The Hook Brings You Back

The Hook Brings You Back

This past week Christina had a friend stay over with her young son.  He asked me if he could play with my trains and I happily obliged.  He was thankful for the time, but it is I who should be thanking him.  It seems these days I don’t get to use them as much as I once did.  Seeing his eyes light up brings me back to his age and the days when I had all the time in the world.

I had just turned eight and in a few short months my Mom would be marrying my Step-Dad.  We would be moving up the block but currently my Mom and I still lived with my Grandparents.  My Grandfather was a tinkerer, and his garage and basement workshop were a young boys dream.  I took to tools at an early age.  It is somewhat surprising that now I am not handy around the house.  Well, at least I can cook… I got that from my Grandfather too.  I rarely needed to go to the local hardware store.  Everything I ever needed was at my fingertips.  We were at that age when we would build our own go-karts.  Race em?  Heck No!  We were more the demolition derby type of kids.  This meant our crafts where in constant need of repair.

It was a warm December that year so our outdoor activities continued well into the fall.  I sustained a huge crack in the front end of “Ole #5” and she was useless to me without some work.  One more hit without repair would be the end of her.  The garage had plenty of wood, tools and nails.  Nails are nice, but screws are better.  I would have to head to the basement workshop to chose among the many.  What was this?  The door was locked from the inside…the door is NEVER locked.  Locks in those days consisted of eyehooks and/or small sliding bolts.  It was just enough of a deterrent to keep kids out.  Well, most kids.

It had been a few years earlier when I was five that I faced a similar locked foe.  Before my Step Dad, my Mom had been dating a different guy.  He had a daughter around my age and a big beautiful house in which we were often invited to stay.  The first night we did so was a Friday and his daughter and I were sound asleep early.  Saturday morning arrived and that meant only one thing for me at that age…CARTOONS!  It was 7am and I tried to wake my sleepy "sister" to help me in my quest.  She had no interest, so I was on my own.  The den contained the TV and was off of the kitchen, so breakfast would be my first stop.  I found a bowl, a spoon, cereal and milk.  I went to push the swinging door that sat between the two rooms and was abruptly halted.  The door worked fine last night, what could be wrong.  I slowly pushed the door a second time and I could see the problem.  Way above me and on the other side was a locked eyehook.  Now the master bedroom was located on the other side of the den.  Waking the adults would not be a good option anyway.  I thought for a moment and then sprung into action.  I grabbed a butter knife from the draw and slid a chair next to the door.  On my tippy toes I was just able to slide the knife through the crack and lift the eyehook.  It was cartoon time!

Around 9am my Mom and her boyfriend emerged from the bedroom.  He stared in disbelief.  There I was watching my cartoons eating my chocolate frosted sugar bombs…all I was missing was Hobbes.  He turned to my Mom, “How did he get in here, I locked the door.”  My Mom just responded that something as simple as that would not thwart her son.

Now the door to the basement workshop would be a little tougher.  It would have the eyehook and a small dead bolt.  The door did not sit tightly in the frame so I could see the task ahead.  I retrieved some needle nose pliers and a screwdriver.  I squeezed the pliers through the opening and twisted the dead bolt around.  I was then able to ever so slightly maneuver it across.  Slowly but surely the end of the bolt passed the open slit.  The eyehook would be just a formality.  I entered the room and proceeded to go through every container, draw and anything that looked like it might be hiding the necessary screws.  Once I had what I needed I was ready to depart.  For some reason I turned around the opposite way from the door…and that is when I saw it.

There it was…a prebuilt 4ft x 6ft train set.  My eyes widened to take it all in.  The track was pristine.  The ballast glistening alongside.  The green grass so real you could almost smell it.  The light towers rose above the train yard below.  A control panel with a dual transformer and so many track switches they seemed to run out of numbers.  Christmas was only a few short weeks away and I knew this was mine. 

There are times in your life that stick with you forever.  As you look back to that moment, the excitement and joy immediately return to you.  As I now watched the young boy take control of my train set, I could see that familiar look in his eyes.

At least I had already unlocked the door for him.

Here Comes The Judge

Here Comes The Judge

Recently a trial date has been set for the Flyer fan that repeatedly attacked a Ranger fan following the NHL’s Winter Classic.  It was an unprovoked, brutal attack in which an opposing team's fan was beaten into unconsciousness.  Philadelphia has never been a stranger to unruly fans.  It came to a climatic point at Veteran’s Stadium in 1997 at a midseason game.  An Eagle season-ticket holder had his ankle broken when he came to the defense of a friend in a New York Giants jacket and was beaten by five men.

