A Great Memory of The Beatles.. and not having a care in the world.

I’ve been in the same band for 48 years; that’s correct… no typo. I’ve been in that band because of Beatlemania, which I don’t need to describe. Over the years we’ve played Beatles tunes probably a thousand times… Obla-Di-Obla-Da, In My Life, Hey Jude, Ticket to Ride, I Saw Her Standing There, etc. To those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about look it up on your PDA, or answer this question; “What’s it like living on another planet?”

No matter how many years go by, or how many times I fire up the CD player with Beatles’ material, I’m always amazed at how good EVERY song is. But, I digress. Let me get back to my story.

For Christmas in 1965 Santa brought me Rubber Soul by The Beatles. I remember it replaced The Sound of Musicsoundtrack at the top of the charts… tough competition at the time. I also remember hearing that it was very unusual at the time that the name of the band did not appear on the cover. Trivia….

Well, my story takes place sometime a few weeks after Christmas in January of 1966. I was in the eighth grade at St. Mary’s School. It was a very cold night… probably a Friday night and there was a ton of snow on the ground and it was still snowing..hard!.

Enter Nancy Brovarone and Coreen DeFalco. Coreen lived on Quackenbush Avenue about a mile from where I lived. We were all friends because of my band and they were cheerleaders for our school basketball team which I played on. Nancy and Coreen were a year younger than me and they were, as we used to say, “cuter than anything!” Nancy was sleeping over at Coreen's. They called to see what I was doing, which was nothing, and after their invitation I wound up trudging through the snow to Coreen's house with my copy of Rubber Soul in hand. I remember how cold it was and the snow was blowing hard enough that at times it was difficult to see more than 20 feet in front of me. I was like a pioneer making his way across the prairie, but it was Dumont, NJ, 10 miles outside of New York City and thousands of miles away from anything that could be considered a prairie.

When I got there I was almost numb, and I remember Coreen's Mom making me a cup of hot chocolate, and then another. When I finally got feeling back in my face, it was time to sit down and listen to the “album.” I remember them carrying on about how cute the lads were. I don’t specifically remember, but I think they kissed the cover a few times that night. Lucky cover!
Talk about being in the right place at the right time, there I was sitting between two of the most popular girls in school as we listened to the album. The fact that we were kind of scrunched together on the sofa was a great bonus. I was holding the cover reading the song titles and every so often one of them would lean in to get a look at it themselves. Lucky me!

I had listened to the record multiple times, but I remember they were hearing it for the first time, except for maybe the song “Michelle” which was getting some radio play. So, as we listened to each track we’d stop the record player and talk about each song. Did we like it? Who sang it? Who was your favorite Beatle? Mine was John. What a song lineup: Norwegian Wood, You Won’t See Me, Michelle, I’m Looking Through You, Michelle, Think For Yourself (with really cool fuzz bass)…. Wow! Even Mrs. DeFalco would chime in with her thoughts. She was a very cool Mom.

So, for what was probably three hours, during a fierce snowstorm in January of 1966 (a little more than 48 years ago now) three kids, without a care in the world, sat talking, laughing, and listening to Rubber Soul. And it was special enough to me to remember it and share it with you kind people all these years later.
If you have any memories which are still so vivid that each time you think about them you still get a really nice feeling, then you know exactly what I’m talking about here.

I still see Nancy when I go back to Dumont, and she is well aware of my memories of that evening. And, she’s still “cute as anything.” I have not seen Coreen since High School, but I know she’s doing well. Everyone who comes into your life has an impact on your memories. That impact can be imperceptible, or it can be forever.

I cannot end this post without this from Rubber Soul (In My Life) for Nancy and Coreen:
“Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before,
I know I'll often stop and think about them,
In my life, I love you more…”


Whitey out!

GSP Exit 82 to Route 37 East

If you are from New Jersey, you have to be loud and proud of it. If for no other reason, than to defend the motherland against those who for years have made fun of the Garden State. Then came “Jersey Shore” the TV show that made all of us who knew the greatness of the place have to defend it once again. It would actually pain me at times to hear Ronnie, Pauly D and The Situation talk about Seaside Heights like they actually knew what it was all about. When I lived in NJ we had a term for people like that… douchebags. The term still fits. We had terms for the girls in the TV show, too, but in my older age, decorum prevents me from explaning that here.

Sadly, in the face of Hurricane Sandy, there was nothing that could defend the shore from what staggered us all. I live in AZ, but still took a very hard gut punch as I watched the news throughout the week.
I went to bed on Monday night knowing the eye of the storm was headed towards NJ. I woke up on Tuesday morning to see the conflagration of homes in Breezy Point, home to one of my Phi Sig brothers. I’m happy to say he was not injured, but saw his FB page this morning and whats left of his belongings were piled high on the street like they were ready for a garage sale. They were not… it’s what he has left from his damaged home that he cannot go back to. Sandy was not kind to anyone.

Every time I heard the name of a town, I knew someone who lived there; Bob and Ginny in Brigantine, Schmitty and Lynda in Lavalette, Frank and Barbara in Point Pleasant.

Of course my thoughts went immediately to Dumont.. my hometown about 60 miles north of the shore. I was relieved to hear that there was no devastation. Power was out, trees down, localized street flooding, but everyone was OK, and Dumont was going to be OK. I also thought of my childhood friend, now the Chief of Police, and what obstacles he had in front of him as the town takes the time to get back to normal.

Oddly, I was in Dumont last year on these very dates… October 26-31, and was greeted by 6 inches of what they had called "thunder snow" that blanketed Northern New Jersey. The power was out for days so I got a taste of what that was like without power and phone and all the things that go along with the lack of those utilities. 

I remember, as a very young child riding the rides at the Jersey shore. As a 5 or 6 year-old, my favorites were the little automobiles you could sit in and go round and round in circles only, because you were attached to something. As I moved the steering wheel left and right like my Dad did when he would drive the big Catalina, I probably dreamt, no hoped, that the car would break free and I could drive it wherever I wanted to. It’s no exxaageration to say in the 55 years since, millions of other little boys had the same great dream. Well, I saw a picture this week of newscaster Brian Wilson standing on the beach in Mantaloking next to one of the same little cars that two days before was still attached to the pier in Seaside Heights. Who knows… maybe the car, a replica of a 57 Chevy, had just had enough, maybe that was finally their night, and they saw their opportunity to break free and take that ride that all little boys like me had dreamed about. The car sat on the beach, six miles form Seaside, and mostly intact… The safety bar was lifted as if someone had just pushed it out of the way to exit the car. As a musician I couldn’t help but think of Bruce Springsteen, the NJ native (and Boss), who wrote Thunder Road. Maybe this is what he meant and if those little cars could talk, after decades maybe this is exactly what they were thinking:.

“There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away.
They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets….”

At this point it may be cliché, but my best memories of growing were up were at the Jersey shore. I was fortunate enough to have an Aunt who would rent a beachfront bungalow every summer for two weeks. It was in Ocean Beach (Unit III, 21 Seaview Dr.) You would walk out the front and you were on the beach… another 100 yards and you were in the Atlantic. Storms over the years changed the beach, but until last Tuesday, 21 Seaview Drive had weathered its spot yards from the Atlantic for more than 50 years. On Wednesday, it was partially off its foundation, roof askew and totally uninhabitable. I can remember sitting on the porch watching the beach come alive every morning. At the time it was fun and I had no idea of how lucky I was to live the shore life.

The first time I ever got to second base (and I'm not talking Little League) was sitting behind one of the lifeguard boats on a perfect shore evening with a cute little girl from River Edge.  I've long forgotten her name, but not the memory.  The next day her boyfriend came looking for me on the beach, but he turned out to be a weasely kind of guy so nothing ever came of it.  I ran into her at the Orangeburg Pub years later, and we had a great conversation and laughed about our adventure.
In the afternoons at the shore we were in the water, or it was time at the batting cages at Flo’s, or mini golf at Barnacle Bills, or crabbing on the bay side, or skee ball at a little place behind some garage doors... I think it was called Playland.  If it was a particularly hot day, we'd head down to A&W just down the street for a root beer float in a frosty mug that sometimes stuck to your lip because it was so cold.

In the evenings, it was the bright lights, and smells of the Boardwalk at Seaside Heights/Park. Anyone who knows me will tell you even to this day, any trip I make to NJ during the summer season I try to go to Seaside for at least an overnight. The great people at the Windjammer Motel refer to me as Mr. Arizona when I call. I’ve been worth at least a night or two each year to them for at least the last 30 years. I hope they have weathered the storm as they are only a block from the beach.
Three things I always do without fail is walk the full length of the boards, eat a sausage and peppers sandwich from the place that used to be smack in the middle the boardwalk, and have a slice or two or three of Maruca’s Tomato pie. I don’t know how Maruca’s made out, but I do know the sausage sandwich place was obliterated in the storm. There was nothing to protect it and today it's like it never existed.

I developed a love for live music standing outside (I was never old enough to go in) the Chatterbox on the boardwalk listening to bands with electric guitars, drums and the incredible sound of the Hammond B3 organ. If there was nothing I liked there, I’d wander over to stand outside the Beachcomber or the Fun House to see what teenage rock and roll band was playing on top.
The boardwalk to me was the Berkeley Sweet Shop, Taylor Pork Roll, mini golf, FunTown Pier, Carousel Arcade, Sonny and Rickeys, Lucky Leos, and my personal favorite, Emma Bittel’s small stand towards the south end of the bordwalk where you could win a box of candy for a nickel and where almost every spin of the wheel would win you at least 4 “bers.”
I won some of my favorite and most influential albums playing the wheels at the shore; The Doors, Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrel, Four Tops, Temptations and Vanilla Fudge. There was a double album of oldies put together by WOR-FM in NY that I literally wore through over the next two or three years. I say oldies, but at the time the album was full of recent hits; Lovin' Spoonful, Turtles, Johnny Mathis, Drifters, etc.

