Come Fly with Me

Come Fly with Me

You might have read in a previous blog something about me being on the “No Fly List”.  You might have thought I was using poetic license in a blog.   I am sorry that was not the case.  Apparently this Irishman was Public Enemy #...well, they never actually gave me a number.  I guess you can just call me Osama McLadin, the Irish terrorist…or maybe that’s just the new falafel burger at Mickey D’s.

The Nation was only a few years removed from 9/11…and we still did not know how to deal with it.  At the time, Homeland Security devised a delightfully colorful chart that would do Crayola proud.  This was a Garanimal type chart to match color to your level of fear…Honey, it’s, Red today…should I wear my ‘world might come to an end” loafers?

It all started innocently enough.  In April of 2004, I was convinced by my Wife to Be to finally leave North America and hop across the pond.  England would be our destination.  We arrived at the airport early...and we would need every minute.  I was tagged to go through a “special” screening.  While not looking like a 9/11 terrorist, I do however look very Irish.  I was heading to England…for the first time and with a new passport…I felt some profiling might be going on.  Security was polite but unprepared.  There was more sitting than searching.  After an hour passed, Deputy Droopy Dog’s more lethargic littermate approached us.  He opened our luggage and went through it methodically.  I could almost hear him count…Aaa one pair of pants, Aaa two pair of pants…and so on.  Finally he wrapped up his search and we were on our way.   After our travels, I chalked it up to a random event…and didn’t give it much thought (especially with what happened on the flight home – a blog for another day).

Our next trip was a short flight to Pittsburgh in September.  In the months that had passed, security had increased, but so did the ineptitude.  There was still no rhyme or reason.  My conclusions drawn from a list of forbidden carry on items that included hockey sticks.  One can only amass the list creator was Luther from the movie “The Warriors”.  As we approached the check in counter, we were attended by a diminutive diva.   “Ladies first” she proclaimed…and checked Christina in…in a fashion and monotony of an assembly line vocation.  Her boredom was soon to be broken.  After she typed in my name her eyes boing’ed like Roger Rabbit.  The computer screen illuminated red as if Homer Simpson was applying for a mortgage.  Oh, she was shakin’, but not snapping her fingers.  Her quivering was uncontrollable.  She peered up at me and barely choked out “Just a second, Sir”.  She dialed out on separate red phone…I was half expecting Batman himself to show up.  I could see this phone was a new device having never been used before…til now.  Of course I started to put things together.  At this point, I decided to fan the flames and sternly state: “Is there a problem?”  I swear she pooped.  Finally a gentleman arrived.  I was disheartened it was not the Caped Crusader.  He was a bald, burly man…more equipped emotionally…and physically… to deal with the situation.  He informed me I was on the “No Fly List”.  Seems my moniker managed to match those of known nefarious.  After checking further on the computer, he allowed me to proceed to the gate since…well, I am not a terrorist.  But either way… I was tagged, and tagged I stayed.

My airport adventures would continue.  It wasn’t until a few years later that this “No Fly List” would be scrapped.  Seems another popular pseudonym… Edward Moore Kennedy …popped up on the list.  A gentleman with that name was dragged out of the line and subsequently searched…and boy was Senator TED Kennedy pissed.

Homeland Security eventually came up with new ways to make us feel “safe”.  The “No Fly List” and the red phones gave way to a revamped TSA and removing loafers.  All of which had left me feeling a little Blue…

And according to their color chart, that meant I had nothing to worry about.

Philadelphia Freedom

 

Philadelphia Freedom

Recently I received a message from a fellow Philadelphia university grad.  He knew my propensity for our past pabulum and my inability to obtain it here in NYC.  He pointed out a Philly Cheesesteak truck that travels about the city clogging unsuspecting arteries, Phil's Steaks.  I quickly found and friended them on Facebook.  Today a status alert arrived… my game was on the move and arriving to an angioplasty near me.  I set off to severe years from my already shortened existence.  Oh Cheesesteak, how I have missed thee.

It all began my freshman year.  Orientation at Drexel for this 17 year old consisted of many things that have long since been forgotten.  The one moment that will last forever was my introduction to the Philly Cheesesteak.

Drexel started classes later than almost every college.  It was late September, and I really was back at school.  I was assigned to the 6^th floor of the Calhoun dormitory.  While all floors were equal, this one was not.  Since this was an engineering educational establishment there were more Y chromosomes than X…and they filled the entire 6^th floor with them.   Later I would realize that the uniqueness of this floor would create a bond and tighter friendships since we were all in the same boat...the S.S. Sausage (but we did wind up having the best dorm sports teams).  These bonds began the first night when we met our Resident Assistant, Jerry.  Jerry was in his 3^rd year, but you would think he was Anthony J. Drexel himself.  An extremely popular guy, he was going to show us newbies the ropes.  After his dormly duties were done, he asked who from the group was from out of town.  Eleven guys raised their hand and I was among them.  He politely dismissed the rest.  He asked the remaining few if we ever had a Philly Cheesesteak…and we all responded with a negative.  This was about to change.  Our TRUE introduction to Philadelphia…and he had just the place.  Most of you may know Pat’s and Gino’s…but Jim’s, the Gem of South Street, was our destination.