During that season, Eagle fans became so bad that the city set up an impromptu court in the bowels of the building.  It was a first for professional sports in this country.  In something that might resemble an episode of Night Court…you were arrested, charged, prosecuted, convicted and sentenced…all in around 22 minutes.  The court, now dubbed “Eagles Court”, forced even minor offenders to give up season tickets, pay a $400 fine and sit in jail for the rest of the game.

It was the fall of 1997 and football season was just beginning.  The Steelers had been in the thick of the playoffs for the last few seasons and I was optimistic of their SuperBowl chances.  When the schedule came out, the Steelers had a late November road game in Philadelphia.  I was unable to attend the last time they played there in 1991.  I was not going to miss it this time.

The Eagles were coming off a 10-6 season in 1996 where they had finished first in the division.  The fans were full of hope that 1997 would be THEIR year to win it all.  A slow start and a losing record created unrest among the fans.  An already unruly crowd turned worse.  Alcohol was banned after half time…that didn’t work.  Security was enhanced…no impact.  The city of Philadelphia needed a radical idea to turn the tide of trouble.  Their idea was to deal with the perpetrators with swift and immediate justice.  They would install a sanctioned courtroom right on the premises.  They chose Nov 23, 1997 to implement it.  It would be the same game against the Steelers I would be going to.

The city of Philadelphia was the focal point of the football world for that Sunday.  No other stadium had to go to such measures, not even Oakland’s famous black hole.  What should have been a source of shame seemed to turn to a badge of honor for these fans.  This was never more obvious then when I took to the phones to become a first time caller, long time listener.  The subject was the "Eagles Court" and was it really necessary.  As I waited for my turn, I prepared to tell them a shortened version of my Eagle adventure that occurred some 10 years ago.  A situation, where the outcome of which, could have easily been the same as the one following the Winter Classic in 2012.

The Giants play in Philadelphia every year, but in 1986 it happened to fall on my 21^st birthday.  I was able to score tickets from my college roommate whose Dad used to coach with the Eagles.  I invited a group of friend’s from high school to come down to Philly for the game.  The Giants pulled out to a big lead.  The Eagles tried to come back furiously in the second half.  Near the end of the game, the Eagles field goal kicker set up for what would be the tying kick.  It wasn’t even close.  The Eagles had brought the fans to the edge of success, only to fall short once again.  It had been that kind of frustrating season for the team.  It was a good game but it was marked by several scuffles on the field.  Somehow Eagle fans think they need to extend that to the stands and be part of the action.

As we exited the seats it began.  There were several opposing fans wearing Giants attire, and two of my friends were among them.  Eagle fans that looked like they could be crazed extras from Braveheart harassed us.  Somehow, the two Giant clad friends and I got separated from the group of ten.  At that moment it was not an issue.  We knew where the cars were parked.  Our seats had been down low, so we exited underneath the main ramp way.  It was not long before we heard the shatter of glass around us.  Someone above spotted the Giant jerseys below and began hurling bottles at us.  Luckily, their aim was similar to that of the Eagles kicker and they all missed their mark.  As we neared the parking lot, our glass assailers caught up with us.  We had no idea we were being pursued.  One of the two Eagle fans, from behind, pushed my friend to the ground.  I immediately grabbed the guy, and then turned to see if my friend was ok.  I was suddenly punched in the back of the head.  Nice, yet another blindsided move.  As I turned back to deliver my own blow, I noticed next to him a behemoth big foot of a man…with possibly more hair.  His synaptic activity was slow at best, perhaps why he hadn’t acted yet.  He carried an igloo thermos.  I can only imagine that it had been filled with booze further clouding his cortex.  In what seemed like slow motion, he lifted the igloo and brought it down upon my friend’s head.  A crowd quickly gathered into a mob, urging the two drunks to “Kill the Giant Fans”.   It appeared others were ready to oblige.  My other friend, realizing the situation was getting out of hand, grabbed my prone pal and scrambled off.   I had one chance to join them.  I shoved my dance partner into the legs of Sasquatch to give myself a head start.  We were able to ditch them darting between the parked cars.  My friend would be ok.  We were lucky it was not worse.

