he first landed Stateside. His journey challenges to some extent the do-it-alone, lift-yourself-by-your-bootstraps mentality because the fact of the matter is that he had help. In fact, his plight is no different than many other immigrants that came before him who thrived on a combination of individual charity and government assistance.

This combination of assistance is what enabled him to save enough money to buy a really nice two-family house in Richmond Hill, (Queens) NY in 1978 and retire to a huge three-bedroom, two-acre ranch home in 1994. And to this day, his generosity still knows no bounds. He has taken in countless relatives and provided food and money to people with little expectation of getting anything in return. In his mind, I think it was an investment that gave returns not in interest-accrued monetary compensation, but in the notion that an investment in people is a good thing for this nation because it creates a cycle of economic prosperity that comes from a large middle class.

What troubles me is how the children and grandchildren of these immigrants have forgotten where they came from. These are the same people -- many with very ethnic last names -- who refuse to admit that their successes were built on the shoulders of their ancestors. These are the ones decrying the coming "socialism" of an Obama Administration because they feel they're being robbed of their hard-earned wealth, but who themselves are the direct beneficiaries of a Keynesian economic model. I ask them: Where would they be were it not for the breaks their parents, grandparents and great grandparents received along the path to middle-class prosperity?

From the Homesteaders who were given Indian lands to farm, to the Irish immigrants who were given jobs by Boss Tweed; From the turn-of-the-century Italian and Jewish immigrants who built the streets, subways and bridges of New York City, to the dispossessed who were employed by the New Deal; from the soldiers who benefited from a very generous GI Bill following World War Two, to men like my Dad who worked the menial public sector jobs that provided decent housing to millions of New Yorkers, all these "bootstrappers" could not have succeeded without getting a hand up along the way.

So, to all of you proponents of laissez-faire, trickle-down economics who like to point to the immigrant story as a testament solely to the spirit of unfettered, rugged individualism, I say this -- don't forget where you came from. Indeed, it took a great deal of individual sweat equity and effort to make the most of the opportunities given to your ancestors. But let's not forget that these opportunities were given by generous people both in and out of government, and you owe it to the nation and to yourself to pay it forward and give one to those who will follow you.

I'm a (insert group name here)-American

When I was a kid, I used to belong to a club known as the Boys Brotherhood Republic or the BBR. It's the same place that sponsored my trips to Camp Wabenaki each summer from 1974-1978 and the first place to employ me (I was a camp counselor from 1979-1982).

What was unique about this club was that it was self-governing. Unlike the Boys Club of New York, every year we elected a Mayor, eight councilmen, a city clerk, comptroller, a judge and a prosecuting attorney. Every BBR "citizen" paid annual dues of about $1 or so, and performed a weekly duty as a police officer to enforce the clubs laws. Get into a fight, curse someone out, you get arrested and go to trial. Defendants were always represented by an BBR citizen lawyer, who had to pass a written test and an examination before the bar. There was even a code of conduct:

YOUNG PEOPLE'S
Bill of Responsibilities

To My Country, My Parents,
and Myself -- That I May:

1. Honor my parents, my elders, and my teachers.

2. Take care of my body, mind, and spirit.

3. Improve myself through education, in preparation for the future.

4. Perform my work to the best of my ability.

5. Develop high moral principles and the courage to live by them.

6. Grow in character and ability as I grow in size.

7. Respect the rights and feelings of others.

8. Be honest with myself and others in what I say and do.

9. Set a good example so others may enjoy and profit by my company.

10. Obey the laws of society and live in harmony with others.

11. Preserve and support our American way of life and the government of our people.


What's remarkable about this club is that there were no political parties. None. There were no interest groups that voted on a single-issue basis. There was no concern about the color of one's skin or what faith they chose to follow. We were only citizens.

These days, in a world where "othering" another American citizen for political gain is the rule, I was reminded of the BBR ideal I learned many years ago. It was my misinterpretation of this post put up by FranIAm that got me thinking about this subject. The point of her post was to showcase an interview of Martin Sheen by the Catholic legal scholar Douglas Kmiec on Barack Obama. I took it to mean that she was voting "as a Catholic".

That wasn't the point of her post though, and I apologized letting her know that I am both an idealist and a pessimist when it comes to the way we Americans constantly hyphenate our identities.