South Street, not being anywhere near Drexel, required transportation.  We went down to one of the busier thoroughfares to hail a cab…all twelve of us.  It took a few tries before we could convince a cabbie to accommodate an unlawful amount of voyagers…but eventually we would succeed and off we went.  I tried to peer through the collection of elbows, heads and upside down feet to catch a glimpse of my new city…but to no avail.  Upon arrival we piled out like clowns from a circus car.  We stood in awe before the Mecca of Meat.  Jerry instructed us on the etiquette of ordering.  It began simply with “Cheese Steak”.  Then came your choice of cheese, “Provolone” or “American” or “Whiz”.  Whiz being short for cheese whiz…different than the squeeze bottle type, this canned golden globule was second cousin to “The Blob”.  The tail end of your order consisted of a single word “Wit” ... if you wanted onions.

When I entered, I can recall hearing angels sing…or The Hooters, either or.   One wall was adorned with famous photos of past partakers.  On another wall, plaques were posted proclaiming the record holders for most hourly Cheesesteaks consumed.  Jerry caught me eyeing the Guinness of Gluttony and nudged me “Walshy, you gonna break the record tonight”.  He found himself humorous since I was one of the youngest, shortest and thinnest (I WAS thin before I discovered Cheesesteaks) of this group.

I was in line and it almost my turn at the plate.  I suddenly noticed an offering I was not informed of…Pizza Sauce...I liked Pizza (and Pina Colada ices dammit!).  I thought pizza sauce would add a little NY familiarity.  I moved into the batters box and like Ralphie meeting Santa Claus, I couldn’t blow it now…I had one chance to get this right.  A loud “NEXT” and the grizzled grill guy stared me down.  Like Mike Schmidt himself I ordered “Pizza Steak Whiz Wit”…a pause and another loud “Next” to the guy in the on deck circle meant I hit it out of the park.  We gathered upstairs to gorge, since it was the only place that could handle the Dirty Dozen.  As I ate, the combination of grease, sauce, whiz and onions dripped down my face and hands.  I was hooked.

In the 30 years since, I have never ordered anything other than a “Pizza Steak Whiz Wit”...and today was no different.

When you get it right the first time, why change...

Draft Dodger

Draft Dodger

Tonight, Thursday, begins the NFL Draft.  Not Saturday, or Tuesday for that matter.  The NFL Draft, where eligible college stars get selected by NFL teams to become pro football stars, used to be held on Tuesdays in April before 1988.  During high school, knowing I was a huge football fan…and I wasn’t SUCH a bad kid…my Mom would allow me to stay home from school to watch.  This was WAY before the Internet, mobile devices and what not…so television was my only option.  No one understood my addiction then, Mom, friends and football fanatics alike.  I was the original football Draft-Nik…before Mel Kiper Jr. cornered the Aqua Net market.

They say hindsight is 20/20…I say, she has much better vision.  Looking back over the years, I have had a few opportunities to get in on the ground floor.  This is one of those times…

Cable TV came to Valley Stream in late 1979 and a fledgling sports channel came along with it.   ESPN, 24 hour sports…and I was a teenager...and had more than a few hours to kill.  I would watch their offerings of Australian Rules Football and Bass Fishing, switching back and forth with MTV (remember when the V meant Videos?).   In 1980, this little known sports network asked the NFL if they could broadcast coverage of the NFL Draft live.  Although the NFL did not believe it would be entertaining television, I disagreed.  Wow, TV and the NFL Draft?!? I was like a kid in a candy store!…well, actually, I was.  That was where I learned about it flipping through a copy of The New York Times (the Times?  I said I wasn’t SUCH a bad kid).

It was hard to gather information back then.  I would pester the candy store clerk, asking when the new football magazines might arrive.  He put down his chomped cigar, looked me over and huffed…It’s April son, don'tcha mean Basssse-ball.   In spite of such obstacles, I hunted and gathered.  I would cut out any article relating to the draft from ANY newspaper, ANY magazine.  I was the only hormonally challenged teenage boy who actually READ an article in Playboy since the April issue covered the draft…never sneaking a peek once at the centerfold.  I was a kid on a mission.

As the draft approached, I would dissect each bit of information…on teams, players, past history, team’s tendencies to do stupid things (I am looking at you Cardinals) and any other anomalies I could find.  I would place players to teams in the order they drafted…my own draft board at age 14.  Over the next 8 years nobody knew what to make of me.  I would even travel home from college for those draft Tuesdays – since backass Philadelphia didn’t get cable until 2002 or something like that.  The draft was still a mere sideshow of the NFL season.  It was during this time I should have tried harder to make passion my work.  In 1984, I did attempt to start a sports show on Drexel’s radio station…even do the overnight – hell, I was up drinking anyway.  No good.  Those pot-smoking hippies didn’t see a need…but I digress.  I was too easily thwarted in my efforts, and I regret it.

In 1988 the NFL Draft changed forever.  The draft was to start on a Saturday…an ALL day event.  My narcissistic self originally thought this was done specifically for me.   I was no longer in school and out in the working world… asking the boss to take off for draft day wouldn’t go over as easily as it did with Mom.  This move boosted ratings beyond belief.  Mel Kiper Jr. bought out Aqua Net.  The NFL had found a way to make money in April.  Every idiot rushed to become a Draft-Nik  and they popped up everywhere…magazines, books, TV shows.  The market became saturated with a clutter of draft incompetence…and the original Draft-Nik was left behind.  Today, there are still a few from 1980 that stand out in this field…and I somehow should have been among them.  But that ship has sailed.

In 2010, the draft disappeared altogether for me… off into the horizon.  That year the NFL changed to a 3 day draft, a 3 ring circus if you will, starting Thursday in primetime.  The NFL Draft is now a billion dollar year round industry. 

Gone are my Tuesdays off from school…my articles, my newspapers, my predictions…my being glued to the TV set for hours.

Tonight, I will be playing hockey instead.

If you knew Sushi...