My shortened version of this filled the Philadelphia airways.  I told the serious tale to the jocks on 610 WIP.   Their response to the igloo thermos cracking over my cohort’s cranium…was laughter.  I informed them that this is what is wrong with your city.  Even 10 years later, with a judge having to be brought to their stadium, they still found this humorous.  I was ready to really let them have it and they must have sensed it.

For all I heard was “Let’s take the next caller”.

Oh Crap

Oh Crap

Recently Donald Trump ended a five-year impasse on building a catering hall and restaurant at Jones Beach.  The developer will invest more than $24 million to build the facility in Wantagh, LI.  It will include a restaurant for 400 and catering areas that could accommodate up to 1,250 guests.  He will be given a 40-year lease.  The deal was held up due to the basement Trump wanted to build and the state balked because it was a flood zone.  Yeah, I am not buying that.  It seems the state found a loophole until the proper palms could be greased.  The Donald now has a foothold on the beaches of Nassau County.  Can gambling be far behind?

gam·ble

v. gam·bled, gam·bling, gam·bles

1. To bet on an uncertain outcome, as of a contest.

2. To play a game of chance for stakes.

3. To take a risk in the hope of gaining an advantage or a benefit.

4. To engage in reckless or hazardous behavior

There are many diversions that are provided to the masses by the 1%.  Their favorite is pitting us against each other instead of rising up against them.  I urge people to watch C-SPAN instead of FOX or MSNBC.  Make an informed decision for yourself, don’t be told what to think.  But that is a blog for another day.  When not causing dissention between the lower ranks, the 1% provides us with gambling.  And when it comes to gambling, Trump trumps them all.  Remember the house ALWAYS wins…that is why he is part of the 1%.  The game is forever in his favor.

In my 20’s I spent way too much time with these distractions…and gambling was among them.  Maybe that is why I am not part of the 1%.  We would frequent the casinos in Atlantic City.  During that period in my life I spent a lot of time in South Jersey…and AC was only a short drive away.  Surprisingly I did very well.  My college buddy was always lucky so I would back him when he was the shooter in craps.  One time when our game changed to roulette he got even hotter.  With his system, he hit 9 out of 10 roulette numbers.  A little TOO hot for the Casino’s liking…the pit boss closed the table.  No matter, we would stay in the casino until the 5am closing.

In the early 90's, one of my trips to Atlantic City was part of a bachelor party.  This consisted of high school friends so my college companion would not be attending.  I could not ride his craps coat tails.  We arrived at Trump Castle with our large group late Saturday afternoon.  We checked in and split into two groups.  One went straight to the casino, the other off for some “entertainment” and dinner.  I was in the latter.  The second group obviously did not contain the hard-core gamblers.  Many were surprised I joined them.  I figured I could always gamble later since the casino was open until 5am.  As it approached midnight, two of us broke off from the pack.  We headed to the casino to see if we could find the others, but to no avail.  No big deal…we just hit the tables.  Black Jack was my friend’s choice that night.  I indulged in any game of chance so I joined him.  For the next two hours my friend continually cashed in, while I stayed around even.  Waitresses filled us with alcohol as we either hit or held.   After a dealer change my friend checked his watch and it was a little after 2am.  He was wobbly and winning so he was calling it a night.  I headed back up to the rooms with him, but no others from our crew had returned.  Not tired, I was off to the casino on my own.

Craps is a quick game, and a quicker way to lose money…but it was my game of choice.  I was able to join one of the only two craps tables left open at that point.  The dice had just passed my spot, so it would be a while before I was the shooter.  It was quite the eclectic group since it was the last remaining diehards.  As I was waiting for my turn, the waitress proceeded to bring me non-stop beers.  The 1% like the masses to gamble drunk, it increases their odds even more.  Surprisingly, when it came my time with the dice, I got on my own roll.  If you are not familiar with craps, if you don’t roll a 2, 3, 7, 11 or 12 on your initial roll, you can keep on rolling until you hit your original roll, which is your “point”…or a 7, in which you crap out…literally.  There are many ways to win, but I am just covering making your “point”.  While you try and make your “point” there are other ways to make money on each roll as long as you don’t “crap” out.  My rolling lasted for over an hour.  Whoever was left in the casino gathered around our table…like moths to a flame.  As my rolling continued I got cocky…that comes easy when you have been drinking for several hours.  I took center stage and enjoyed the spotlight.  I proclaimed I could roll all night without crapping out.  It was then a gentlemanly Texan said, “Son, I know you are on a roll, but can you please just hit the point.”  In my continued cockiness I faked pretending it had been so long that I did not even remember the “point” number.  He informed me sarcastically it was a six.  I responded to him if he would like me to roll a “hard” six (which is two threes and can pay out even more).  He lifted his 10-gallon hat back on his head and said, “Shoot Son, I’d LOVE a hard six”.  I announced to the gathered crowd, “A hard six for the gentleman from Texas”.  I rolled away never looking at the dice, my eyes affixed upon the Texan.  The crowd roared and I knew the outcome.  Two threes.  The Texan smiled and just shook his head in disbelief.  I eventually crapped out and my shooting time passed.  The Texan waited until it was my turn again, to see if I could catch lightning in a bottle twice.  But before I knew it I crapped out on my second chance.  I apologized to the Texan that I could not repeat my previous performance.  He responded as he gathered his gains to go, “Son, your last roll made me a whole ton of money.”  With that, he tossed me a few hundred dollar chips and was off.

