Dear Daughter

Hi Sweetie! Oh, you're not born yet, might never be. However, in the event that you are conceived, and you make it until, hmmm, let's say 14, this note's for you.
I know you think your dad is way out of touch and does not understand what it's like to be a young lady like yourself. But I've lived a lifetime and I do indeed know the world and most importantly, honey, I know about boys, and about men.
I've not only been a boy, but I've known hundreds. Darling, there are some good guys out there, and you'll probably think that they're more boring than the "bad-boys".
When you're young, you're probably going to want excitement. When you mature and become an adult, you're going to want someone reliable, sweet and compassionate. You won't find that boring at all. You will love that guy. And while you're enjoying that "boring man", you will notice a long line of women getting their hearts crushed by those exciting guys who are basically, selfish to the core.
That's the key, honey! Please, find out how to determine if a guy is selfish and if he puts others ahead of himself. How does he treat his mother, his sisters and other women. Listen to what he says but also what he doesn't say.
It's true, we learn from our mistakes. But most of the time, our mistakes can set us back many years and many tears. Learn how to learn from the mistakes of others.
Surround yourself with positive, encouraging people. Pursue your dreams. Life goes by so incredibly fast. Don't waste your time on losers, jerks and dogs.
I love you. Dad

Boy

I used to call my father a "broken record".
He used to nag, nag, nag, nag, nag...
Looking back now, of course, his advice was wise and invaluable.
In fact, I find myself sounding like him. My ex used to call me "Harry" because I started becoming him.
I never leave the house without turning off all the lights.
I'm never late for anything. When I golf, I hear his voice saying,"look at the back of the ball", "follow through", and I find myself walking along the deep rough looking for stray golf balls.
Dad would always tell me to "take the police test", "take the fireman's test"...
"but I don't want to run into burning buildings", "I don't want to carry a gun!"
If he was still alive, I would be begging him for advice, not tuning him out like I did when I was a little "know-it-all" punk-ass fool.

Favorite Show

Very few shows have tickled my fancy and warranted my devotion.

Seinfeld had been on for 6 yrs. before I stated watching the re-runs.

Being a non-conformist, I opted not to jump on the bandwagon, despite all the buzz. Once I did, forget it, I was hooked. Why is that show so great?

The Writing- not every line had to have a punchline than a laugh track. There was an intellect to it, beyond my own which actually made it educational, just as bugs Bunny had done with it's adult themes and references.

There's not a day that goes by where something in my day to day routine or observations does not call my mind back to an episode. It could be the most mundane thing like refusing a peice of pie, body oder, a big salad, or fleas.

Three great comedic actors complementing a comedic, genious mind. Character actors who could steal a show, like Mr. Bookman, the Rabbi, or the Mohel.

Different character's stories that intertwined were a revolution to sit-coms.

By far my favorite show of all time. So New York. So clever. So FUNNY!

Cross-Country on 2 Wheels

Got my first bike when I was about 18. I was never into speed like the other guys.

Just liked the feeling of cruising on a smooth, unfamiliar, country road.

Bikes got bigger along the way, but the full-dresser was a bit to much.

By the time I was 30 I'd been to Lake George,Smokey Mts., n whatnot, but...

My sights were on cross-country-Great Plains, Black Hills, Yellowstone, Yosemite, Pacific Coast Hwy, Grand Canyon, Rocky Mts.

In the fall of '97 and the spring of '98 I got to see all those places and more on a motorcycle trip that spanned 4 weeks and 10,000 miles.

Every day, just about, was spent riding from sun-up to sun-down, all alone, me and my green machine, some camping equipment, and a lot of maps.

For a breakdown of the trip, stay tuned for future blogs!

Lady Day

I'll never forget the first time I heard her haunting, soulful voice.

As the credits rolled after a movie called The Funeral, Gloomy Sunday, sung by the one and only Billie Holiday pulled me in and grabbed hold of me.