If you knew Sushi...
 

Seven years ago Christina and I moved into our new neighborhood in Nesconset in Suffolk County.  The first thing we foodies HAVE to do is seek out the restaurants, from the simple to the eclectic.  Pizza…check, Chinese…check, Mexican…check.  What about Sushi?  Long time stalwart Kotobuki resided in Smithtown…but it was always too crowded (see previous blog).  With a simple surfing search I stumbled upon a little hole in the wall that would make Guy Fieri proud.  Kazu’s Restaurant, a small place with great reviews nestled away on the corner of a strip mall…a Nesconset favorite for over a dozen years.  It was a Mom and Pop, or should I say Mama-san and Papa-san, establishment…Karl and Tae.  Green neon lights touting SUSHI, TERIYAKI, TEMPURA in the window would be the indication they were open for business.  Being a one-man act in the kitchen, Karl kept his own hours…and this glowing beacon told you he was there.

(Christina's 40th Birthday Party)

What we found was the proverbial diamond in the rough…and it was less than a mile from our home.  We became regulars in a place FILLED with regulars.  The regulars became our friends.  Our dinners turned into social events, sometimes lasting 3 or 4 hours.  We would chat and laugh and eat. For those 7 years we would appear once or twice a week.  Sometimes when Christina was busy I would go there by myself, but I was never alone.

About a month ago, Christina had plans with friends…and I did not.  As usual, I took this opportunity to make my way over for Sushi at Kazu.  It was towards the end of the evening, so I was a solo act in the restaurant.  This was not unusual.  I frequently was the last patron at the Sushi Bar (or ANY bar for that matter).  I was his Norm, and he was my Sam…or better put, Samurai.  He was creating a smattering of take out orders.  I started with my usual Spicy Tuna Hand roll, a delightful selection of Yellow Fin Tuna, cut in chunks and lathered with a spicy Japanese mayo.  The fish was so fresh I continued with the Tuna, this time partnered with avocado and seaweed in a salad.  We had our usual chat and the Sake flowed.  I wrapped up with a Kazu special, a tempura fried fluke roll, with a sweet sauce…cleverly named Fish and Chips.

Our evening was over and Karl walked me to the door like so many times before.  He bowed and bid me farewell, and I retorted “See you soon!”.  He turned off the green neon lights and locked the door behind me.  What I was unaware of, this was the last time the green neon lights would glow.

For the last few weeks, when we passed Kazu, we noticed the lights were off.   As I said before, this is nothing new…but we started to get concerned.  Luckily we happened to have a business card from a fellow patron and we left him a message.  Yesterday afternoon Christina received a call back.  He said Karl had closed Kazu’s…he had gone out of business.  They talked for a while, cathartic in a way, reminiscing and realizing what had come to an end.  Christina said she drifted off as they chatted, thinking back…I would do the same a few hours later when she shared the news.  We had worried about Karl himself, since he had had some health issues.  But apparently it was the health of the business that was the issue.

I can’t say that we were surprised.  We had noticed the diminishing numbers in the dining room. When you rely on regulars and, due to the economy, the regulars have to cut back…the business suffers.  Even Christina and I had downsized from once or twice a week, to once or twice a month.  To make matters worse, another Sushi powerhouse moved in.  This was a glitzy, NYC style, high end Sushi place where Jersey Shore meets the Karate Kid.  AJI 53 had come to town.  What little walk in customers Karl had, were gone.

I had a hard time slipping into slumber last night.  I thought of all the wonderful food I had, and would never have again.  I thought of the fun times, the friends we made.  This was a unique place.

As we get further down life’s path, it seems it has more to take away from us.

There is no joy in Nesconset today, the mighty Kazu has struck out.

Walk like a Human

Walk like a Human

We are all familiar with road rage…but working in NYC these last 6 years, I have contracted a new ailment, sidewalk rage.  People are bad enough behind the wheel, but remove them from those shinny metal boxes and they can’t even stand on their own two feet.  Last year Manhattan lawmakers proposed a “Pedestrian Code of Conduct” for the city sidewalks, busy sidewalks…because people were not passing, meeting smile after smile…and on every street corner you’d hear...ME!  and I was not singing Silver Bells.

I, for one, wish this had passed.  As people meander the city they are inconsiderate and idiotic.  I call them inconsidiots.  While these laws won’t change their habits, at least they can shell out some cash for their reprehensible ways.

I now give you these 10, ummm, 9 pedestrian commandments:

1)   No Zigzagging on the Sidewalk: $50 Fine.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  I guess these annoying amblers failed basic geometry.  You try to pass these lumbering lummoxes on the left, they veer left.  You try to pass them on the right, they veer right.  They swerve similar to the blue haired octogenarian behind the wheel on Ferris’s day off.   Of course, there can be exceptions… like a “Bar Zone”…staggering allowed within 50 ft.

2)   No Walking Three Abreast: $100 Fine per person.

No, they are not talking about the woman from Total Recall, however if she were to appear on the city streets, all bets are off.

3)   No Standing in a Crosswalk Zone for More than One Light Cycle: $75 Fine.

To cross or not to cross, that is NOT the question.  The light changes, you are on the corner, you cross…no question.

4)   Failure to Maintain Minimum Speed of 3 mph: $50 Fine.

Now speed and Walsh are rarely used in the same sentence, but even I can maintain this pace.  If you can’t…get a Rascal, see how that worked out for George.

5)   Failure to Stay Right: $50 Fine.

While this is easy for me, because I am always right (see blog intro)…others couldn’t find their right if given two chances.  These compassly challenged citizens walk straight up to you in the other direction like a north going Zax to your south (google it).  Stay RIGHT, right?  Thanks.