You didn’t go to the beach in NJ, you went “down the shore.” And whether you traveled north or south to get there, you were still going down the shore. The small towns had names that only worked down there: Mataloking, and Manasquan, Sea Girt, Ortley Beach, Lavalette, Harvey Cedars, Loveladies, and Point Pleasant.

You’ve hear it hundreds of times in the last few days; the damage done by Hurricane Sandy destroyed buildings and boardwalks that all will say will be rebuilt bigger and better than ever. I’m not sure what that means, but we’ll have to wait and see.

What it didn’t destroy are memories of time with my family, the live music I listened to and the smells of food stands, and the general carnival like atmosphere. The Tilt O’Whirl may be sitting somewhere in the ocean now, but I will never ever picture it anywhere other than on FunTown Pier… next to the Swiss Bob (“do you want to go faster?”).

I’ve always said, “you can take the boy out of New Jersey, but you can never take New Jersey out of the boy.” Until this week, maybe I really never thought about what I was saying. Now I’ll never forget what it means.

To all my friends in New Jersey, NY, CT and PA, hang in there. Things will be good again.

I Put Things in Perspective....

I turned 60 in June. Not counting for leap years, that’s approximately 21,900 days on this big blue marble. In a span of sixty years I could be born, attend and graduate from high school and college, and then do it all over again two more times and still have a few more years left. All the ups and downs, highs and lows, joys and sorrows that I have been through… in less than 22,000 days… wow! Think how long it takes for a week to pass…, although even that period of time seems to be taking less and less time. If you are still in the work force like I am, you know a week always goes faster if there’s some kind of deadline at the end of it.

Who was it that said, “the journey of ten thousand miles begins with a single step”? The journey to sixty years begins with one day, and then another… and then you’re sixty.

I loved being every age, and I love being 60, although some days the thought of my mortality does startle me a bit. I can remember walking home from grade school and passing the kids walking home from high school and thinking that I would never be that old. When I broke my two front teeth, I remember the dentist saying I could eventually get them capped when I was about 14. I was about 8 at the time, so 14 seemed so far away. Eventually I had them fixed… when I was 37.

I can remember when one of my parents’ favorite singers or actors died and the way they talked about that person. It’s the way I talked recently about George Harrison, Soupy Sales, Whitney, Horshack, Phyllis Diller and Andy Williams.

Time moves quickly, and one September 12, 1978, I loaded up my car in Dumont, NJ, and moved to Phoenix, Arizona. I lived my first 26 years in Dumont and my second 34 in Phoenix. It’s funny, but I still tell people when I meet them that I live in Phoenix, but grew up in NJ.  “Jersey” was great. Although I’ve been fortunate to get out there almost yearly, there is still nothing that has ever even come close to a sausage and peppers sandwich on the Seaside Heights Boardwalk. Maybe it’s the mix of the salt air and the smell of grilled onions and peppers, but whatever it is, it’s been known to lure me from as far away as the Poconos to drive there for one of those tasty sandwiches (and maybe a slice, or two, of Marucas’s tomato pie.

Born in 1952…. Hmm, each year I have to scroll further down drop down lists on computers when I am filling in birth information. Until I really started thinking about all this, I never realized that Pearl Harbor was attacked just 11 years before I was born. In my lifetime, the pivotal world event was September 11, 2001…. And that was eleven years ago. So I’m realizing that my parents and grandparents were still worrying about the possibility of that happening again, just as we are worrying about the Taliban and terrorism. My grandfather on my Dad’s side was a very gentle mean, but I remember the way he spoke about anyone who looked Japanese; it was similar to the way many of my generation worry about and speak about anyone who may look middle eastern.

In the great scheme of things, we’re all only here for a little while. My folks are gone, all my aunts and uncles are gone, and a few of my friends have also made their transition.

I think we’d all like to make an impact, but I’m really not sure what that means. Personally speaking, if someone mentions my name at all in a favorable light after I’m gone, then I think I’ve made my impact. I mean no disrespect when I say I wish I could have found a cure for cancer in my lifetime, or invented something that changed the world… but, I didn’t. But was my accomplishment of making Dean Brendel laugh until chocolate milk came out of his nose causing a whole room of kids to fall out laughing not worthy of some kind of praise? I think so, and that incident is the kind of thing I look back on to reassure myself that I’ve made my own impact. I’ve raised and supported a family, done my share of volunteer work, and I’ve been kind whenever I’ve had the opportunity, so I’ll add those things to my “impact” list, too!

I mean, seriously, although I hope it’s not so, I could be gone tomorrow, or even before I finish this sentence (in which case you’d never be reading this). So, I try to be mellow and go with the flow. So my apologies to the man driving the blue Prius this morning to whom I rolled down my car window and called a dickhead. I don’t know what came over me when he came across two lanes of traffic without even looking to get into the carpool lane…alone.

OK, I’m done. I had not posted to my blog in a while and just thought I’d get a few things out in the open. Have a great day… and if you have the opportunity to make someone reroute their milk through their nose…. Do it! You’ll still be telling people about 50 years from now.

Whitey out!

The Day I Made The Monkees Laugh......

It was never meant for us to take them seriously… but we did. That was the deal with The Monkees. Say what you want, but they were never supposed to be as good as they were. My band only covered one Monkee’s song and it was sung by Davy Jones. It was ‘I Wanna Be Free” and today, at age 66, he is.

Back in the 60s all teen boys hated him because all teen girls loved him. They had no reason not to. He was cute, British and he could sing. His departure from life here will never be referred to as one of those “Do you remember where you were when you heard the news that Davy Jones died?” moments, but nonetheless his passing is of concern to any kid who watched the show or listened to the music.

I will never be afraid to admit I was a Monkee’s fan; a Davy Jones fan. I loved the cornball show, and as a fledgling musician myself, I enjoyed the music. We all know at first it wasn’t them, but by the time it was really important, they were playing their music in front of packed stadiums sometimes wondering if they had practiced for naught because the din in the arenas and stadiums that were sold out, drowned out nearly every sound they made.

I have one story that directly involves me and the Monkees. But it did not happen until I was in my 40s. They (less Mike Nesmith) did a reunion show in at the Celebrity Theatre in Phoenix AZ in the early 90s. Of course I was there… for the music and the nostalgia that seeing them clown around on stage would offer me. They left the stage doing the famous "Monkee walk."  The crowd went berserk.

After the show we waited around the back near the big black limousine that was there. In a short while out they came and headed towards the limo. Peter, Mickey and Davy… and one unrecognizable woman. People were cheering, shouting their names and otherwise going crazy. Someone yelled out, “who’s the woman?” I don’t think I ever meant to shout it out, and maybe I didn’t actually shout, but somehow just at the time I did, everything instantly got quiet. And the only thing that the Monkees and everyone in the crowd heard was my comment… “That’s the Monkee wench!” There was a second of silence again, and then Peter, Mickey, Davy and THE WOMAN looked in my direction, and busted out laughing. They enjoyed it! I MADE THE MONKEES LAUGH!

Over the years it’s been a story I would tell in the right conversations and it never seemed that important until today when I heard that Davy had respectfully taken the Last Train to Rock and Roll Heaven. 

You know how they say all that stuff about “ if you can make can make just one person happy that you’ve done well?" For a split second 15+ years ago I made Davy Jones smile and laugh out loud and today that became very very important. Never pass up the opportunity to make someone smile. You may find great comfort in it someday.

Rest in peace, Davy.

Bank of America Blows

Several years back I served as an Assistant Vice President/Curriculum at BofA.  Not that they listened to everything I said when I was there, but things were a whole lot better than than they are now.  Their stock was mid 50s when I was there.  Today it was between 5 and 6.  I'm just sayin'...

All that bailout money.... jeez.

By the way, I read that BofA just this week coughed up $335 MILLION dollars to settle a DOJ lawsuit that dealt with discriminatory lending to minorities. And they call themselves Bank of America? Who said they could use that name... America?  America is ours, it belongs to the people and a business should have to prove themselves worthy before they try to cash in on the good name of our country. Ok, it's been beat around, too, but it's still America.. still great... still the best.  Let me suggest BofA rename themselves, "Bank that Blows." Oh, yeah... they have to make up that 335M somehow.  As my esteemed economics professor at ESU, Harrison Hartman used to say, "Bend over and spread 'em.  Here it comes...." 

So... how do they blow?  Let me count the ways...

Just this week I went to the bank branch to get a certified cashiers check for  a large sum of money.  They charged me a $10 fee.  I asked the teller why and she had no clue.  As a matter of fact she said, "I don't know," and went back about her business of getting my check ready.  A "helpful" supervisor who heard my question came over and did her best to tell me that the fee covers the extra time it takes to process the check. In this case, the teller took my info, took out a blank check, put the check in the printer, and handed me my completed check. Extra time to process the check?  Really?  It took all of 30 seconds.  My $10 was a charge for 30 seconds of BofA employee time.  (Ironic because the teller probably makes less than $10/hr).   Yes, I did do the math.  That's $1,200 an hour for "extra time" it takes them to process a cashiers check.  The bailout money certainly doesn't help us there!
 