The crowd dissipated since the excitement now dwindled.  Soon I noticed I was the only one at the table.  But that would not deter me.  The waitress continued to bring me my beer which now sat alone upon her tray.  I apologized to the workers for keeping them up.  They reminded me they had to be there anyway.  I figured I would gamble until close and then head back up to the room.  I threw chips down for the dealers so they could gamble along with me since I was the only shooter.  After some time had passed the table began to fill back up.  A buzz began to gain momentum in the casino.  I noticed my beer was now kept company on the tray with a group of coffees.  All I could think was what lightweights!  However, I was glad to finally have some company and new rollers.  It was at this point the gang from the first group finally found me.  They inquired, “Have you been here all night?”  I nodded yes and said I can’t wait until they close at 5am so I can catch a nap.  A puzzled look and one of them responded, “Dude…its 10am!”

Monday morning I was still wondering why the casino never closed.  It was not until later that day when I was reading the NY Post that I would find out.  It seems Trump Castle instituted a pilot program to keep casinos open all night long.  They would be the first to try it and chose that previous Saturday night to start.  There were many opponents.  The argument was that the addicted gambler needed a cutoff time.  With no windows or clocks in the casino, there is no way to know what time it is without a watch (no cell phones back then!).  The addicted gambler would never know when it was time to go home and would continue gambling.  You could see why casinos would like this.

In the article the reporter went on to write about his observations from that Saturday night.  He told a story of a lone gambler, one who solitary stood at the craps table long after all had left.  He went on to describe that individual and his evening in detail.  I didn't need to continue.

I had already lived the whole story.

Lap Of Luxury

Lap Of Luxury

While working at the North Shore Animal League, one of the perks was being able to attend Islander and Met games from the luxury suites.  EAB, European American Bank, offered their boxes to their high-end customers, and North Shore was one of them.  Being an Islander fan I usually was on the list to be invited to those.  I was able to see the Islanders double overtime playoff victory in 1993 from the EAB luxury box.  The Islanders were down 3-0 going into the 3^rd period.  In between periods I had the pleasure of riding the elevator back up to the suites with Islander Assistant GM Darcy Regier.  I opened the conversation with the fact that can you believe the Capitals back up goalie was shutting us down.  He assured me, “Don’t worry, we will get to him this period.”  The Islanders would score three goals, tying the game with a minute left.  As the crowd erupted I looked over to the Islander box only to see Mr. Regier pointing to me in a “see, I told you so manner.”  I gave him the thumbs up, we were going to OT.

Luxury box games at Shea were a different story.  It was harder to get invited to since baseball was a bigger draw and I had only been once before.  It was nearing the end of the 2002 baseball season.  The Mets were only two years removed from the World Series but now they resided dead last in their division.  Since the Mets were settled in the basement, the EAB luxury box tickets were available.  They were offered to North Shore’s finance department and I was lucky enough to go.

We would arrive early to maximize our time in the luxury box.  So early in fact, that there were no security guards at the elevators to usher us in.  No worries, we took matters into our own hands.  We easily arrived at the luxury level.  We had been to the EAB box before and started to head left.  I stopped our group as I glanced quickly at my ticket.  Says Box 3.  It was right in front of us.  Maybe EAB had changed boxes?  No matter, this was closer to home plate…and right now, closer to us.  As we entered we were welcomed to a beautiful buffet.  We had been offered food in the boxes before, but never were we presented with such a bounty.  Among the offerings was a shrimp cocktail tree that would rival any sequoia.  Also, a “make your own” fajita station was simmering.  The fridge was filled with high-end beer.  Top shelf liquor at the bar.  We turned off the Mets pregame, put on Married with Children and placed one hand in our waistband.  Paradise.