6)   Walking a Dog with its Leash Running Perpendicular to the Sidewalk: $200 Fine.

You may have noticed my policy on dogs.  Dogs Rule, People Drool.  While a dog’s person should be more conscious of the leash, the dogs get a pass…and thereby so does their person.

7)   Failure to Stay in Designated Walking Lanes: $50 Fine.

This rule is adapted from the traffic lanes on the city streets…and you all know how well THAT works.  The roads are a free for all recreating an excerpt from Mad Max between changing traffic signals. "Speed's just a question of money. How fast you wanna go?".

8)   Window-Shopping Outside of Designated Window-Shopping Zones: $50 Fine.

If you are window shopping, you SHOULD be standing in FRONT of the window.  It is in the name!  I am guessing these are the same people who slow down to look at accidents.

9)   Bumping into others while using electronic devices: $50 Fine.

While this is my favorite, I would alter this just a bit.  I would change it to FAILURE to bump into someone while THEY are using an electronic device.  I never pass up the opportunity to throw a check on these human question marks bent over their addictive appliances.   In return, I receive a stare as their glazed eyes peer up at me and I respond with a very Flecth-like “Excuse You”.

No fine for me!

It is sad when legislature is introduced to coerce courtesy and common sense.  I guess: People cannot police themselves properly as pedestrians so policy is passed for Police to provide policing (say that 10 times really fast).

However, it would be nice if these pedestrians could try to follow these simple rules of the road on their own.

I hear it is all the rage.

Too's a Crowd

Too’s a Crowd

A great man once stated, “Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded.”.  I know he is a great man because when I was just a lad he adorned the ads of my favorite beverage, Yoo-hoo.  While I will still never pass up a Yoo-hoo, my beverage of choice has changed over the years.

 

Beer, glorious, beer.  What wouldn't we give for that extra bit more…

Now I had become a beer drinker earlier than my liver would have preferred.  One can say I became a beer drinker in High School, but the real transformation did not occur until I mistakenly walked into a bar proudly proclaiming “No Bud, No Coors, No Miller”.  My instincts immediately wanted to order those 3 like the B-Side of a George Thorogood song.  I however ordered a Brooklyn Brown, as the word Brooklyn was the only recognizable locale among the offerings.

This wonderful watering hole, Croxely’s Ale House, became a favorite.  Anytime I wanted, I could get a bar seat.  The barkeep kept my pints full.  I even got to know the owners…Everybody knew my name.  Then came THE ad.  The one on the radio (remember radio?  MP3’s killed the radio star).  It was more horrifying than the War of the Worlds stunt.  Croxley’s ran an ad on the then young demographic radio station, WLIR.  The bar expanded, the people came.  Now I don’t go there anymore.

A fellow follower of finer fizz suggested we go to the source.  The Brooklyn Brewery.  It offered cheap pints of their finest every Friday night.  You drank among the burlap sacks of hops and barley.  The scenery was concrete walls and vats.  Your resting place, mere run down picnic tables.  And it was empty.  It was beautiful!  Once again, the pourers were our pals.  The brew master happily regaled his secrets with the two beer connoisseurs who had helped keep the brewery on the map.  Then something changed.  Someone said it was hip and trendy to live in Williamsburgh, so the hip and trendy had to follow their marching orders.  It became gentrified.  They came in droves, like a colony of trust fund termites and infested the Brooklyn Brewery on those Friday nights.  Now I don’t go there anymore.

What now?  Horace Greeley once said “Go West, Young Man”.  Since young was no longer an adjective associated with me, I wound up following his command in reverse.  East!  But how far east to escape?  Well, about as far east as one can get on Long Island.  While I still have a fondness for the barley based beverage, the siren song of the grape called my name.  The North Fork Wineries…here I come.  The roads were winding and desolate.  The scenery sedating.  You approached each winery, looking so empty, you thought it was closed.  You were greeted like royalty since you had chosen THEIR winery and would like to try their efforts.  You were given an in depth explanation by your host, sometimes it was the wine maker or even the owners themselves.  And it was free.  I had arrived…far away from the masses (and you can’t spell masses without asses!).

It was good.  Alas, too good.  At first it was only a smattering of buses and limo’s.  But soon, they were arriving like someone built a baseball diamond in a cornfield.  The crowds came, and the thing I hate most about crowds… it usually contains people.  Droves of drunks driven diligently to this destination.  The tasteful tastings turned into turmoil.  Slur became the official language of the North Fork.  These establishments became animal friendly…but they were already there.

Now, I still frequent the wineries (as you might have read on Facebook)…because "The game's isn't over until it's over."…

But soon I won’t go there anymore…It’s Too Crowded.

And then a Hero comes along

And then a Hero comes along

With all these athletes and actors obtaining "hero" status for playing a game or play-acting, it seems some of our real heroes go mostly unnoticed.

Not that anyone would have heard about this on the news, but yesterday in Dayton, Ohio, 5 men were honored for their heroic actions 70 years ago.  Now, first off, with my bloodline, making it past 70 years old alone would be considered heroic.  These men however are not only still around, but amazingly so.  For 70 years ago yesterday, they, and 75 other men embarked in what most considered a suicide mission.  These men were part of the Doolittle Raid on Japan, April 18^th 1942.