Two months ago my BofA Visa debit card cracked in half after being used thousands of times to generate hundreds of dollars of card processing revenue for the bank.  I went into the branch.  They smiled.  They gave me a temporary card to use and told me I'd recieve my new card in the mail in 5-7 business days.  I did.  I also received a $5 charge on my next statement for the replacement card.  That was un-American! It was BS!

Nope... not done yet. I have overdraft "protection" on my checking account at BofA.  When I use my debit card the money comes out of my checking account.  When I use it too much and there is no money in my checking account I am "protected",  It's like there's a condom on my checking account!  The only problem is Bank of America, who I did not recognize until this very moment is in the prophylactic business, charges me $10 for the condom.  That's right... when they take MY money from My savings, and put it in MY checking account to cover, they charge ME $10.  I think the condom is a good reference because many people use them when they are getting screwed. I know, that's harsh, but it just didn't have the right effect when I said, getting "made love to."

Finally, you remember BofA's announcement that they were going to charge $5/month for use of your debit card, whether you used it or not?  It took 22 year-old Molly Katchpole, an unemployed grad student,  to get up a petiton that eventually had 370,000 signatures on it for BofA to back down.  But I guarantee you they have some other amount of rediculousness up their sleeves.

So this post begins my exodus from BofA. I'm off to one of the local credit unions.  I know they'll have fees of their own, but I'll look at them as "community" based fees... not America based fees.

OK, and finally, here are the Top Ten Signs that you are doing business with the wrong bank...

10. When you make a deposit, tellers high-five each other.
9. After you get a free toaster, bank president shows up at your house every day for breakfast.
8. Your monthly statements are handwritten, in crayon.
7. When you want to make a withdrawal, clerks suddenly don't speak English.
6. You notice vault has screen door entrances and exits.
5. Your safety deposit box is an empty Happy Meal container.
4. No cash drawers.  All cash deposits go directly into teller's pocket or purse.
3. Lobby is waist-deep in Mexican pesos.
2. Toll-free customer service line is: 1-800-SCREWU.
1. Four words: Bank President Bernie Madoff

Whitey Out! (no charge....)

It was 3,652 Sunrises Ago....

A short number of years ago there was a period when every couple of nights I would bolt upright in bed wondering if the loud sound I was hearing was in my house… or in my head. Time proved that it was the latter. It was nothing more than the classic nightmare accompanied by a little sweat, increased heartbeat and probably a rise in BP although I never got up at 2:30a to check that out.

After a chat with my doctor to rule out anything physical, he convinced my to amend my eating and drinking habits prior to bed and get more than the 6 hours of sleep a night I was getting at the time.  It was money well spent (by my insurance company) because I’ve been sleeping well ever since.

At one point during the “exam” the doctor asked me what the nightmares were about and the conversation stopped dead in its tracks. I had no idea. In my head they were loud and chaotic. On a couple of occasions, when I thought I was awake, I remember listening to the sound when there should have been silence. I even put my hands over my ears and there was no difference. I know now that that was a part of the dream, too.

Ten years ago I sat transfixed in front of the TV for 14 hours straight. I don’t ever remember getting up at all… for 14 hours. I remember thinking I was dreaming then, too. My girlfriend at the time worked within blocks of Ground Zero. Fortunately, early on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I already had email and a phone call from her. I knew she was physically safe and I remember stopping to say a prayer that she was... a little different behavior from me.  Had I not heard from her before the towers came down, my nightmares a few years later may have been quite different.

There are iconic images of the day.. thousands of them, but two resonate with me; the falling man, and the dust man. I’ve seen their images many times this week in various remembrance articles. For a while no one knew the identity of the falling man, but eventually he was identified as a worker at the restaurant on the top floor of the north tower. I remember reading about the outrage that the picture was published at all, but somehow, I see grace in this singular photo. Grace? On 9/11? Maybe that’s why this photo is special to me. It was a moment of grace in a hellish day.

Then, there's the dust man… maybe I first saw this photo on 9/11, maybe 9/12. It was so surrealistic to me. A business man, dressed like a businessman with his jacket folded neatly over his arm and his briefcase in hand. It could be any day, except on this day he is painted with toxic dust and walking through ankle-deep debris on a seemingly deserted street in the most vibrant city in the world.
I read this week he still works downtown and still commutes daily from NJ. All the clothes he was wearing that day hang at home in his bedroom closet. He still has his briefcase, too. He walks by thousands of people every day who have no idea who he is, what he saw, or what nightmares he may have. He’s the dust man….

Maybe my nightmares were related to the events of September, 11, 2001. Is there anyone who hasn’t thought about the nightmare of having been trapped in one of the towers? Is there anyone who hasn’t wondered if he would have had the superhuman composure to call and comfort a loved one? We know hundreds of phone calls to spouses, children, and parents were made from the towers between the moment that the first plane hit and the time that the north tower collapsed.

The strength of the human spirit is evident and written all over the final moments for victims of 911 because when words should have been most impossible to find, there were words of grace, and dignity, and consolation. There were fear and last words of love.  "Whatever happens... I Love You..."

I’m not going to tell you to never forget what happened on 9-11. No one should ever have to tell you that; no more than they should have to tell you to not forget to breathe. It should be a part of you.

Ten years….. Wow.  Maybe that person was wrong who first said “time will heal all wounds.”

Thanks for your time.

God bless you, God bless America, and God bless our men and women in uniform.

Whitey out!

Roy Orbison Sang for the Lonely

First, does anyone know where the title for my post comes from?

Last week on FB I posted a video of Paul McCartney singing “For No One,” I can best describe it as a broken-hearted love song sang by a man, who realizes, through the actions of his partner, that it’s over. I was surprised by the number of comments I got from guys saying, “I’ve been there.” I posted it because I had been there myself.

And then I got to thinking about other songs and how they can rip your heart out in a single tug because of the lyrics, or because of the music, or because of the combination of the two. It’s always amazed me how songwriters can take ordinary words and string them together in such an order as to do that.

So, my blog post this week is my choices for the top several songs that can tear you up inside wither because of unrequited love, severe teenage angst, or another situation that just hits home for you. Besides being tear jerkers, they are also great songs... period!. You don’t have to be on the edge of a relationship disaster to enjoy these; you can just enjoy them because they are good, and well-written, and sometimes they’ll seem like you wrote them yourself because of what they say. I've linked them all to You Tube so you can get a listen and sometimes a video (using the Back Button will bring you back here from You Tube).

What's YOUR "go to" song when you're feeling low?

For No One – The Beatles: “You think she needs you…” FAIL!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bltVvdWTbzQ

Crying – Roy Orbison: He wasn’t blind… the shades were his trademark and his voice was a gift to us.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N24BTzOp7qU

Unbreak my Heart – Toni Braxton: The title says it all, and I actually get a bit teary when I see the video with Toni Braxton in various stages of dress. Ever hear the expression, “it’s enough to make a grown man cry?” It didn’t exist before this video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2Rch6WvPJE

I Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt: I know now that I would never want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me, but it took some convincing. You can’t make someone love you (unless you are paying them).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3AwqBPzYtk

At Seventeen – Janis Ian: I wonder how many young girls cried their eyes out to this song? Or young boys, for that matter. This is teenage angst at its very best. “And those of us with ravaged faces, lacking in the social graces…” Wow.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MrKtX-c3XU&feature=fvwp&NR=1

Fast Car – Tracy Chapman: When I first heard this my thought was, “Awesome song!” And as I listened to it again my thought was, “What a sad song!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfqEisOIMJc

Send In the Clowns – Judy Collins: Maybe the first of the “modern day” sad songs. What a voice on Judy Collins.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGekq3Jt5Go

You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling – The Righteous Brothers: I can seeing hundreds of guys and girls singing along to this in the 60s after being dumped by their steadys.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhs3Rj71gpo

It’s My Party – Leslie Gore: Hungry? Listen to this… it’s got plenty of cheese.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsYJyVEUaC4

One – Three Dog Night: One is the loneliest number. 'Nuff said…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ihV-328vj8

Field of Gold - Eva Cassidy: A personal favorite of mine.  During her life she was virtually unknown except around the Washington, D.C. area.  In 1993, she had a malignant mole removed from her back. Three years later, she noticed an ache in her hips, and x-rays revealed that the melanoma had spread to her lungs and bones and her health deteriorated rapidly. Cassidy died within the year from malignant melanoma on November 2, 1996, at the age of 33.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKtqTYSOBCg&nofeather=True

Superstar - The Carpenters: Not so much a sad song for the words, but sad for Karen Carpenter. What a senseless loss of a great voice.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJmmaIGiGBg&ob=av2n

Quitting Time – Mary Chapin Carpenter: Someone who was ending a relationship with me played this for me. It didn’t help the hurt, but it was a good try.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwD1FPD15A8

Now... go listen to some happy music!

Pucker Up! It's Colonscopy Time!

My post today combines the thoughts of Dave Barry, a syndicated humor columnist, and me, a single-white male living in Phoenix Arizona.  Enjoy! (and call me?)

OK. You turned 50. You know you're supposed to get a colonoscopy. Butt, you haven't. Here are your reasons:

1. You've been busy.

2. You don't have a history of cancer in your family.

3. You haven't noticed any problems.

4. You don't want a doctor to stick a tube 70 feet up your ass.

Let's examine these reasons one at a time. No, wait, let's not. Because you and I both know that the only real reason is No. 4. This is natural. The idea of having another human, even a medical human, becoming deeply involved in what is technically known as your rectum (pronounced "wrecked-him") gives you the sweats.