That started a fascination with the greatest jazz singer in history. Sure, Ella had the better voice, but Billie's voice was a soul-stirring instrument like no other. Her life was fascinating as well, a glutton for punishment, troubled past, but oh so respected by her peers.

Listening to the jazz and swing of the 30's stands out to me as the greatest music made for a certain time period. When I listen to it, I am transported back to that time, like the way I'm taken to the 50's when I watch footage of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Outer Body Experience

Twice in my life I experienced an "outer-body experience".

Both times had their similarities. Both involved heavy rock n roll music.

Side two of Black Sabbath's debut album contains some of the most compelling guitar sounds and solos. Lying on my basement couch, not even stoned, I felt myself leave my body, like the way you envision a soul leaving a body at death.

Led Zeppelin has a song on their In Through the Out Door album called All My Love.

In the middle of the song, there's a solo, probably a synthesizer. It was during that solo that, again, while laying down, and straight, I felt as if I came out of my body.

Nothing like that has ever happened since. I am not making this up, either.

Johnny Sperm and The Embryo

Johnny hadn't been out for days. The crowd around him was getting larger and larger.
"Hey! I was here first", Johnny said to the other sperm. "Line forms behind me, Bitches"!
The dream of every sperm is to be there on that special day, to outrace, and out maneuver a billion other sperm and get to that sweet, beautiful egg.
The problem , besides the odds, is that the sperm's owner is not always looking for an "exact hit". Most of the time a sperm will wind up egg-less, in a tissue, or somewhere else outside the lady's hoo hoo.

Johnny lived inside the left testicle of a Swede named Hans Stroker. The time had come when it was "safe" for Hans to take the sperm out for a little "road trip", and they were primed and ready.

Johnny had become quite prolific at distinguishing a false alarm from the real deal. He had seen sperm after sperm lose their lives. He's seen them get trapped in condoms, shot through te air, and miss the elusive egg by a kizillionth of a megamilimicrometer.
It had been 3 days since Hans ejaculated, while his girlfriend ovulated (or so they thought), and his sperm had grown restless.

Johnny could hear the faint sound of a Marvin Gaye song, so he knew the time had come. He had a good feeling about this one. Johnny took off to for the egg, hoping he wouldn't end up like all those other poor sperm., the old "so close yet so far" syndrome.

"Holy shit", Johnny thought. "There it is!" "He I come, baby, here I come!" he yelled.

Poor Hans and his girlfriend never saw Johnny coming, and come he did.His dream was finally realized when Johnny received "embryo status"..

Hans Stroker and his girlfriend, Gretta Liepza learned a valuable lesson.

Unlike Marvin Gaye, Gretta's "rhythym" leaves a lot to be desired.

And as for the rest of Hans' sperm, especially the Left Testicle Boyz, well, it's gonna be a long, long, summer.

Loss

"Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart." ---Washington Irving-