Now for most of us, when we hear “Doolittle”, we think of Rex Harrison and the push-me-pull-you…or the younger crowd may think of yet another bad Eddie Murphy movie…and the Conservatives might think that is how they want their government to act.  But this man, Doolittle, James Doolittle… did the unthinkable.  It is easy to follow orders, sometimes even easier to give them.  But to develop a plan never done before, sell the idea to your superiors, train these men to do what was told was impossible and then lead them on this mission…I am sorry, this is not a Batting Title or an Oscar…it is a real life hero.  The 79 others that he led on that mission are no less heroes themselves.

A little history lesson, because it is ALWAYS history month in the Walsh household…and if you had the opportunity to drop by, you understand.   Bare with me, I will try and give a short, oversimplified synopsis and not bore you to death.

The Japanese had been pushing the Americans, unprepared for war, back on every front in the Pacific.  This mission was designed to show the Japanese we would not go down without a fight.  Hit them where they live…a strategy that is never outdated in any fight.  But how?  Japan is an Island, thousands of miles away.  The plan was to sail ships with planes thousands of those miles over open, dangerous, enemy infested waters close enough to Japan to use these planes…against an enemy who had shown it’s might by decimating the American fleet at Pearl Harbor.  The idea also consisted of placing BIG planes and put them on a SMALL ship…the BIG planes have a better range so you did not have to get TOO close to Japan.  However these BIG planes were never designed to take off from a ship…EVER.  Ok, you might say wow…then it is not so easy to launch these BIG planes off a SMALL ship…well, guess what is harder, or actually impossible?  Landing these BIG planes back on to a SMALL ship.  These 80 men took off knowing they were not returning.  Their only hope was to make it to China after dropping their bombs on Japan.  What made it even worse, due to the ships being spotted by the Japanese, was that these men had to take off sooner than they wanted…making it a long shot to get to China alive.  They never wavered.  77 of these men would survive the mission.

This mission goes largely unnoticed today.  It was, however, depicted in the somewhat recent movie Pearl Harbor…or the working title “Ben Affleck ruins another movie”.  Why the Doolittle Raid was in a movie about Pearl Harbor I have no idea, but don’t worry, they got the historical facts just as wrong about the raid as they did the attack on Pearl Harbor itself.  I recommend Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo…with Spencer Tracey…just a wee bit better actor than AFF-LACK.

Anyway…6 months ago I was in Dayton, OH…why?  I am not so sure myself.  Luckily, Dayton is the home of the Unites States Air Force museum.  It is here that the surviving members hold the Doolittle Raid reunion every year.  There is a case with goblets, 80 of them, each containing the name of a member of the mission.  When they pass, the goblet is turned upside down.  The surviving members drink a toast each year to their fallen comrades.  When it gets down to the last 2 surviving members, they will drink the final toast.  I had the unique opportunity to see the goblets in their case…and the 5 that remained upright.

So next time you have Lin-sanity or March Madness or are Star Struck…remember…

Remember these 5 men,  the other 75 no longer with us…and all the other service men like them past and present…that did not win a Batting Title or an Oscar…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u0l9k_T4hY&feature=youtu.be

Back to the Future

Back to the Future

I said to myself, Self…try not to do too many blogs about sports, it will limit your audience.  Now while this blog is about sports, it is more about the fashion…or lack there of.

For you see, yesterday the Steelers introduced their throwback jerseys.  If you are not familiar, it is a trend started a few years ago where teams will have an alternate jersey encompassing a look from years past.  Usually these fashion faux pas are a prime example of why they changed them in the first place.  When I saw the Steelers' press conference, all I could picture instead was seeing Gene Rayburn up there and his oversized microphone pulling out a card and asking the panel:  “When little Johnny saw the new Steelers’ jerseys, he said they are not throwback, they are more like throw…Blank”.  As the contestant, my answer would be “throw…in the Terrible Towel”.  Of course Charles Nelson Reilly would screw me over with “throw…FABULOUS!".

I thought, at first, these jerseys were designed so the billion-dollar sport could trick the fans into buying another jersey they just HAD to have.  But this seems to be an episode from a new show on cable, “When Marketing goes Terribly Wrong”.  The fans don’t like these jerseys, the players certainly don’t want to wear these jerseys…then who came up with this insidious idea?  My only answer is a Les Nessman, someone who was forced to take violin lessons instead of playing ball.  No other explanation! This is just a cruel joke from someone holding a long, long grudge (and I am somewhat familiar with grudges – coming to a blog near you).

Lets go back a bit.  As an Islander fan I recall the Famous Fisherman Fiasco of 1995.  Somewhere it was decided the Islanders needed to change their logo.  A wonderful logo design, incorporating the NY - with the Y as a hockey stick - and the outline of the shape of Long Island.  “NY” and the “Island”… New York Islanders…simple, yet classic.  Why would we want to keep that!  Anyway, 6 or 7 designs were given to the Islanders and they were to choose a winner.  What happened next was of Long Island Lore.  Apparently the ad agency inserted a logo, one so horrible - one that would NEVER be chosen, just to have the other logos stand out.  Well guess what…that backfired!  The “test” logo was picked and approved.  WHAT?!?!  The more I think about it, the more it falls into my Les Nessman theory above.  The Islander organization, the players and the fans were endlessly abused by opposing fans for this logo.  The Islanders have not won a playoff series since.  Somewhere a violin happily plays on….

This brings me to yesterday and the Steelers’ new throwback jersey.  It looks like the player was sent to bumble bee prison.  I can only imagine that the Steelers “Les Nessman” watched the Blind Melon – No Rain video the night before designing them.  While the jerseys are supposed to remind us of an era from Leatherheads, even George Clooney could not pull this look off.  Maybe they should wear the old leather helmets too, at least it would make the whole thing more interesting.