I'm 59 and I had my first colonoscopy two years ago.  Despite everything you hear, it was a simple and painless procedure.  Notice I did not say it was "non-invasive."  As much as I avoided it, I made the decision to not be stupid about it.  I knew it was something that could possibly save my life.  Best of all, it turned out that everything is working and looking the way it should. I know... already we're in the TMI zone. Well buckle your seatbelt... it's going to be a bumpy ride!

In 1997, when Dave Barry turned 50, everybody told him he should get a colonoscopy. He agreed that he definitely should, butt not right away. By following that policy, he reached age 55 without having had a colonoscopy. Then he did something so pathetic and embarrassing that I am frankly ashamed to tell you about it.
What happened was, a giant 40-foot replica of a human colon came to Miami Beach. Really. It was an educational exhibit called the Colossal Colon, and it was on a nationwide tour to promote awareness of colo-rectal cancer. The idea is, you crawl through the Colossal Colon, and you encounter various educational items in there, such as polyps, cancer and hemorrhoids the size of regulation volleyballs, and you go, ''Whoa, I better find out if I contain any of these things,'' and then you get a colonoscopy.

If you are my age and there is a giant colon within a 200-mile radius, you are legally obligated to go see it. So he went to Miami Beach and crawled through the Colossal Colon and then wrote a column full of tasteless colon jokes.  But he also urged everyone to get a colonoscopy. When I read a reprint of his column in 2008, I pledged to myself to get one; no, not a Colossal Colon, a colonsoscopy. And then I prayed I did not already have a colossal colon.
Butt, I didn't get one right away.  I was with Dave.  I found myself to be a fraud, a hypocrite, a liar. I could have run for Congress! Butt I did go for my screening the following year.

I went to the Arizona Colonoscopy campus.  No, they do not have a football team and thank goodness for that.  The mascot possibilities are endless. Anyway, I left the office with an appointment for my procedure with Dr. Singh, some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called ''MoviPrep,'' which comes in a box large enough to hold a spiral sliced ham.  I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that prisoners would beg for waterboarding if they had their choice between that and MoviPrep.

I spent the next several days sitting around being nervous and googling "colonoscopy." I figured if some doctor was going to google my behind in a few days, I needed to google something, too! On the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day.  All I had were liquids; broths, iced tea, etc.  Then, in the afternoon, I began taking the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-gallon plastic jug (that's why the box was so big... comes with its own jug),, then you fill it with water.  There are some "flavor" packets that come with the mix; cherry, orange, and lemon.  I opted for the orange.  Yummy! Then you have to drink the whole jug; one 12 oz. glass every half hour.  This happens over the course of about 5 hours. Did I mention you should not make plans for the remainder of the day?
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, states that after you drink it, ''a loose watery bowel movement may result.'' That's like saying if you are stopped at a traffic light on the far west side of mid-town Manhattan, that you may experince someone asking if you need your windows washed.

MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic,here, butt have you ever seen a launch of the space shuttle?  Well, MoviPrep is the fuel and you are the shuttle.  You spend several hours pretty much confined to a 10 foot radius of the bathrrom.  I actually moved my Lazy Boy just outside the bathroom door, until I realized that the extra time it took to get out of the chair when I had to, was now oh so important.  So, I moved the Lazy Boy back to its origianl spot and put a plain straightback chair near the bathroom door.  I still had a straight view to the TV.  No problem...

MovePrep lives up to its rep.  You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally void of anything you shoved into your face for the last week, MoviPrep kicks into overrdrive.  As far as I can figure, your bowels enter some drug-related time machine and advance to the future where they start expelling foods you have not consumed yet.

Actually, I slept fine that evening.  The next morning a friend drove me to the Colonoscopy campus.  Not only was I worried about the procedure, butt I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep. I was thinking, ''What if I .... on Dr. Singh?"  How do you apologize to someone for something like that?  And you can't make believe it didn't happen.  They've made a fortune selling bumper stickers and t-shirts saying it does, and it's far more obvious than trying to blame the family dog for "breaking wind."

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the hell the forms said. Then they led me to a room where I took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital gowns, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.

Then a very lovely nurse named Valerie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand.

When everything was ready, Valerie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Dr. Singh was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 70-foot tube, butt I know Dr. Singh had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Dr. Singh had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and the TV was on. 
And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.  I do want to say that at one point during the procedure I looked up at the TV.  I don't know what show the Doctor and nurses were watching, but it looked like some guy with a very cute butt, was getting something shoved up it.  I thought, oh well, even some porn for the staff can't do anything butt boost morale.

Soo, what about the colonoscopy?  I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, Judge Judy was rendering her verdict on the TV and the next, some guy was getting reamed with a hose.  Where are the censors anyway?

. . . and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up feeling just fine.  Dr. Singh was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Dr. Singh told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. Although I love all my internal organs equally the same, I was never more proud of my colon.  I even got some lovely photos to take home and, I don't know... frame?
Butt my point is this: In addition to being medically pathetic, I was a complete moron. For more than a year I avoided getting a procedure that was, essentially, nothing. There was no pain and, except for the MoviPrep, slight to no discomfort. I was risking my life for being nothing more than macho.  And in unfortunate cases... macho kills.

One of the nicest men I have ever known, put off his colonoscopy even though he had symptoms that things were not right.  He died at age 50. If you had asked me a year before he died, "Who is the healthiest man you know?", I would have said his name in an instant.  You don't have to feel like you have cancer to have cancer.

If you are a man reading this, don't be stupid.  If you are a woman reading this, don't let your man be stupid.  And maybe it's not a bad idea to ask YOUR physician if a colonscopy is necessary for you.

OK, since you've all had the good sense to read this far, here are some things I hope will make you laugh.  These are some of the most memorable things said by patients during their colonoscopies. Here you go! #5 and #10 are my favorites.

1. 'Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!'
2. 'Find Amelia Earhart yet?'
3. 'Can you hear me NOW?'
4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'
5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.'
6.  'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?'
7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...'
8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!'
9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!'
10.. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.'
11.. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?'
12.. 'God, now I know why I am not gay.'
And the best one of all:

13.. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?'

Whitey out!

Ladies... Is your Husband a Sex Offender? Am I a Sex Offender? We are if we did the things that Frank Rodriguez did...

I'm not really sure how to start this.  Or whether I want to start this post at all.  I may wind up being something I never ever wanted to be.

Today I read a story about a Texas man, Frank Rodriguez, who married his high school sweetheart and went on to have four children with her. Nice story, right?
But, because this couple had consensual sex while they were dating in high school (he was a senior and she was a sophomore) and she was  underage, he landed on the sex offender list all those years ago. Now, he's spent his life on the list, and he's even banned from going some places with his own children because other young children will be there.  He cannot coach any youth sports teams.  Hell, he can't even leave the state without getting permission from the right people.

What happened was, when his wife Nikki's mom heard that they were having sex as teens, she went to the police.  She says she went to "scare some sense" into the kids.  So she told the police the story and let her daughter and boyfriend  think about the terrible "consequences of sex before marriage" for the night.  When she went back to the police the following morning to withdraw the complaint, it was too late.  Unfortunately, the charge had been filed and Frank went to court, and for his crime of statutory rape was sentenced to seven years probation.  As a part of the deal to avoid jail time he plead guilty and was required to register as a sex offender.. the same sex offender status given to rapists of children and pedophiles.  And that was more than 15 years ago.

When Frank Rodriguez looks at his name on the registry of sex offenders it says, "sexual assault of a child." When anyone looks at the registry that's what they are told about Frank Rodriguez.  It just doesn't seem to tell the correct story, does it?

I'm all for protecting children from sexual predators, but our jails and court systems would be overrun if every 18 year-old high school boy who's ever had sex with a girl under the age of consent was processed through the court system and forced to register as a sex offender. Newsflash! It's not uncommon for high school girls and boys to have sexual relationships. I'm not saying anything about the morality of it.

I also have to say I do not have a daughter and my feelings might be very different if I was ever presented with the news that my little high school junior was having sex with the captain of the football team. Frank's wife Nikki Rodriguez says, "It's hard to explain to our children why daddy is a sex offender." She says she and Frank talked about having sex in high school and taking their relationship to another level. It was not a "what the heck just happened" moment for either of them.

Obviously, when Nikki was old enough, they got married. Today, they're together with their four girls. But Frank is still saddled with his sex offender status.
I think we all need to take an interest in kids getting involved at too young an age, but don't you think that's way different than criminalization and branding people as sex offenders?

So, if I may have inadvertantly, or if YOUR husband at one time may have inadevertantly had a go with someone under the age of consent, are we right up there with pedophiles?  According to the Law in Texas, the answer is "guilty as charged."

I think Frank Rodriguez has suffered long enough, don't you?

Never Judge a Man Until You've Walked a Mile with His Pants Down Around Your Ankles.

Oooooh, that Anthony Weiner resigned before I had a chance to get the Weiner Mo-Blog all ready to go.

Well, what can I say?  I’ve been procrastinating for weeks and posting my comments on FaceBook instead of getting them ready to be blog fodder.  My disclaimer for this post simply says I have no intention of talking about the photo itself, so read on!  This post is not PG-13, but I think I’ve kept things in check.

Finally, I want to say Thank You to Late Night TV for the inspiration.
So, without further ado….

I’m sure Weiner carefully thought this whole thing over before proceeding to put a photo of his junk on Twitter. Thanks goodness he didn’t put it on Face Book. Where's that "Dislike" button?
Before he sent the photo into cyberspace he probably thought to himself, “What could go wrong?” If he thought enough about it (I especially did not use the phrase “thought long and hard about it"), he would have decided to put it somewhere people wouldn’t see it; for example, on My Space. I guess at no point did he ever think, “If I get caught, I have a name that would exponentially increase my embarrassment.”