We were not shy with the food either…we never were at these things.  We joked we needed to get our monies worth even though the tickets were free.  Soon the sequoia of shrimp looked more like a "less than mighty" oak.  The filled fajita station was dwindling.  I believe the yellow gas light came on for the beer level.  It was about an hour and a half that finally someone else entered.  Since we did arrive so early we did not think it strange that it had only been the three of us.

The gentleman entered and was silent, which we thought was rude.  Whatever, talking to him would only inhibit our intake.  He looked around and headed out the sliding glass doors to the seats.  It was in the high 90’s so we were not appreciative he left them open.  I slid over, and closed the doors grumbling, “What, do you live in a barn.”  After a while the gentleman came back in, a little annoyed the door was closed behind him.  We could care less.  He then exited the room without a word.  Another half hour rolled by when the gentleman entered again.  This time he at least acknowledged us with a look, but continued on.  He exited the same sliding glass doors…once again leaving them open.  I muttered, “I hope this idiot is not going to do this all game.”  We went back to our indulgence.  Once again he exited without a word.

It was nearing game time and we finally wondered where all the others were.  The Box held about two dozen or so, yet it was near 7pm and still only the three of us were there.  Soon the gentleman entered again and finally spoke.  I guess the third time was the charm.  He asked, “Who are you guys with?”  We responded we are with the North Shore Animal League.  He looked puzzled, “Ummm, there is no room for you guys, we have the whole box.”  The three of us then proceeded to get up, puzzled ourselves.  We told him we were invited by EAB.  He responded, “EAB? This is a private box.”  We headed to the door to check and were “greeted” by 5 security guards.  The guards looked angry and were ready to bounce us.  I quickly produced the ticket and pointed defiantley showing the guard, “See, Luxury Box, Suite 3.”  The guard chuckled as he realized what had happened. “Sir, that is not SUITE 3, that is ROW 3…you want SUITE 22.”   Ooops.  Well, we belonged in a suite, just not this one.  As we exited, we passed about 20 or so people. These were the correct occupants and they had been waiting outside for over an hour.  I never understood why they kept sending in the same one guy.  Were we that intimidating?  Couldn’t all of them just come in and chase us out?  Did they really need to get security?  No matter, we had the box..and the food…all to ourselves during that time.

The security guards escorted us to the proper suite.  One of them pointed at the door much like I had pointed at the ticket moments earlier.  He smiled and offered one simple word, “22”.  We entered and were greeted by our hosts.  They had wondered where we could be since they knew we were arriving early.  We told them the tale of our wrongful entry.  Everyone enjoyed a laugh, and then it was time to watch the game.  After a few innings, not full enough, we looked around for more shrimp and fajitas…what we found were dirty water dogs and cold chicken fingers.  What was this?  Did they eat all the good food while we were in the other box?

A moment or two later a waiter came in.  We inquired about the shrimp and fajitas.  He informed us, “On no, that is special order food.  It doesn’t come with the luxury box.  You have to purchase it separately.  It needs to be prepared for you in advance.”  Not only had we sat in the wrong box for the last two hours but we had devoured almost all of their high end buffet in the process.  To this day I wonder how their side of the story goes.  When three guys held their luxury box hostage and ate all their food.

I will forever be spoiled.  Forget the peanuts and crackerjack…give me shrimp and fajitas every time!

Twisting By The Pool

Twisting By The Pool

Last week was the Fourth of July.  Normally on that day Christina and I just lay low…no plans at all, just the 3 of us…with Max of course.  This year was different.  The family on my Grandfather’s side usually gathers at their Mom’s house for a 4^th of July pool party.  Only one thing.  Their Mom decided to fill in the pool one final time, not with water, but with dirt.  The pool became a little too much to handle and a little too expensive to maintain.  I would offer up my pool as a proxy.

As a child, I spent many a summer swimming in the suddenly earth filled pool.  It was my Mom’s first cousin’s house and they grew up like siblings.  He had four offspring, all daughters.  When I went over he would always try and be an influence on me.  He knew my Mom was raising me on her own.  It was on one these trips that it almost became my last.  I was 5 years old but I remember it like it was yesterday.  I was a fish.  Pool, beach…sewer, you name it, I swam in it.  That day the pool was filled with kids ranging from ages 5 to10.  There was a Styrofoam board and we played “king of the hill" for it.  I had worked my way to the top, holding firmly with both hands.  My mouth must have been wide-open proclaiming victory…when someone flipped me.  As the others fought for position atop, no one noticed me swallow the water below…. except my Mom.  As I struggled to regain the surface my Mom dove in fully clothed.  Before anyone new what was happening I was pulled to the surface and removed from the pool.  My lungs expunged the chlorine water and I drew a long awaited breath.  Good thing Mom was looking over me.  From that day on I have stayed away from any type of pool toys to remain buoyant.  I'll never use a flotation device again.