All I can say is that my taste is pretty plain…

I’m NOT Just A Bill

I’m NOT Just A Bill

Ah, the budget billing plan from LIPA.  It brings you the security of knowing your monthly fleecing.  But obviously LIPA is a necessary evil, and we all have to pay the Ferryman one way or another.

Now, if you are not familiar with the budget billing plan from LIPA, it is a fixed amount you pay each month.  The recipe they use to come up with a payment amount is a dab of your “past bills”, with a pinch of “overall average usage”, finally sprinkled with a little “whatever the fuck they want to charge you”.

Of course the lack of trust by LIPA makes them visit your house quarterly anyway, to insure your budget is on…budget.  If your meter should read less, they do not always lower your monthly budget payment.  I can’t say they are so forgiving when your meter is higher.  Then, at the end of your billing year cycle, you receive a final bill that will consist of your difference from actual usage to paid budget.

For two people our monthly nut is a little high… with my need to hang meat in the house in the summer, create a giant bathtub in our backyard in the spring and fall plus me trying to out-Griswold Clark himself in the winter.  Of course LIPA not knowing this would think I was housing Oct-o-mom and her brood.  However, each year we manage to come in under budget and get a credit.  This is a direct result of me turning into my Mom…with such top ten hits as “Are we trying to air condition the whole neighborhood” and “Do we need to be seen from space?”…Imagine if I DID have kids!

Sadly as it seems, budget refund day has become my new Christmas morning.  I nervously wait outside for the mailman and his eight reindeer to pull up to my house (I think I saw Mommy kissing the mailman, but that’s a story for another day!).  As he drove out of sight, I rushed to the mailbox like it was O’ Tannenbaum itself.   I sifted through the various other gifts labeled for my siblings, Occupant and Resident, until I found my version of a Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle.  I rushed back to the house to unwrap my gift…to see how NICE I was this past year.  My eyes quickly scanned to the spot that holds the magic number like I was holding a PowerBall ticket.

The winning number is….  You Owe:  $3,500.

They shot my eye out kid…

 This had to be a mistake, how could this be?  Then I recall swimming outside in October while it was snowing with steam rising off the lagoon…Maybe I was a NAUGHTY boy!

Still, this HAD to be a mistake!  I turned over the bill, the part where no man has gone before.   I looked at our quarterly readings posted in Hieroglyphics.  Not having an advanced degree in dead languages it made this task quite cumbersome.  However, I did notice one of these things was not like the other (one of these things doesn’t belong).

Seemed our last quarter usage was 1.21 Jigawatts.  I grumbled something about “wrong guy” and me being “Michael J. WALSH”…

I was able to decipher the number of my last meter reading.  I checked it against our meter…it was not EVEN close.  I dialed LIPA’s customer service armed with this knowledge, angered at how they ruined my Christmas morning.  I fully expected to get Peggy.  Surprisingly, the agent I got was actually good and all business.  I checked twice to see if I dialed the right number.  I told her my tale of woe, the long version, not the Readers Digest one I posted here.  I could tell she wanted to interrupt and get me to the point, but I wanted my $3,500 worth.  At the end, she simply asked “what does the meter read now?”.  I responded and she came back with “Ok, you will see the changes on your next bill”.  Wait, that’s it?  I wasn’t done here!

Now, I did not want to crucify the meter reader for making a mistake, we all make them.  Plus, it may not have been their fault.  Maybe someone reading his or her report or someone typing it in made an error.  My issue was: Why didn't ANYONE at LIPA notice the fact that my monthly bill went up a whopping 1,000% plus and maybe perhaps LIPA should question it or check if it were a mistake before sending out the bill.  This is when I was informed of a disturbing fact.  I was told that LIPA does not question these types of spikes in billing, but Homeland Security DOES.  My lack of ability to form a response finally gave her the break she was looking for, “Thank you for calling LIPA, have a nice day”.

Now for any normal person, of whom I am far from, being put on the radar of Homeland Security would not be an issue.  It would however be an issue if say, perhaps, you were already on the Country's “No Fly” list.  Don’t ask me how I wound up there; obviously they were not profiling that day.  Ok, no time to panic.  I am sure there is nothing to worry about…not like there is anything else to make me look like a security risk.  At that moment I just happened to look down at my recent amazon.com purchase.  Yep, you got it…Microsoft Flight Simulator…2 AND 3.  I wonder how the weather at Guantanamo Bay is this time of year.

For the following weeks I twitched anytime I saw someone with sunglasses or a dark blue windbreaker.  Everyone was Agent Smith.  How could one simple mistake send me from Christmas to Crisis. The paranoia finally dissipated when the new bill arrived from LIPA.  I chuckled when I saw the updated amount owed.

You Owe:  $6.66

Only fitting when dealing with Devil…

Are they made from real Girl Scouts?

Are they made from real Girl Scouts?

I should take Jerry Seinfeld’s advice and leave on a high note after the last story but alas, I have blog fever.

Well, you know what season it is?  Spring?  Baseball?  Rabbit?  Perhaps…but it is also Girl Scout Cookie season.  The time of year where parents sell cookies to elevate their child’s status to top cookie pusher among their peers.

This is less a story about the cookie mongers and more a story of the red headed stepchild  (of which I was one) of the Girl Scout cookie world, the Dulce De Leche.

The Dulce De Leche is inspired by the classic confections of Latin America, these sweet, bite-sized cookies are rich with milk caramel chips.  The translation roughly means “candy of milk” or “candy (made) of milk”.  But the Girl Scouts did not find it necessary to translate this for us.  It gave the cookie second citizen type status, well, at least according to Newt Gingrich…and I suspect he has had quite a few cookies in his lifetime.