I particularly enjoyed the early stages of this story when Weiner could not say with certainty whether the photo was him or not. Did he have so many other pics of dicks around and that one got away? It’s like that sock that escapes from your dryer only to be found weeks later in the street half a block from your house.

He flat-out denied the picture was him, even telling Wolf Blitzer that "it doesn’t look familiar.” Folks, my penis is something I’m familiar with, as are most men. As a matter of fact, we are so familar with our manhood that when, and if, we ever had to describe it to a police sketch artist, it would be in custody and behind bars within the hour.
If I were Weiner, I would have blamed it on Bret Favre from the git-go. Bret has some recent experience with sexting, right?  I have to say taking a photo of your own johnson must be difficult.  Is the lighting right?  Am I smiling? And am i aware of what's in the background, or is there a big tree sticking out of the top of my ...head? I suppose if the "sexting" trend continues, digital cameras will have settings like portrait, sports, landscape, beach, genitalia, etc....

There are 3 things in this world I am sure of. One is that the movie "Brian’s Song" can turn a frat house full of beer-drinking tough guys into a mess of sniffling sissies. Second, I am sure that OJ did it, and the third is, I would recognize a birds-eye view of my trouser mouse taken from three feet above it. So, for Weiner to say he couldn’t say for sure whether the photo was him is to say that HE’s that guy who looks all around and off into the distance when he’s standing at the urinal. For me it’s always eyes straight down to make sure I’m hitting the target, and from now on, to make sure I'll recognize my pee-pee should it ever make a break for it and show up unclaimed on the WWW.

I suppose this new internet technology has made it easy for all this to happen. Remember the old days when a senator had to get into his car, drive to the airport, find the airport bathroom, try to figure out which stall the right guy is in, tap his foot, etc? Heck, now they can mail the picture right to your home or office! Come to think of it, I heard a rumor years ago that members of Congress could mail their packages for free. Now I know it’s true!  And up until 3 weeks ago, I never knew wat real junk mail was.

In an ironic twist to the whole story, Weiner and Bill Clinton are close friends. Weiner’s wife is Hillary Clinton’s top aide. Bill Clinton performed the Weiner’s wedding ceremony. Of course Bill was very disappointed when the scandal broke. He was very upset with Congressman Weiner. Oh, not for the picture. Clinton was upset because Weiner didn’t tell him about the technology that allowed him to do it.

When asked about the Congressman Weiner scandal, President Obama said that if it were him, he'd resign. When Bill Clinton was asked about the same thing he said, 'If it was me, I wouldn't be surprised.'" Friends of a feather……

It turns out that one of the women Weiner was communicating with was a porn star. When asked how it was possible to get involved with someone in such a sleazy business, the porn star said, 'I don't know. It just happened.'"

Now Weiner is desperately trying to make things right with his wife. You can tell he’s sorry. Today he sent her a picture of his penis with a little sad face on it. A nice gesture, wouldn’t you say?

Was the whole thing newsworthy? Absolutely! I know years from now people will remember where they were and what they were doing when they heard Weiner twitted his junk.

There is all kinds of stuff left to say and tell about, but then I’d have to stray from being tasteful. It’s hard to talk about someone’s wedding tackle and be PG-13. I missed that mark terribly here, but it was fun.

Weiner has resigned, but his career is far from over. Let’s look at the life of a disgraced politicians. They do  great things prior to running for election, then win in a landslide.  Then they do something incredibly stupid, deny it, admit it, and then resign.  And then to cap off that crazy roller coaster ride, they place in the top three in Dancing with the Stars.

Alright... nothing left to do then except reprint some of the best Weiner headlines:

Pressure Mounting on Weiner

Weiner Exposed!

Obama Comes Down Hard on Weiner

Weiner’s Pickle

Weiner Hard to Swallow

Weiner Gets Grilled


And after he resigned:

Weiner Pulls Out



That’s All Folks!

Even an A-hole Can Change His Pinstripes

There are times when I think people are a-holes and not a thng is done to ever change my thought on that. Sometimes news will come out vindicating the person from whatever I thought occurred  for me to categorize them in such a way, and sometimes nothing ever happens and they remain, for all eternity, an a-hole.

BUT, here is a rare instance when my feeling has been reversed. It’s between me and a major name in professional baseball. It’s about me and Barry Bonds.

He was drafted by the Giants in 1982 out of high school, but he turned them down when the best offer they made to him was $70,000. So, he went to college. Living in Arizona, I watched Bonds play his college baseball as a skinny kid at Arizona State University. He was first team All-America and it was well-deserved. At ASU he batted .347 with 45 home runs and 175 runs batted in. He was electric.

I won’t say much about his professional career.  He first played for the Pittsburgh Pirates, and then later with the San Francisco Giants. It might be interesting to point out that in 1992, just ten years after he turned down the $70,000 Giants originally offered, they gave him a contract for $43.75 million over three years. At the time, it was the largest contract ever in any professional sport.

But this post isn’t about Bonds on the field, or what he did in the clubhouse. This is about what he did a monh ago.

Bryan Stow, 42, is not a professional athlete. He’s a San Francisco Giants baseball fan and until March 31, he served the public as an Emergency Medical Technician; a paramedic. His name may sound familiar. Bryan is the Giants fan who was brutally attacked on Opening Day at Dodger Stadium for apparently no other reason than wearing his Giants jersey to the game. Stow sustained brain damage from the attack and has been in and out of a medically-induced coma since the beating.

Just this week, police in L.A. arrested one of the thugs and charged him with the beating.

According to Thomas Gerardi, the attorney for the Stow family, on April 22, Barry Bonds visited the family, and without fanfare, said he would cover the college expenses for Stow’s two children who are currently in grade school.  No mention was made to the media then and it would have still been a secret had Girardi not revealed it to the media.

I can’t say I was a Bonds hater prior to this, but he was not one of my faves, either, but on this one I have to say, “well done, Barry.”

Osama bin Laden's Legacy Lingers On

It was announced today that Buckwheat, of "Our Gang" fame has converted to the Muslim faith and changed his name to Kareem of Wheat.

Rumor has it that Al Qaida may be training him as a cereal killer,,,,

The Uniqueness of Squeaky

I'm 58 years old and unfortunately, my friends are starting to die.  Fifty-eight, nine or 60 is still way too young.

Today I received a call that my friend, for what seems like forever, Michael "Squeaky" Carroll, had made his transition at the beginning of the week.  Fifty-eight... how very sad.

Squeaky?  He got the nickname in grade school, St. Mary's School, because that's the way his voice was.  At some point in grade school, his voice was squeakier than most pre-pubescent boys, so the name stuck. And it stuck through HS, and today when I got the news some 50 years since St. Mary's School, I was told that Squeaky, not Mike, had passed on.

To say he was a character, would be an understatement.  About an hour ago when someone we both knew called to chat about him, I said, "I have a million Squeaky stories."  And that's probably not too much of an exaggeration; if one at all.

He was short, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in uniqueness.  The girls, for as long as I can remember, loved him.  He was funny, and kind, and caring, and funny, and special ... and did I say funny?
He was captain of the Varsity soccer team.  In junior and senior years he and I and Murray, O'Leary and Sapienza were inseparable.  I know each of those guys will be as sad as I am when they hear the news.

We worked together at White Beeches Golf Course in the summer.... hysterical. Ironically, Rick Molnar worked with us.  Ricky, another best friend, made his transition several years ago.  Rick died after a bout with cancer.. I'm not sure how Squeaky went.  The call I got today gave no clue and the obituary in the paper only mentioned that he wanted no viewing and no service. Being a cancer patient myself, I only hoped his transition was made without a great deal of suffering. 
For several years now I have worked for Blood Systems, Inc. We are the second largest provider of blood and blood products in the U.S. and those products save lives every day.  I don't think Mike knew that I worked there, but his family requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the local blood bank.  Maybe he did know....  If you are a friend of his and reading this, please consider making a local blood donation in his memory. You will save lives and you will honor his memory.

We were children of the sixties and we did have our "youthful exuberance," and we enjoyed the hell out of our teen years.  I didn't have a car and Squeaky did, so most every night he'd stop by the house to pick me up.  My parents loved him.  My sister loved him.  He was always welcome in our home.
One night he came to pick me up and he was wearing a pair of overalls.  Tucked into the top pocket of his overalls was a bag of weed.  It was more out of his pocket than it was in.  He waited for me about 10 minutes and spent the entire time talking to my parents. When I walked into the room, I did my best to let him know what was happening, but their conversation kept up.  As I hustled him out of the room and out of the house, my Dad said to him, "Hey Squeaky, you may want to tuck that in before you lose it."

We spent our weekend nights at the finest places... mostly at Jack and Ginny's Pub in Piermont, NY.  We just called it Jack's.  It was replete with a bowling machine, endless beer nuts, at least two good fights a night and those Stewart's sandwiches that came wrapped in plastic and that you put in a special oven with the plastic still on them.  Yum!  Piermont was the closest "alcohol at 18"  town over the "must be 21 to drink" New Jersey State line. Many of my "millions of Squeaky stories" center around Jack's.
One night at Jack's we met two young ladies from Paramus, NJ.  Squeaky began a relationship with Linda, and I with Joann.  We went out to eat together, we went to the movies together, we went on ski weekends together, although neither he nor I skied.  The one thing we did not do, was get their names correct.  For more than 6 months we, in error, called them the wrong names, and although they didn't seem to care, it must have seemed odd when some of their friends were with us.  Anyway, eventually two other guys came along that  called them the right names and that was that.