The gathering on July 4^th consisted of several generations.  The dirt filled pool was a topic of several conversations.  We talked of the parties, the memories and the time I almost drowned.   Some 40 years later, it was now my pool with the 5 year old swimming in it.  I kept a watchful eye thinking back to that day when my life was almost cut short.  As I treaded water in the deep end, I thought of what might have been had my Mom not been watching over me.  She would have liked to have been here with the family today.  What happened later that night makes me think she was.  I have always thought that Max sees something that I don’t…staring over me on the couch and into the distance.  The house is new so most people feel its young history does not lend to a haunting.  Perhaps it is not the house but the tenant that has filled it with a spirit.

Later that night, Max took his staring to a new level.  It started with him being restless, but not in a bad way.  He did have an irritation under his right ear…but a lack of scratching led me to think that was not the cause.  He wanted to go out, yet he had just been so.  Never one to deny a dog’s call of nature, I let him out again.  Instead of going to his usual place he trotted off to the fence by the pool…and stared out.  Max has a familiar pitter-patter trot when he is up to something.  Ok, maybe there was some sort of animal down there.  He has never been one to chase them, but he is always curious.  After a while he wanted back in.  A quick treat and he hopped up on the couch.  Again restless his head sprang up.  He popped up off the couch and “trotted” off into the living room as if someone called him.  He NEVER goes into the living room by himself.  After what sounded like playing, he “trotted” up the stairs.  It is hard enough to get him upstairs when we go to sleep, and now he ventured up there alone.  He soon bolted down the stairs and came running, tongue hanging out and tail wagging furiously.  He gave us that look like he had just found a new friend.  Mom always did love dogs.

Now, I am not a big believer in the afterlife so I have no explanation…but maybe once again my Mom is watching over me.  Christina, on the other hand, is fully convinced of it.

Seems her Mother-in-Law has moved in.

Long Island Fail Road

Long Island Fail Road
 

They are spending millions of dollars to create and revitalize the transportation hub at Ronkonkoma.  It has become one of the busiest train stations on Long Island.  But what good is this project when it will still service the same old railroad.  And this morning was a prime example of it.  I was hit with the exacta of track trouble.

1) Equipment Failure: This is when a train breaks down.

Since half the fleet was built before I graduated High School, this happens on a regular basis.  It also happened to occur on a single-track section.  This blocked everything.  No trains in, no trains out.  The Ronkonkoma station was crippled.  Eventually the one train that bottlenecked the whole system was cleared.  Then there were signal problems...

2) Signal Problems:  Crossing signal at an intersection is no longer closing as a train passes.

Obviously this is a serious issue.  Of course, not serious enough for the LIRR to ever fix the problem and upgrade them.  An already backed up system was now handicapped because trains had to pass through the inoperable signals at a snails pace.  And not just AT the signal, but the whole block of track associated with it.  Multiple signals out means a LONG slow commute.

In what is considered the “Main Line”, there is 12.6 miles of single track.  A single line creates the antiquated ritual of waiting for a train from the opposite direction to pass on the double track area before your train can proceed.  This is something that was done in the 1800’s when it was difficult to maintain two tracks let alone one because of the terrain.  It was not a commuter line that carries 100,000 people a day through the suburbs.  Knowing how poorly the LIRR runs, I am in shock there has not been a head on collision.  Ironically, the LIRR must be prepared for that eventuality since most of the single line track goes directly through the Pine Lawn cemetery.  Of course there is plenty of room on either side to add a second track.  You would not have to move the headstones…oh, and of course the bodies…remember to move the bodies.  Maybe the empty area is actually plots purchased by LIRR riders that want to stay near and dear to their beloved railroad when they pass.  However, I believe Al Czervik said it best ”I tell ya, golf courses and cemeteries are the biggest wastes of prime real estate”.  So how come the LIRR can’t purchase this wasted space to run a second line?  Was Old Man Smithers haunting the cemetery trying to get away with something?  They double tracked to Sayville back in 1917…They double tracked Syosset to Huntington in 1982…What about Ronkonkoma?