Also, to make an effort to give their cookies a clearer name depicting what the cookie is, the Girl Scouts added descriptive names to their cookie line.  The Samoa now is also called Caramel deLites, The Do-Si-Dos are also called Peanut Butter Sandwiches, Tagalongs are now also called Peanut Butter Patties and even the Trefoils are also called Shortbread…and who the HELL eats those!  Guess what cookie was left out?  You got it, the Dulce De Leche.  Even the Girl Scout organization looks down upon this cookie.  You would think the ONE cookie that needed a description was the ONE in Spanish.

Now, I know what you are thinking.  Why is Walsh up in arms now?  Is it a racial equality thing,  is he a pedafile?  No, it is just that the Dulce De Leche is a damn good cookie! AND…. apparently those who peddle the Girl Scout cookie line never seem to have them in stock…or even know what I am talking about.  I have always seemed to have a taste for the less popular choices.  I remember back in the day at the old Pizza Parlors…calling them parlors emphasizes how old I am.  They would have Italian Ices…little flavored frozen water treats that kids would die for.  You remember they would have the Italian Ice sign up in the window?  Lemon, Cherry, Chocolate, Rainbow and Pina Colada.  But guess what, in almost EVERY Pizza Parlor, the Pina Colada was crossed out!  The one flavor I WANTED.  I LIKE Pina Colada – and getting caught in the rain (sorry, I couldn’t resist).  Each day I would ask, Mr. Pizza Man, do you have Pina Colada?  He would say: Kid, we got four freakin flavors (imagine your best Brooklyn-ese accent)…just pick from one a doze.  We didn’t have it yesterday, we don’t have it today and we ain’t gonna have it tomorrow neither.

Well, the Dulce De Leche is MY Pina Colada!

Luckily, I do have my own cookie connection.  But even then, explaining to a smart 10 year old which cookie I wanted creates a language barrier that eventually gets me on the phone with her Mom.  Mom grabs the sheet, and low and behold…there is a spot to check off Dulce De Leches.  She pointed out to me, WOW, no one EVER orders those!  I flashed back to my childhood and envisioned a sign with the Dulce De Leche crossed out.

Our order came quickly, and left even faster.  Apparently I also turned my wife on to these little crack-like cookies.  They were gone, and we both needed a fix.  I knew where to find these diminutive dealers of the Devil, and where they frequented their wares.  Yes, the LIRR train station…who says nothing good ever comes from the LIRR! (see future blogs).  I approached a small group of the miniature merchants.  I proudly proclaimed: I would like the Dulce De Leche please.  The girls stared at me like I rattled off some kind of third world curse word.  At this point, I should have given up…but I wanted my Pina Col…Dulce De Leches!  I looked around the back at the boxes, not seeing my familiar turquoise box.  The girls asked: Are you looking for Do-Si-Dos?…and I explained again: No…the Dulce De Leches…a caramel type cookie.  I asked if they had a list of the cookies.  At this point Mom spotted me…and all I can think is, here comes an AMBER ALERT!  But I was on a mission!  Luckily Mom was patient and I wouldn’t be leaving in handcuffs.  But unfortunately she was less versed in the cookies than her offspring.  She tried, but every time I said Dulce De Leche…she responded with: Do you mean Do-Si-Do’s?  I had already done this dance.

Finally, reluctantly I relented, forking over my $4 and got a box of Do-Si-Do’s….like settling for a Lemon ice…

Lemon of Love

I never intended for this blog to be about rainbows or unicorns or puppy dogs …but for today I will defer to the latter…because 4 years ago today, Rider found his permanent home.

Rider?  Yes, Rider.  Christina and I don’t always fully agree on things, but a name change would be one of those times we did.  She hated the name Rider…I, on the other hand, envisioned a scenario where the dog was humping the neighbor’s wife and me yelling at the dog,  “RIDE’er, RIDE’er, RIDE’er”…and that is just not a good situation for anyone involved.

Some of you may not know the story…for those of you who do…shut up and read it anyway…

3 years had gone by since we moved into our house, and due to the instability of our job situations, Christina and I had not found the time to add a 4-legged friend to our home.  We both grew up with Daschunds, ironically both named Fritz(y), so we figured it only natural that we would wind up with one.  Well fate intervened.  Christina came across a flyer for an older puppy in one of the offices she hardly ever frequents at her job.  She made a copy of it and brought it home.  She didn’t hold out much hope figuring the Grinch hadn’t stole enough of Christmas so he would dismiss any notion of taking a look at this dog.   What wifey didn’t know, is I always wanted a Yellow Lab…and to name him Hobbes to my Calvin.  I didn’t share that with her as I looked at the picture, only pointing out to her if she had any idea how big the dog was.  Christina asked me how could I tell… there was nothing in the photo for reference…I said Exactly! And they did that on purpose.

We called the next day to get the details.  All we found out at the time was that this was his second family, and that this family could not keep him.  We set a date to come and meet the dog.  As we approached the full lengthed clear screen door, we could see the man standing there with the dog.  As if on cue, the dog took off and returned with a tennis ball…like it was SHOWTIME!

Christina spent most of the time asking questions to the man, as I interacted with the dog.  The dog definitely tested me, jumping and gnawing at my long sleeve shirt.  I also watched as he interacted with the man’s two kids…a 4 year old girl and a 7 year old boy….both of which, well…let’s just say I said to myself: In 10 years I will be reading about these 2 kids in a police blotter.  The dog however was playful, loving and gentle with the kids…no matter how rough they were with him.