Maybe my favorite story, and the story that captures his essence was one from college days.  He attended New Haven College in Connecticut, and I attended East Stroudsburg State College in Pennsylvania. We were frequent visitors to each other's school.
I am a brother of Phi Sigma Kappa and Squeaky was at one of our frat parties one night.  It was at a time in our lives when the only things really important were cold brew and loud music.  Oh yeah... I forget to also say studying hard.  It was also at a time when he had the burning desire to learn the harmonica, the blues harp, so he always carried one around with him. He couldn't play it for shit.  So we are at the party with about 200 guys and girls, drinking beer and listening to Led Zep (When the Levee Breaks) and I look over at Squeaky and he is going to town on his harmonica.  He's got all the moves and it looks like he's been playing for years.  He's wailing, but the music is so loud you can't hear him at all!!!  So I walk over to where the stereo system is and little by little I begin to lower the volume.  Well, he's playing so hard and so loud that all he can hear is himself and not that the stereo has been turned down.  And I get it to the point where all anyone can hear is this disastrous harmonica player giving the performance of his life and living his dream of being a legendary blues man.  It sounded like someone was killing cats! He sucked! But th crowd cheered him on and on and he played like he was a harmonica god (but a really crappy one).  Little by little I raised the volume back up to its original level.  The song ended, he stopped, wiped his harmonica down and then stuck it back in his pocket and walked away like he had just mesmerized a Saturday night crowd at the Fillmore.  He was a hit and I couldn't have been prouder of my friend.  When I thought of this today, I was glad I was able to do that for him, because I knew that he had done so much for everyone that had the luck to know him.

As you know from reading the blog, my nickname in High School was Whitey.  Squeaky always called me White Dog.

I know tonight he's got a circle of people gathered around him and he's blowin' the harp in heaven.  And if heaven is as beautiful and perfect as we hear it is... this time he's awesome! Thank goodness because he couldn't play worth a damn down here.

I miss you my friend.  Rock on...

White Dog out.

Here we are at our Senior Prom in 1970.  That's Squeaky on the far left, and me on the far right.
(click to enlarge)

The Story of the "Coron-ion"

First, it's pronounounced "core-onion." And what I'm about to tell you is true.  And finally, it could only happen in the great state of California.

A few years back I was sitting at Pier 39 in San Francisco enjoying a bucket of Coronas with my friend, Sue.  We were people watching and enjoying the beautiful day along San Francisco Bay.  Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge were clearly visible in the near distance.

We had just finished some food.  Right now I have no recollection of what we ate. I think it must have been some kind of burger because it came with a slice of raw onion which I had removed and it was now sitting on my plate with some crumbs from the long gone bun.

You all know that when you break up a slice of raw onion, it turns into onion rings, so I should say I was sitting with a plate of raw onion rings.

Although we were having a great time together, I suppose in some kind of bored moment, we each took one of the onion rings and slipped it over the neck of our Corona bottles and continued drinking.  Not long after, a group of hot California college girls came along.  As I always do, I said hello.  One of them, in her best valley girl voice asked me about the onion ring on my bottle... and ladies and gentlemen, the Coron-ion ( a mix of Corona and onion) was born.  I make up some of my best shit when I'm half in the bag.

So, I told her, "this is a Coron-ion (a term I made up on the spot). I continued: "Brewers of Mexican beers have found that lime was actually causing a fungus in the beer and they were suggesting this as a replacement.  The oils from the onion seep through the glass bottle and flavor the beer in a very delicious way... and there is no trace of onion breath."  And then, to completely set the hook and complete the story, I stood up, kissed her on the cheek and asked, "do you smell any onion?"  To which she replied, "no, that's amaaaaaazing."

Off they went and found a table not to far from where Sue and I were sitting.  I was asking Sue if she thought they bought my story, but all she could do was shake her head.  I got my answer 30 seconds later when the waitress came by their table and asked if they wanted anything to drink.  In her best valley girl voice, my new California friend excitedly asked the waitress for "4 Coron-ions."  I heard the waitress ask, "what's that?"  And when the girls looked over to our table, we already removed the onion ring from the necks of our bottles. They weren't angry... I think they thoight it was pretty funny and confirmed my belief that you can tell someone from California almost anything and they will believe it.  Ask Jerry Brown.

Amaaaaaazing....

Here's a photo of me recreating the Coron-ion.

Rocking the SuperBowl at Halftime - Not! (previously posted February 2010)

 I know I've said in my blog before that I am a lucky man and I'm saying it again. I've had the opportunity to attend a Super Bowl football game; probably something that's on the bucket list of many guys my age. I went in 1987 when the NY Giants were a 39-20 winner over the Denver Broncos at the Rose Bowl.

And what about the halftime show? Did I get The Stones? Elton? Madonna? Eagles? A one second look at Diana Ross's boob after a Bob Mackie wardrobe malfunction? C'mon, she was still hot (and sober) in 1987. Nope.. none of the above. Hell, in 1987 I would have even taken Jody Watley. Jody who? She won the Grammy for best new artist in 1987. Yeah, really. Go look it up; I had to.

No. My halftime "extravaganza" was "A Salute to Hollywood" featuring high school drill teams from southern California . WTF? At first I thought, "OK, at least I'll get a look at those perenially gorgeous cheerleaders from USC (Southern Cal). But no such luck. They didn't mean THAT southern cal... they meant the area of southern cal. I got flag twirlers who couldn't make the cheer squad or girl's cross country at their respective high schools. And before you get all over me, I'm sure they all had great personalities. The only thing I can say that I truly remember about the performance was that they whipped absolutely no one into a frenzy. Pyrotechnics? None. Lasers? None. Entertainment value? None.

That's right... I went all the way to Pasadena to a superbowl halftime "extravaganza" featuring nobody. Even Tommy C selling his ticket stub to someone outside the stadium at halftime was more entertaining.... especially when the new buyer came in to claim the seat.

Since then there's been U2, Tom Petty, Paul McCartney (for you youngsters he was in a band before Wings), and Michael Jackson at halftime. Well, people have always said I've been ahead of my time.

I guess I did alright though. My ticket in 1987 was $75. Yesterday's tickets went from a minimum face value of $800 to a max of $5,250. Would I pay that to see The Who? Despite their obvious "aging" they were still awesome. Although I thought at some point when they were singing "Who Are You," they actually meant it.

So I was thinking yesterday, "I wonder where those flag girls are now?" And if you know, tell them they owe me $75.

The Blame Game.... Tucson, Arizona

I've lived in Arizona for 32 years.  I live 130 miles from Tucson... and I blame... (drum roll please)..
Jared Loughner, 22 years-old from Tucson, Arizona.  And I blame NO ONE ELSE.

I do not blame Sarah Palin for her ill-advised "cross-hairs" map any more than I blame the Democrat who drew up the "bulls-eye" map.

I do not blame anyone who can carry on incessantly about what a tradgedy this is, but cannot spell Tucson correctly.

I do not blame President Barack Obama or his health plan, or the failure of anyone to get Loughner the help they all say , now in hindsight, that he needed.

I do not blame Jared Loughner's parents, because as a 22 year-old, he is well above the age of consent and does not have to do anything other than what he wants to do... even if he lives at home.
AND even if his parents tossed him out because he was "living under their roof" and didn't listen, I still wouldn't blame them.

I do not blame the clerks at ShootersWorld and Walmart who legally sold a 9mm Glock and ammunition to Loughner.  Nor do I blame the progressive gun laws in Arizona that permit us to carry concealed legal weapons without a concealed weapons permit.

I do not blame the police officer who stopped Jared Loughner for running a red light just three hours before Loughner shot and killed 6 people.  The officer asked for license, insurance and registration which Loughner produced without a problem.  The officer let him go with just a warning.  I'm not sure what was in the car at the time (no one knows except Loughner), but if the officer had the authority to look in the car, Christina Green may have made it to her 10th birthday... and many many more.

I do not blame the High School coach who may have cut Loughner from the team because we wasn't good enough, and I do not blame the drive through attendant at McDonald's who may have given him coffee hot enough to burn himself if he were to spill it.

I do not blame the teacher he had in the third grade who may have scolded him in front of the class for not having "neat" work.

And I do not, blame the cute girl from his HS english class who may have said no to him when he asked her out to the movies. Or the girl in his science class, or the girl in his math class.

I do not blame (nor do I condone) the bullies who may have called him nerd or douchebag when he was a freshman.

I do not blame George W. Bush who led us into war on bad intelligence, or any other past president of the last 25 years.

I do not blame the driver of the Cadillac CTS who may have swerved into Loughner's lane during the morning commute last week and almost caused an accident and then may have watched in his rear-view mirror as Loughner follwed that Cadillac 10 miles out of his way just to let the driver know (via flip off and crazed horn-honking) just how pissed off he was.

I do not blame Michael Vick, who tortured dogs, was convicted and served his debt to society, or Chris Brown who beat his girlfriend , Rhianna, or Tiger Woods who let his fans down, or LeBron James who left Cleveland for Miami.  And, I do not blame the Bachelor for choosing neither of the girls in thye final episode a few years ago.

I do not blame Pima Community College who told Loughner not to come back until he could control his verbal outbursts in the classroom.

I do not blame me, and I do not blame you.

WHO DO I BLAME?
I blame Jared Loughner, 22 years-old of Tucson, Arizona, and I blame NO ONE ELSE.



God in heaven, Please grant eternal rest to:
Judge John Rolls, 63
Gabriel Zimmerman, 30
Dorwin Stoddard, 76
Dorthy Murray, 76
Phyllis Scheck, 79
and
Christina Green, 9

WWJD? Doctrine Trumps Common Sense for the Archdiocese of Phoenix.