The LIRR tells us a second track will be built.  The project will be completed in 2019.  12.6 miles of track…7 years.  Less than 2 miles per year.  And that is if they stay on schedule.  Please see my blog titled “American No How”…I don’t feel like repeating myself.

But lets fast forward to 2019.  What good is a second track when the crossing signals have not been updated since the 1950’s?  Even if just ONE of these fail, a train has to go through it at 15 miles per hour.  And fail they do.  As I passed one of these failed signals last night…yes, it happened last night too…I saw a group of LIRR workers looking at the exposed electrical equipment that runs the signal.  I expected to see a bunch of wheels with squirrels on them.  There were 7 workers…it was easy to count since the train was crawling past them.  They stared blindly into the box and prompted the old question, "How many LIRR workers does it take to fix a broken signal?"  Well, obviously the answer was not 7.  Seems they needed more LIRR guys.  And more LIRR guys it will have to be.  You see, there are NO plans to upgrade these signals.

I have been riding the LIRR now for 6 years.  I get it, it is MUCH better than driving into the city.  But that is no excuse for the riders to put up with this…and I am not sure why they do.  Antiquated filthy trains that break down along a single track that has failing crossing gates.  And that is just the stretch of the LIRR that runs from Hicksville to Ronkonkoma.  There are other lines and hundreds of thousands of riders that deal with different issues.  They need to unite and be heard as a single voice.

Maybe it starts here…

Can't-cun

Can't-cun

When I was in college, I never had a chance to do an “official” spring break trip.  Back in 1985 I came close while crashing at a friend’s house in Clearwater, Florida…Thank You Chuck!  1986 was a wash because of the knee since the trip was to Killington, Vermont.  No skiing, no point in going.  In 1987 the gang was off to the famous Fort Lauderdale strip.  Due to a change in major I needed more course work meaning less co-op job months…and less money.  I was low on funds and I decided to be responsible.  Yeah, remind me not to do that again.

By changing my major I would have to go an extra semester in the fall after my class had graduated.  It would lead to many things, but one sticks out by far.  Better job?  No, wound up not getting a job corresponding with my major.  Better opportunity? Nope.  Staying longer in college, the crash of 1987 led to widespread unemployment.  Rich beyond my wildest dreams?  No…well, I guess in a way…Yes.

By the time we were seniors, my roommate and I transformed our simple dorm room into a den of iniquity.  The beds were up in lofts to maximize the space.  Under one bed was a couch and a coffee table, but under the other was the centerpiece.  My roommate had built a beautiful bar.  My input being the cutout center that displayed a 20 gallon fish tank.  Behind the bar was the fridge with our TV upon it.   We were 14 stories up and had a huge bay window with an awesome view.  It had a 5ft square window “sill” that most people would place books, supplies etc.  We were not most people.  What a waste that space would have been for such simple inanimate objects.   We tacked down cushion and topped it with carpet.  We adorned it with throw pillows for ambiance.  It became known as "The Perch".  Even Heff would have been envious.

The summer after graduation I remained in that room.  However, with a new semester coming, I did not want to reside in the upperclassmen dorm.  Cliques were already created and there was no need to meet new people.  I decided I would move the entire room to the freshman dorm.  As incoming freshmen they would be eager to interact, and knowing the ropes I would have the upper hand.  One look at my room and they would know that would be the place to party.  Since I was a “super” senior I was among the first to select my new room.  Upperclassmen were going to choose “their” dorm, so I knew I would have the pick of the litter in the freshman dorm.  I chose the seventh floor.  It was a co-ed floor and high enough for a view.  Also I strategically picked one of the two rooms in the elevator lobby.  It was a high traffic area so I would not go unnoticed.

I developed friendships quickly that semester.  The guys nicknamed me “grandpa”…which was fine by me.  Luckily, the barely out of high school girls, didn’t…which also was fine by me.  After I finished my final classes, it was time to depart Drexel.  However remaining so close to my new found freshmen, I would return…and return...and return.  Their following sophomore year they moved on from the dorms into their own apartment dwelling.  I would find myself crashing there almost every weekend.  Spring break 1990 was rapidly approaching.  Even though I was out of college, there was no way I was going to miss it this time.

The freshmen now sophomores selected Cancun.  We looked at several packages.  Price was now no object for me since I was gainfully employed.  However, they were still broke college students.  My frugal friend found a package for the five of us that sounded too good to be true…and we would soon find out it was.