But in writing this, I felt I needed to let her know what drives my passion for us to be one people, no hyphens, just Americans -- like Fran, and Martin, and Douglas, and Jerry Stiller, a Jewish kid from the Lower East Side who was also a BBR boy.

Call Me A Hypocrite

Okay. I'll level with you. I've been known in comments and in posts to refer to Republicans by many and varied pet names -- Shrub, Chimpy McFlightsuit, Darth Cheney, Ad nauseam.


I think I even gave pet names to Palin and McCain. Call me a hypocrite. I can take it.

But I had an epiphany the other day. It appears to me, after reading a large number of political blog posts in the last month or so, that the name calling has gone into overdrive.


Now I must ask: Is it necessary?


I've seen some finely constructed arguments calling Bush the worst President ever, reduced to mush by this device. I know that voting for a McCain/Palin administration is a bad idea, but instead of making jokes about Palin's voice, hair, or making other derogatory statements outside the realm of satire, how about appealing to my desire for focused targeted information in a well-constructed essay? Name calling is not satire. It's just petty.


I'd say stop it already, but I'm torn about this. Like my fellow bloggers, I sometimes take the view that it's my blog, my rules. If you don't like what I wrote, click off.


By the same token, if we don't invite dissent and discussion on our blogs -- if we're always of a mind to tell dissenting bloggers to click off and not try to use reason to win over the other side -- what's the point of writing it? Venting?


As I watch the McCain/Palin campaign turn the invective dial to "11" against Barack Obama I'm appalled by their calling him a Muslim terrorist, a traitor, and unqualified to be President. An audience member at a Palin-led rally even shouted "kill him." We know that citizens who are voting for McCain/Palin are likely to be true believers who willfully ignore the woeful facts about the last eight years of Republican leadership. But we on the progressive left do our arguments no good when we resort to the same name calling.


Far be it from me to tell another blogger how to refer to Bush, Cheney, McCain and Palin, or even Obama and Biden for that matter. If they happen not to like them, they can call them what they want.

Not me.


No more name calling here.

Lest We Forget....

Sometimes it's real easy to forget the important dates in history. The immediacy of life almost requires it. Please stop and take a moment to ponder this day, and leave a birthday wish for a great musician, lyricist, artist, and human being.





Happy Birthday, John. We all miss you, man!
















I know I've posted this video before. It's still my favorite.

The Last Thing I'll Say on Sarah Palin...

Maybe....




I'm still trying to figure out why John McCain would shoot his campaign in the proverbial foot by choosing this woman as his running mate.














He could have chosen this woman. She's pretty hot and Katie Couric could never make her look like an idiot.









Was it her wink?






Or how good her ass still looks at age 44.






I don't think so. He's not that shallow, is he?

Then it hit me after this song came on Fred on XM as I was driving to my touch football game this morning. He's got a thing for Mayors!



XTC - The Mayor of Simpleton

Who says Republicans aren't romantics?

The Kid in Apartment 6A

A while ago, blogger Susan of phansythat, put out a call for stories to other bloggers asking them to write about about something they would like to see happen that would make the world a happier place". The contest is over and the winner has been awarded a beautiful hand-painted scarf. But since I promised her I would write a story, and because the question has been dogging me since she posed it, I wrote this:

What would make the world a happier place?

For me. That's easy. I would bring back my friend Keith Jenkins.

I was 10 when I met Keith. The year was 1973 and he and his family had just moved into our building at 807 East 6th Street to apartment 6A, right before the school year started. He came to our building after having lived the first 10 years of his life up on 8th Street and Avenue D.

We became fast friends, me and Keith. I don't recall how we met. It was probably a shared love of the New York Mets, and in 1973 there was much to root for in that team. They had gone from worst to first in the final month of the season edging out the Cardinals and Pirates for the National League East title. In October, they took it to the Cincinnati Reds - the Big Red Machine - in the National League Championship Series. They then faced the Oakland Athletics and were one bad call at home plate from winning their second championship in five years.

I can clearly remember us talking about the Game 3 fight between Pete Rose and Bud Harrelson and how "little" Buddy stood up to Rose who tried to intimidate him after a hard, but clean slide. And, we we're both incensed when the ump blew the call in Game 7 of the World Series on Willie Mays' slide into home. Ray Fosse never got the tag down in time.