I finally had a chance to talk with the man.  I will say this for him, between dealing with his kids and what he did for this dog, he already had EZ-Pass access through the Pearly Gates by St. Peter.  It saddened me when he referred to the dog, as MY dog this and MY dog that.  He also said if he could keep the dog and get rid of the other 3 (he included his wife), he would.  I was amazed at the bond he had formed with this dog so quickly.

The man began to tell how he wound up with the dog.  A family had gotten him from a breeder but after a few short months decided to give him up.  The man told me they said it was allergies, but any of you who are reading this that are/were from North Shore, you know “allergies” is the oldest excuse in the book.  The man never agreed to adopt the dog, but he did say he would take a look.  He told me that a woman stopped by with the dog, and within less than 20 minutes, the dog, the cage, the leashes and anything else associated with the dog was dropped off and she was gone.  Realizing that this was pretty much a dump and run, the man decided to do the right thing.  Since he could not keep the dog, he would find him a good home.  He said a family had taken him home last weekend to see how it would work out.  They returned the dog to the man saying they couldn’t keep him.  The man was ADAMENT that the dog be returned to him since he did not want the dog to go from home to home to home and at least give the dog some consistency…like I said, EZ-Pass.  Three families, no takers…I was getting a little worried what we were getting ourselves into.

After we left, Christina and I discussed our little meeting.  As stated previously, we don’t always agree right away.  She was surprised that I was not immediately smitten with the dog and had to have him.  Well, I was…but I never admit ANYTHING right away.  My only trepidation was how the dog tested me…Christina missed out on that.  I told her to go back the next day and interact with the dog.  She did…and the dog did test her.  When Christina got home, she was so distraught at the dog’s actions that she immediately called two of my friends who owned Labs.  I can only imagine my friend’s initial reactions when my wife called, because I hardly call them…what the hell was my wife calling them for!  I give credit to them, they both spent plenty of time calming her fears…shout out to Barry and Coy.  With this new found knowledge of being a Lab owner, Christina was ready….

But only ONE thing…the man had another family who met the dog before us and they were taking him home that weekend to see how it would work out.  That Friday night seemed like an eternity.  It was like watching the clock the last few hours before summer vacation as a kid.  I could not imagine what the rest of the weekend was going to be like.   I told Christina not to think about it…but that is like telling someone not to think of a white horse…admit it, you just pictured a white horse, didn’t you?

We got a surprise call from the man Saturday morning.  Surprise calls are never good…  Christina answered the phone and in a few seconds her face lit up.  The family did not even keep the dog overnight, they returned him after only a few hours…something about “allergies” I believe.  While this was good news, I can’t say that a few alarms didn’t go off in my head.  We set up for that Friday, April 11^th 2008, to come over and pick up the dog.

When we arrived at the house, the man was not there.  I remembered the bond he had formed with the dog and understood why.  The wife was the only one there.  I had not met her but I could see she was not a true dog person.  Nonetheless, she told me a few stories the man had not.  These stories shocked, saddened, angered, frustrated (and a few other words I could put here but won’t) me.  As she handed me the dog’s things, there was a choker collar.  Not just any choker collar, but one that would bring the toughest of Rotweilers to their knees.  I asked her if the man had ever used that, she told me no.  However, when the dog came to them, he had it on.  When the man removed it, both he and his wife could see the hair around the dog’s neck had started to wear away and there was a silverish hue around his neck.  She also told me that the dog never barked…NEVER.  I started to get a clearer picture of the dog’s first owners, and for both our sakes, I am glad I never met them.

Fast forward a bit:  I would eventually have to teach the dog to bark.  When he did bark, he recoiled as he expected punishment (now I know why he didn’t bark).  I made sure all he got was hugs and treats every time he barked.  I would say that broke my heart to see him recoil, but I was not prepared for what happened soon after.  The dog slept in his cage at first as we were getting him acclimated to his new environment.  It was not until he slept in our bedroom did we discover something awful.   In a dead sleep, the dog cried out in a loud, chilling howl like nothing I have ever heard before.  I thought something had fallen on him or he got a paw caught somewhere.  I rushed to his bed, but there he was…asleep.  Now, I have slept with many dogs (insert joke here) and heard their dreams expressed in growls, whimpers and other assorted noises…but nothing, I repeat NOTHING comes anywhere close to what we experienced.  I had hoped over time these nightmares would go away….they did not.  Like a veteran who has nightmares of his fighting days…I can only assume these are dreams from his unfortunate puppyhood.  I have never felt so helpless…again, I am glad I never met those previous owners.

Back to the story’s end…

We departed the house.  The dog jumped into our car like he had done it a thousand times.  He never looked back.  We all knew this would be the last time he would have to leave this house searching for a new home.   When we arrived at home, we let the dog in.  Two words:  Bull – China Shop (I guess that is 3 words).   I was getting a feeling of why the previous four homes may not have wanted him.  I said to Christina in jest…I hope we are not getting a lemon!  Well….you all know how the rest of the story turns out…

When life gives you a lemon, you name him Max….

THE "less" Angry and Bitter Kid

And so it begins...

I always thought that no one ever listened to me...no matter how right I would eventually be proven to be.  So today, with that thought in mind...I am starting a Blog.  I figured why not, no one listens to me...so now no one can read me.  It seems the natural progression.

I chose the title Angry and Bitter Bits, since I was a curmudgeon well before my time.  I was once told I start every story with "You know what I hate..." and that just once they wanted me to start with "You know what I like...".  Well, that ain't happening...

I hope you join me in this little venture...if for no other reason than to kill some time.

Michael J. Walsh