At my grandma's funeral, I didn't understand why everyone was crying.
I joined in anyway. I was 7.
I think I was sadder when I lost my pet turtle.
I was pretty fortunate. My first experiene of real loss didn't come until I was 23.
Losing your wife to another man can really set you back emotionally.
After the anger and thoughts of revenge subside, your left only with a crushed heart, and bruised psyche. It can take years to get over and start functioning in a manner worthy of an adult male.
You never know when you go to sleep if she'll once again pop up in your dreams.
Every time the phone rings that "what if it's her" voice chimes in.
By the time I was finally past that loss, it was time for another.
This one can come in the form of a policeman standing in your kitchen as you come home to visit your dad on your lunch break only to find that he won't be able to join you because the night before your father went to sleep for the last time.
Dad's body stayed in bed all day as we waited for the medical examiner to finish his round of golf.
Dad died when I was 31. When the cop told me that my father was dead, I cried out "No no no no no..." My oldest brother told me to shut up. At the sight of my intent glare he realized his mistake and apologized.
My first reaction was interesting to say the least. I started going on a cleaning frenzy. I just felt the need to be organized and I went fast to work gathering account information, cleaning out cupboards, throwing out all kinds of stuff.
A couple days later I cried my eyes out. I kept envisioning him walking into the room. I kept hearing him yell as I walked up the driveway, and dreamt of him often.
It's funny, I rarely think of the bad days we had. I look back with fondness and appreciate the type of father he was, the interest he showed in his sons, the family trips, the ballgames, the beach, his hairy legs and cheesy clothes.
Those two losses, when I reflect on them, never make me cry.
But there is a loss I've encountered that makes me weep and blubber.
The irony is that I see this person almost everyday. It's my mom.
Once full of life, energy, wit, and love, she is now devoid of emotion entirely.
This loss came gradually, and I've been able until recently to simply repress my emotion and cope by "changing the channel" in my mind when thoughts of her demise sprung up.
There is nothing sadder for me, than to see the loss, feel the loss of my mother's loving bond with her children.
The anti-psychotic drugs keep her from hallucinating and jumping in front of a bus, but that's it. A good day for my mother is when she only is depressed.
My mother is depressed 24/7. She hates herself so damn much. She has irrational fears of my brother never coming home, even when he just walks to the corner store. When I tell her I love her, she states that she's not worthy of anyone's love.
My mom is 77. She wants to die. She's wanted to die for decades. She smokes like someone who wants to die.
My father wanted to live. You couldn't keep him off the golf course. He never smoked, and rarely ever drank.
Irony, huh? I dread the day that I have to watch my mother die a slow painful death. You KNOW that's the way it will go down. Life's cruel little joke.
I will have to lose my mother all over again.

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all."
Samuel Butler 1903

A Man's World?

When I was born in 1965, it was certainly "a man's world". Well, in my little world it was.
My mother cooked, cleaned, and made sure we didn't disturb Daddy.
Dad was the breadwinner, which entitled him to be abusive and have the final say in matters.
Very few women took the chance to leave that bullshit and go out on their own into the "man's world". It took a STRONG woman to do that.
Have I come to accept men and women as perfect equals?
Probably not to the extent that a woman would want me to.
In many ways I find myself being a "reverse sexist" just as I find myself being a reverse racist.
The bottom line is: you canNOT generalize people, whether it's men, women, blacks, or whites. Every genre and every race has their assholes, their psychos, and their pigs.

"Life Intrudes"

Life certainly has a way of sneaking up on you and biting you on the ass.
Ask anyone who's been fired, who's spouse cheated, or who's had a seriously illness come upon them or a loved one.
Different people will react in different ways. Who, or rather, What's to say HOW we'll handle it.
Will how you were raised have an effect?: Perhaps.
Will the things you learned along the way play a role? Probably.
Will the person standing by your side when "shit happens" have an impact? Likely.
How 'bout the stories you've heard? The things you've seen? the Faith you've adopted?
How 'bout brain chemistry? Genetics? Past traumas? Current stress levels?
Take away one of these things and it probably won't make a big difference in the overall picture, although mental illness will void out everything. Watch out! Don't get a case of the "CRAZIES". Actually, it might not matter what happens if you're out of your mind.
Yeah, Life Intrudes, knocks us on our asses. Will you get up? Will you be stronger as a result? What are our options? Stay down? Give up? Check out? All of the Above? or None of the above? Do you even care?

The Baseball Factor

I can't imagine my life without baseball.
Watching it on TV with my Dad, listening to Met games on the radio with Mr. Hemminger, collecting baseball cards from the bubble-gum packs, playing it any chance I got.
For some reason, playing baseball came naturally to me.
An older guy from the neighborhood said that when I was 5, I could throw a ball over my house. He found that astonishing.
As far back as I can remember, my Dad and I would be playing catch in front of the house. He had a great change-up that would make me giggle every time he threw it. I could never master that pitch.
From the beginning, I was an awesome pitcher, and usually batted third, a slot reserved for the team's best hitter.
My fondest chilhood memories were of playing baseball.
Once, when I was in the "minors", my brother's team (Tom played in the "majors) needed an extra player. I was facing Greg Smith, one of the best pitchers in the league. Like it was yesterday, I remember smokin' a line-drive to right-center, skidding around first because I was wearing sneakers instead of cleats, and making it into second for a stand-up double, driving in a run. A proud moment!
My dad was always involved, be it coaching, driving, or just cheering me on.
By high-school my interest in playing baseball waned. A few years later some guys from the neighborhood got a team up, and I loved it, although I was a shell of my former self.
Then the injuries came, and I switched to hockey, which is fun to play, but can't compare to my days of playing hardball. Softball is a joke.