Baseball was not the only "ball" game we shared. Growing up in New York City, there wasn't much else to do but play ball if you wanted to stay out of trouble. We played them all back then, all except soccer. No one really knew what that game was until Pele joined the Cosmos. We played basketball, whiffleball, Chinese Handball, Off The Bench, Errors, Football, and, sometimes, just catch.

We used to hang out alot together in each other's apartments. He'd come down to 5D and always greet my parents politely. Likewise, I was always warmly welcomed into the Jenkins home. I remember his little brother Larry and older brother Johnny, but not his sister's name. I guess it's because she was hardly ever home. I also loved listening to the stories Mrs. Jenkins would tell about their family "down South". She always spoke fondly of her South Carolina home but there was always a touch of melancholy in her voice. What I know now that I didn't then is that she was a real life example of an African-American who was both happy and sad for having migrated North to an urban center like New York in search of a better life.

The year 1974 held much promise for our friendship. Through the winter and spring since his arrival, Keith and his brother Larry integrated nicely into our little clique that hung out on the benches outside of 90 Avenue D. By the time, summer rolled in, we were back playing our favorite ball game -- off the bench. Keith picked up the game pretty quickly, and being a fast kid, he we was always one of the first to be picked when choosing sides. He also had a ready smile; always a smile, especially when we got going on the "mother jokes."

Ah, your mother's so old, she owes Moses a nickel.

Then it happened. In mid-July 1974, me and several of our group got shipped off to sleep-away camp in Harriman State Park for two weeks. Keith wasn't one of them. Camp Wabenaki was a well-maintained camp run by an old Jewish, ex-WWII Marine sargeant, Ralph Hittman, who ran the place like a military base. We never questioned why Keith didn't join us. Though the cost of the trip was modest, even by 1974 standards, it was still too much of a stretch for some families. Little did I know that it would be the last time we saw Keith alive.

One of the first posts I wrote on this blog was about being homesick in India on a business trip and how I had compared it to being a camper at Camp Wabenaki. I wrote about how worried I was at camp that something bad had happened to someone in my family, to the point where my counselor, David Yakowitz, had to set me straight. "Everything's fine at home," he said to me. He was wrong.

When I returned home in late July, my father pulled me aside and told me he had some bad news for me. Instantly, I thought that something bad happened to someone in my family. I started to freak and cry and he calmed me down, telling me everyone was fine. That's when he looked me in the eye and said that my friend "Grich" had died.

"Grich?" I asked him. "I don't know anyone named Grich."

In Spanish he said to me, "You know who I'm talking about. The kid from 6A."

"6A? Keith? Keith? Ah no, not Keith!"

I could only imagine this scene played out for all of his friends who went away to camp.

The story of how he died was worse than the news of his death. My mother told me he was killed crossing the FDR drive trying run away from muggers. He was playing baseball with some of his old 8th Street friends two days before we came home, when the muggers showed up. Keith and his friends scattered, some making it across 10th street pedestrian overpass. Keith went South towards the 6th Street overpass, but never got that far, choosing instead to run through an opening separating the park from the FDR Drive. I told you, he was a fast kid and he would have easily made it all the way across the highway had he not gone back to get the sneaker that fell off.

He was struck first by a North-bound car, which lifted him up and into South-bound traffic, where he was struck again. He died instantly.

My mother asked if I would join her at the wake, which was being held the night I returned home, and I agreed. It was the first time I had ever been to one, so I looked to Mom for cues on how to behave.

I followed my mother in the procession to view Keith, and after we knelt by his coffin and recited the Lord's Prayer and a Hail Mary, me and Mom stopped by to offer condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. I recall how Mrs. Jenkins thanked my mother for paying respects, shaking hands with her warmly. When I went to hold Mrs. Jenkins's hand, she pulled me into her and gave me a hug. She looked at me and recalled with fondness how welcome I made Keith feel when they moved in the year before. Then, with her familiar melancholy voice, she said to me "Please don't forget my child." I promised her I wouldn't.

Here I am, 34 years later, still keeping my promise. I still wish I never had to.