I've been a patient at St. Joseph's hospital.  It is without a doubt, the best hospital in Phoenix.  It was founded by the Sisters of Mercy more than 100 years ago. The late Pope John Paul chose St. Joe's as a place to say Mass when he made his only visit to Phoenix about twenty years ago.

Today, St. Joseph's Hospital was stripped of its "Catholic" status by Bishop Thomas Ohlmstead. The declaration will have no practical effects on health care at the hospital, although the bishop will not allow Mass to be said there anymore. He said donors might want to consider St. Joseph's status before giving to the hospital.

At a morning press conference, the bishop said Catholic Healthcare West, parent company of the hospital, had chosen not to comply with Catholic "ethical and religious directives governing health care."

I didn't know the Roman Catholic Church had a Medical Division.  Did you? Please read on.

At the root of the decision is a violation of the Catholic directives which prohibit abortion in all circumstances.  Period.  There are NO circumstances in which this could ever be questioned.  But in a recent case, the medical staff and administration at St. Joe's, went againt the directive.

The case in question involved a seriously ill mother of four, suffering from acute pulmonary hypertension. She was 11 weeks pregnant at the time of the surgery. The pregnancy put such additional stress on her heart, that hospital officials and doctors believed she was near death.
The mother was going to die, and of course if she died, her fetus would die, too.  The fetus would not live on its own at 11 weeks.  So, the medical staff and the hospital administration decided to terminate the pregnancy and save the mother.
They argued that the procedure was not an abortion under the Catholic directive that says fetuses may be destroyed as a secondary effect of another surgery, such as removal of a cancerous uterus. The bishop disagreed, and said that those he consulted locally and nationally agreed with him.  "We cannot take the life of an innocent human being," he said.

Asked whether saving one life was better than losing two, he said the issue was that rather than trying to save two lives, doctors "took" one of them.
"There is no way to rationalize this," he said. "It would have been best to try to save them both."

 The administrators at St. Joe's took issue with that characterization.
"Our medical staff did try to save both lives. We will always try to save both lives.  In this case it was impossible. Rather than let both the mother and the baby die. We saved the only life we could."

At the time, and prior to terminating the pregnancy, doctors consulted with Sister Margaret McBride, a member of the hospital's ethics committee, and an Administrative Vice President at the hospital.  Subsequently, Bishop Ohlmstead condemned the surgery as an abortion.  As a result, Sister McBride has since been EXCOMMUNICATED from the church for her decision.  She remains on the staff at St. Joe's ... as a nun.

Solid medical decisions saved a life.  Catholic doctrine would have saved none.  And Sister McBride, who has dedicated her entire life to God and saving lives at St. Joeseph's has been stripped of her right to call herself a Catholic.

Linda Hunt, president of St. Joseph's, said the hospital now would become a "community hospital living in the Catholic tradition.  We are very sad we have reached this point," she said. "But our physicians felt we could not say we would never do the same thing again."

Are hospitals in the business of saving lives or following religious doctrine?

I will most likely be in the hospital again at some point, and when I am, I want to know that the doctors are making the best medical decisions possible.  I want to know that I, or a member of my family, or a friend,  or YOU will not die because of some antiquated rule or doctrine that has no place in modern medicine. 

What Would Jesus Do?

Houston Store Owner Kills Three During Robbery.

At mid-afternoon on Thursday in Houston, three armed punks walked into the Castillo Jewelry Store, announced it was a robbery and began to tie up the owner's wife.  It gave him just enough time to pull a handgun and a shotgun and kill all three thugs.

During the gun battle, Mr. Castillo, the store owner was shot in the shoulder and stomach.  He is in surgery and reported in fair condition.  His wife was physically unharmed.  The three wastes of skin who tried to rob the store are very dead.  :)

Castillo defended his wife (hero), defended his business (hero), and made a long awaited statement to the community that this is what will happen when you screw with a hard working, self employed business man in that part of town.
Police believe all the dead guys were in their 20s.  Think of the money Mr. Castillo saved the State of Texas  by not having to house, clothe and feed these dirt bags (now dirt nappers) for 15-20 years, or longer.

Get well soon, Mr. Castillo.  You did good.
If you'd like to send him a get well card (I did), the address is:

Mr. Ramon Castillo
Castillo Jewelry
4502 Canal Street
Houston, TX 77011

Welcome College Grad! The Real World Eagerly Awaits You.

I have two sons; one is a Phi Beta Kappa grad from The University of Arizona and the second, a Magna Cum Laude grad from Arizona State University.  They went to college, they lived away from home and they did what they needed to do to both graduate within four years.. quite a feat these days.  They managed their time well because they needed to.  They partied, but they also knew when to put it aside and get the sleep they needed.
I have my post-graduate degree in Business.  We've all taken our share of exams and final exams.

Only years later, I have learned that I should have been much more stressed than I was at final exam time because in today's university environment, at least at Tufts University in Massachusetts, there are perks for being stressed.
Tufts University is throwing stressed-out students a bone: therapy dogs to play with during their final exams.

When I was a student, final exams meant long hours in the college library, so the university kept the library open 24 hours a day during exam week.  The university also offered extra tutoring and counseling during exams week.  And, if I remember correctly, coffee may have been available round the clock in the dorms. That was all we got and that was all we expected.

I know exam time is a tough time for students, but I get the feeling we are turning our children's prep time for the future into something that doesn't come close to replicating what they will see in the real world, and in that process we are turning our college grads into wimps.
Tufts offers students "stress relievers" which not only includes the therapy dog visits, but free midnight massages, and the opportunity to play some laser tag.  By the way, who pays for this?
Unfortunately, after graduation and when things are tough in the office, the boss is not going to authorize any massage time... at least not in any office I've ever worked in.

During my capacity as an Assistant VP for a major bank, I remember someone asking for assistance with a gym membership to help "relieve their stress on the job." I never turned down any request directly, but was severely chastised when I mentioned it my boss.  He told me, "stress is a part of the job.. tell them to deal with it, or tell them to find a job with less stress."  That may not have been the greatest response, but it came from someone who had written several books on organizational development and turned the bank into one of the most profitable in the world.

"Every college student has stress around finals," said a resident director who came up with the idea of dog visits after participating in a similar program as an undergraduate at New York University. "And taking a break out from that with something as easy and simple and loving as petting dogs is really helpful."
NYU!?  They are doing this at NYU!?  Oh yeah, that's the same NYU that gave the an open forum to Mahmoud Ahmajinedad on campus last year.  I wonder if they had puppies for him to pet?  Another bad idea from one of our major institutions of higher learning.

Schools have been developing more flashy methods of reducing student stress over the past 10 years or so by sponsoring events ranging from late-night yoga and oxygen bars to some school leaders dressing up as the "pizza fairy" and delivering free food. O M G!!! The pizza fairy?  College students? 

Hold on a second... let me call my boss and she if she will dress up as the pizza fairy because I have a project (or two) due at the end of the week. I'm stressed, man.  I may blow any minute... where's that pizza and does it come with a Shih-Tzu?

"I hope these puppies make me happy," 19-year-old Tufts freshman Chloe Wong said Tuesday, petting an Australian shepherd brought in by her resident director. I hope they are still talking about dogs here, or somewhere in Australia a shepherd has a great story to tell his fellow shepherds.
I guess I expected just a little more from a university with "Tuff" in its name.

Cleanup in Aisle 5

Last month while I was flying between Phoenix and the east coast, a lovely flight attendant asked me if I would like anything to drink.  I asked what kind of juice she had and after hearing the choices I opted for CranApple.  Now, I know it's not all juice, not even half, but this particular can of juice said "Does not contain any high fructose corn syrup."  So, I felt a little better.  I got a cup of ice, popped open the can and poured it in.  It was really refreshing!  A little sweet, but it was icy cold and had a tartness that really quenched my thirst.  It was the first time I had CranApple in probably the last 10 years.

Flash forward to today.  I am doing my normal Wednesday grocery shopping.  Shopping is pretty quick and easy for me anymore.  Fat free milk, some frozen entrees t bring for lunch, yogurts, fruit, some Cheezits, etc.  And then I remembered how refreshing my CranApple had been, so I went to the juice aisle, Aisle #5.  No sooner did I turn the corner before some young housewife, reaching for a bottle of juice on the top shelf, knocked it off the shelf.  Today most juice bottles are plastic, but if they hit a tile floor with enough force, the top blows off anyway and juice goes everywhere... as it did today. It was white grape or apple, because it was light in color.  You could hardly notice it on the light color floor except for the way the lights were reflecting in it. 

So, I went and did some other shopping and then went back to the now dry, but stickiest floor in the store, Aisle #5.  I was not going to miss out on my juice, which I now figured had been subconsciously stuck in the back of my head since US Airways flight #546.

Do you know how many different kinds of juices there are?  And I'm only talking about the ones that do not need refrigeration. It was easy to find CranApple, and CranRaspberry, Pomegranate Cranberry, CranBlueberry (yuk), etc.  But then I made the mistake of  looking a few shelves down and there was "Light" juices... 2/3 less calories than regular juice, flavored with Splenda and still the same amount of real juice that's in the other stuff.

So now my search is on for Light CranApple.

There was Light Cranberry, light CranPeach, light CranGrape, and there was light Apple.  But, do you think in a 15 foot section of shelving, 6 foot high, there was such a thing as light CranApple?  Nope.  There was even light WHITE Cranberry.  Where do white cranberries come from?  Albino farms? Go figure.