Baseball is a part of me. At night I still have dreams of playing. Wish I still could.

If I Only Had A Sister

My mom said that when she was pregnant with me, her third son, she was certain I was a girl, even had a name picked out...

"Shirley".
Even though I am SO glad to have come out with a penis, I can't help but wonder how things would of been different had my mother had a daughter.
If I only had a sister, I would not have been so shy and uncomfortable around girls. My friends who had sisters could play comfortably with the girls, could put their hands on them without feeling that they were acting inappropriately.
If I only had a sister, my loney, despondent mother would have someone to talk to. When her sons visit, they watch TV and read the newspaper. We have very little to say. We don't possess the "gift of gab".
If I only had a sister, I, myself, would have someone to talk to. I could get insight into the mind of a woman, get relationship advice, as well as other pertinent advice on such things as cooking, decorating, fashion, and other "girly" things.

Stay tuned for a future post entitled..."If I Only Had a Gay Brother".

My First Taste of Social Injustice

Whether we like it or not, children see the world through the television.
In 1977, I was 11yrs. old. I didn't care that Jimmy Carter was the new president.
It didn't matter that the World Trade Center was built.
My world consisted of "Three's Company", "The Love Boat", "Fantasy Island", "Charlie's Angels", and "The Incredible Hulk". What was real? Life was fantasy. Just make me laugh.
In January of 1977, for eight straight nights, the whole country, it seemed, would learn about slavery, why it was wrong, and how it affected people- past and present.
It was the first time that I realized the raw deal that Black people got. I cried for the slaves and hated the white people involved. Until then, TV was just fantasy.
Roots changed the way I viewed the world. It explained why Black people got so angry at times and why some of "them" hated me for being a "white-boy".
Although it would take years for my power of reason to mature, I'd like to think that "Roots" planted the seed to understanding the plight of the Black-Man.
I know it sounds lame. But this is me. Try being me, it's no picnic!

Ode To Queens Village

A "home-town" has the power to shape, to influence, or to even destroy.
In the City of NY, within the borough of Queens, lies a town, Queens Village.
A "neighborhood", actually. It's probably like a thousand others, and to the outside observer is likely nothing special, but to me it holds life, my life as a child, a teenager and now as an adult.
QV, you could say, is a shell of it's former self.
Gone are the block-parties, the Mom & Pop Stores, and the Little League Parades.
Gone are the armies of kids on bikes, the whiffle-ball, and kick-ball games.
Gone are the days of leaving the strollers outside the store WITH the kids inside them.
Long gone is the Blade Sharpening Truck, Good Humor Man, and Milkman.
Hence, no more trucks with bells. No more paper-boys, no more girl-scouts.
No more St. Patrick's Day bashes at Downey's Bar. No more Downey's Bar

Walking down to Jamaica Ave. was called "going to the Village".

Everyone bought their school uniforms at Jon Gordon's.
A few stores down was Woolworth's, which had a lunch counter that every kid loved.
Richie Rich was where we got our custom made t-shirts.
QV boasted two movie theatres and a rock n Roll night club, Beggars Opera.
Kitty's Pizza was famous for their Zeppoles.
Of course, the greatest asset to any community is it's people. The neighbors.
Mrs. Levin gave me a dollar a week to roll up her hose. I listened to Met games in Mr. Hemmingers garage. I swam in the Gaughgran's pool.
Then there were the kids. The kids on the block, the kids in my class, the kids at my school and the kids at the Little League field.
Now just about everyone's gone, on to greener pastures, the suburbs. Tried it. Didn't like.
Running into someone from the old neighborhood spurs enthusiasm and manifests a bond, a bond that can only come from growing up in the same neighborhood.
Queens Village is a great place to come from.

What Should've Been

Recalling that August day, makes me weep and wonder what should have been.
I remember...
Pretending we were crossing the Sahara Desert, my mom and me walking hand in hand, on scorching hot sand for what seemed like miles until we finally reached the pool.
Splashing and giggling with delight, clutching her soft skin
Bouncing on my mother's knee in the shallow end of the Jones Beach pool.
Staring into her glimmering blue eyes and at her infectious smile there was no way to know that in just ten years she would lose it all. You name it, she lost it!
The ecstasy I felt and the tenderness I received, the tenderness that can only come from a mother's love, would be gone forever.

I Remember...

I remember being a vandal.
I remember laughing at the people who stuck their finger in the coin-return slot after I filled it with ketchup.
I remember being bit on the ass by the Piccionni's German Shepherd, Sheeba.
I remember my dentist's rotten teeth.
I remember the first time I saw two gay guys kissing.
I remember getting spanked with my father's bar tender's paddle for opening up a case of RC Cola bottles to see if we won 10 cents.
I remember meeting Ozzy in '81 and not being able to speak.
I remember Ozzy having trouble as well.
I remember playing Batman & Robin with my best friend, Richie.
I remember wanting to be O.J. Simpson.
I remember my blue Schwinn with the big sissy bars.
I remember those sissy bars saving my skull when I flipped upside down on a jump.
I remember playing "spin the bottle".
I remember raiding my parents liquor cabinet and puking all over Queens Village.
I remember the summers, when Mr. Hemminger listened to the Met games, drank Whiskey Sours and lauded "Tom-Terrific".
I remember Banner-Day at Shea.
I remember the Candy Store.
I remember a dollar getting me a pack of smokes and a game of pin-ball, Space Invaders, or Asteroids. I remember egg-creams..
I remember having to get up to change the channel.
I remember scooping the mud out of the driveway drain with my skinny arms because Dad's were too big.
I remember Pirate's World, Palisade's Amusement Park, and Rockaway Playland.
I remember my brother, Tom allowing me to practice dangerous wrestling moves on him such as the "atomic elbow" or the "flying drop-kick".
I remember my mom bouncing me up and down on her knee in the shallow end of the Jones Beach pool. Oh God, I miss that feeling. Heaven must feel that way.

Power of School

25 years has passed since I've been in a school classroom.

By the end of High School, I had Had Enough.

I'm back, with A Vengeance.

These classes are inducing Serious Thought and Emotion.

Subjects such as Psychology and English Composition are tapping into feelings and emotions that have been bottled up for decades.

The awkwardness of being an "old guy" amidst kids has vanished.

The classes fly by. I don't want them to end.

Classes dragged painfully in High School. I hated them.

Probably a good thing I skipped college at the time, huh?

A Different World

I grew up on 219th Street, around the corner from Downey's Bar.
At 16 I worked at Wendy's on the "closing crew" with my brother, Tom.
My friends would come to the drive-thru and I'd hook them up with food.
After work I would stop by Downey's for a Rum & Coke.
I was 16! Try that now!.
On friday and saturday night I'd buy a six and a pack of Merits from "Cheif".
Cheif called everyone Cheif, so that's what we called him.
I'd take my beer and cigarettes up to the schoolyard, find a milkcrate and get wasted.
This way I could forget about the crap going on at home.

Insane Assylum

"Every house is a like a little Insane Assylum", a comedian once said.
My house was/is no exception. It started when I was in highschool.
The school counselor needed extra tissues when I saw her.
That old nun gave me some simple, yet effective advice.
"You can't let your family's problems effect you", she said.
I guess a teenage kid needs to hear that, needs to BELIEVE that.
Those crappy times made me the cynical, cold-hearted, bastard I try not to be today.