I searched high and I searched low.  Every so often I'd get a glimpse of something like light CranStrawberry and think I was getting close. 
I must have spent 20 minutes standing there searching for the only juice I wanted now...light CranApple.  I looked at the name brands, I looked at the organic brands, and I looked at the store brands.  Nada.
At one point I thought I'd buy a bottle of light Apple and a bottle of light Cranberry and MIX them! Brilliant! 
But then I began to think about the ratio.. what if got the ratio wrong and it did not taste like real CranApple?  What is the ratio, anyway?  Does anyone really know? 

Flash forward to now. I'm drinking a Diet Root Beer and there is not a drop of CranAnything in the house.  Maybe they were sold out.  Next shopping day can't get here fast enough.

THE LINE FORMS BEHIND ME.......

David Weaving is a waste of skin. He is a sorry excuse for a human being.  He is a heartless, gutless, irresponsible piece of garbage; a pimple on the ass of society.  I'm sorry... did I say that out loud?

David Weaving liked to drink and drive.  So much so that he was convicted at least four times for DUI.  Unfortunately, the State of Connecticut Motor Vehicles Division, forgot to take away his license.  So in 2007, he mowed down Matthew Kenney, a promising young football player, who was riding his bike with some friends.  David Weaving, going 85 MPH recklessly passed another car in a 45 MPH zone and struck Matthew.  Fourteen year-old Matthew was declared brain dead the following day.

Weaving was tried for manslaughter (manslaughter? explain that), convicted and sentenced to 10 years in prison.  Shortly after, Matthew's parents filed a wrongful death suit against Weaving claiming negligence. 

And shortly after that, in a handwritten document, Weaving sued the parents of Matthew Kenney for $15,000.  In his lawsuit Weaving wrote, "had the Kenneys complied with the responsibilities of a parent and guardian and the laws of this state, and not allowed their son to ride his bicycle without a helmet, Matthew's death would not have happened."  He's also seeking additional damages, saying he's endured "great mental and emotional pain and suffering, wrongful conviction and imprisonment, and the loss of his capacity to carry on in life's activities." 

This story is not just unbelievable, it's fucking unbelievable. And it's happening in the State of Connecticut today.

While Matthew's parents have to pay for attorneys fees to respond to this case, Weaving is filing his claims for free because he's a prisoner and considered indigent.  A judge has already waived more than $500 in fees up to this point. Although many states have laws that require inmates to pay to file lawsuits, Connecticut is not one of them.  If you live in Connecticut, your taxpayer money is helping Weaving sue the Kenneys.

I sit and shake my head when I read stuff like this.  The rights of the guilty have long since trumped victim's rights. Everyone knows this is not right, yet it doesn't go away.

I don't know what else to say, except I'd camp out for weeks to be first in line to punch David Weaving square in the face if I was ever given the chance.  So come on,  good citizens of America.... the line forms behind me!

Actually there is one person to whom I'd give up my #1 place in line: Matthew's Dad.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO JULIA OLD? SHE USED TO BE SO NICE...

I'VE REMOVED THIS POST.  DESPITE MY FEELINGS, I DID NOT THINK IT WAS FAIR TO JULIA OLD TO HAVE THIS UP HERE.  THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS.  Whitey

Nine Years Later: Thoughts from Ground Zero + 2,500 Miles

Anyone with a pulse was permanently changed that day. There wasn't a thing you could do about it.
Although I lived in Phoenix, the girl I was dating at the time worked for a large Wall Street firm with an office within blocks of Ground Zero.. and it was a work day for her.

On September 11, 2001, my day started out as one of those beautiful Arizona days where summer was just starting to give way to fall. At that time of year, there is a 3-hour time difference between here and there.
Even though I probably spoke to her the night before, I still looked forward to her quick email message that would greet me each morning when I woke up. On that morning the message was slightly different than normal. It was one of those messages that you take note of because it's not what you're expecting. My messages from "K" were always bright and upbeat. This one simply said, "I'm OK after the crash, but there are people I need to help. I will call you later." Being that she worked for a Wall Street firm, I thought she was talking about a stock market event. I looked at the clock and although it was only 6:00a.m., I turned on the TV to see what was happening on Wall Street. But, the story wasn't about Wall Street. The TV snapped to a live broadcast of the north tower burning and not less than a minute later, I watched in horror as Bryant Gumbel described the second plane and its surreal and deadly path into the south tower.

And then my phone began to ring. It was one of those calls where you look at the phone for a few seconds before you answer it. It was my boss who asked me if I had heard from "K", and was she alright? A few more calls asking the same question. I'm not sure what kind of impression I made on the phone because my thoughts were now elsewhere. The first time I dialed her number I got the "all circuits are busy" message, and the second and third attempts were met with the same message.

From everything I saw, the area where she worked was total chaos. And the question of whether the first plane was an accident, was answered with the impact of the second plane. Was I really seeing this? Was this really happening? Within an hour of waking up that day, two planes had struck the Twin Towers and one crashed into the Pentagon. While we all watched the devastation in New York City, 40 heroes battled the terrorists that hijacked Flight 93 which departed for San Francisco earlier that morning from Newark. In a short while, they would crash at 530 mph into a field in western Pennsylvania. And in no time after that, the greatest symbols of financial wealth and power in the world, buildings that once stood 100 stories proud, collapsed into 60-foot piles of unrecognizable rubble.

I have a great view of the mountains around Phoenix from the second floor of my home. I remember walking to the the window and slowly opening the blinds unsure of what I would see. I'd always heard that Phoenix was a target for terrorists. Within a 35 mile radius is Luke Air Force Base where the majority of the Air Force F-16 fighter pilots are trained. And about 40 miles outside of the city limits is the Palo Verde Nuclear Generating Station... the largest facility of its kind in the world. I saw nothing alarming, but at that moment, the fact that I lived 2,500 miles from Ground Zero made no difference at all. There was no distance between me and the people in and around NYC, Washington, DC, and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. At that moment all of us.. you, me, them... shared the same DNA.

I was fortunate enough to have phone contact with "K" once during the day, so I knew that she was at least physically safe. Her position in Human Resources would require her to do a few things before she tried to leave the city and get back t her home in suburban NJ... normally a 35 minute trip. In our first conversation, about two hours after the first strike, I told her, "the world changed this morning, Kathe. Nothing will ever be the same." Then I sat in a chair in front of my TV for 11 straight hours. I did not get up, I did not go to the bathroom, I did not eat. And several times, depending on what was on the screen, I think I momentarily forgot to breathe. I watched the same televison video over and over and over again each time thinking "this is not happening... not here, not now." And I wiped the same tears away... over and over and over again.
My mother had passed away just a few months earlier and as much as I missed her, I remember thinking I'm glad she didn't live to see this.

"K" normally had a fabulous view from her office (Brooklyn Bridge, skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, etc.), but that day it was partially obscured by the dust clouds created when the towers fell.
She had a family she needed to get home to, and she finally made it there about 6:30p.m.; almost 10 hours to make a trip that normaly takes 35 minutes. Fortunately, she did not drive into the city that day, but took the ferry instead. One of the first emergency measures taken was to close all bridges and tunnels leading into NYC. In hindsight, the ferry was a good choice that day.

I knew I needed to be with her, but I was here and she was there. For several days there was no commercial flights to or from anywhere. My friend, Allie, from Scranton was here in Phoenix for a business meeting and scheduled to leave the following day. Four days later he wound up renting a car and driving back to Pennsylvania.

Speaking to "K" on the phone was difficult. How do you avoid talking about the most unprecedented event in modern history? And understandably, every so often all I could hear was sobbing at the other end of the phone. "Helpless" was the perfect, and only way to describe my feelings.

A few days after the event, "K" was hearing of friends she knew who were missing.. friends that worked in the towers. Prior to her employment at the time, she had worked for several of the major brokerages, all which had WTC offices. Cantor Fitzgerald, a brokerage firm, which occupied the 101st to 105th floors of the north tower, lost 658 of their associates.. more than 2/3 of their entire work force. Maybe I could relate. On November 14, 1970, my friend, Ted Shoebridge, was killed when a plane carrying the Marshall University football team crashed returning from a game. Ted was their quarterback. No one survived the crash. I remember how I ached not only for Ted's family, but the familes of all the players and coaches. Looking back, it is unfathomable to even think about the impact September 11, 2001, had on the remaining employees of Cantor Fitzgerald and the families and friends of those employees who worked on floors 101-105. There is an inconsolable difference between losing one of your friends and losing 658 of your friends.

I know we all have our stories about the day and as traumatic and difficult as mine was, I knew "K" was greatly affected and most likely still has a very difficult time with the memory of that day.

Up to a year afterwards we would be out somewhere and she, for no apparent reason, would begin to cry. I say for no apparent reason, but the reasons she had were true and valid. All I could do was put my arms around her and try to hide my own tears. It didn't make sense then, and it doesn't make sense even now as I write this how anyone, for whatever purpose they have, could be so hateful. How could what someone does or says or believes, piss another person off so much that they would take a life, or 2,983 lives in anger?

It's 9 years later and I still cannot relate this story to anyone without my voice quivering and them realizing that I am still greatly affected. We have all been affected... one block away... ten miles away..... 2,500 miles away. I'm at Ground Zero + 2,500 miles and the events of that day still sadden me beyond what I thought I was ever capable of feeling.

And "K"? We're no longer together. We went our separate ways a year or two later. On occasion we correspond, but that's difficult now. No September 11 will ever pass without me remembering her and that day.

Sometimes I get lucky and say something that proves to be true for a long time. Sadly, I was right on September 11, 2001, when I told her, "the world changed today."