We arrived in Cancun and looked for transportation to our hotel.  The tour buses were all headed to the resorts and we could not find ours among the listed.  We were finally informed our hotel was downtown.  We found ourselves among the locals…not the locals that embrace the tourists either.  The hotel looked like something out of Revenge of the Nerds II.  The pool was half full, and the half that was in it looked like the sewer I fell in oh so many years ago.  The five of us entered the room to find one double and one single bed.  We told the man that we were supposed to have a room that sleeps five.  He pulled the mattress off of the double bed and placed it on the floor.  “Cinco” and with that he left the room.

That night we were off to the bars.  We would have to cab it out of downtown towards the tourist destinations.  The first night was Tequila Sunrise.  Not the best of venues, but it had an “All the tequila you could drink party for $19”.  We met a group of girls ranging from 5-10’s.  The 5 seemed the most interested in me…hey, who am I to judge anyway.  It was time to refill our drinks and I offered to go.  At this point I had already established a relationship with the bartenders.  My spang-lish kept them entertained, but it was mostly my tipping.  I was probably the only non-student so I had more cash flow than most.  Each time I returned I did not have to wait in line.  They would welcome me with “Mi hermano” and “Mi amigo”.  I told them there was a girl waiting for me.  They cheered me on with “Bueno, bueno”.  I said “No, no bueno…es muy fea… necesito tequila.”  They must have understood since they soon showered me with shots.  I returned to my 5, much more the 10 now.  Hey who knows, maybe she had to go for some tequila too.  That evening must have went well, for we were all invited to their beach resort the following day.

We were happy to get away from our no-star hotel for as long as possible.  We packed like we were not returning.  We arrived at their resort, luggage in hand.  They said, “Are you planning on staying?  Because you are welcome to.”  That was an awesome invite.  They had been well aware of our plight.  We changed into our bathing suits and headed out.  We annexed a small section of the multiple cascading pools.  It was away from the center waterfall laden larger one.  It was our own private oasis.  While in the water we decided to have chicken fights.  For those of you not familiar, that is when you place another person on your shoulders and try to knock an opposing couple over.  Obviously my stature lends to me being the bottom support guy, whether a female OR MALE resides upon my shoulders.  A few rounds in my partner and I were undefeated.  Then I discovered something about fancy pools.  It seems the bottom was set with tiny tiles…not the usual gunite.  During one of our jousts, I slipped and struggled to regain my balance.  I pushed off on my right foot and felt a shooting pain.  I lost control of my partner and our battle was lost.  But worse, I could see a cloud of bright red below me.  I exited the pool to find I had sliced open my toe on the tiles…and the blood was flowing.  I needed to find first aide.

I did not want to draw attention to myself since the resort had a strict policy about allowing guests…and I did not want to get us all tossed out.  I headed alone to the front desk for help.  I trekked throughout the resort unknowingly leaving a bloody trail.  I arrived at the concierge to find a couple being helped and another waiting in line.  The cantankerous couple at the desk were oblivious to anyone behind them…especially me…and they looked like they would never be satisfied.  They finally departed and the next couple was up.  The guy happened to turn and took one look at me.  I was still soaking wet and stood in a developing pool of my own blood.  He just said, “It’s ok, you can go next.”  The clerk led me to first aid.  I was lucky he did not inquire as to my staying.  He said he would alert the first aid attendant.  A few minutes later walked in one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen.  I could tell she was a local and soon found out she was attending nursing school.  My heart was throbbing more than my toe.  I was lucky her beauty was matched by her skill, as I was quickly wrapped and ready to go.  She informed me she would be right back, I needed to fill out the paperwork and my proof of residency.  Uh-oh.  Alas, my encounter would be fleeting.  I took this opportunity to just slip out the back Jack…and set myself free.

I headed back to my friends, who caught me as I was exiting the hotel.  They just pointed back at my extensive trail of blood by the pool.  The local police had been summoned and they cordoned off that area as a crime scene.  My friends informed me that the girls had gone back to the room...and we should do the same as soon as possible.  Rumors later flew around the hotel that someone was shot.  I assumed eventually they would interview my Florence Nightingale and she would inform them of the "blood gushing gringo".  We laid low in the rooms the rest of the day…which wasn’t so bad.  My 5 was a 10 when it came to compassion…and that’s what really counts anyway right?

All the effort of moving my dorm room for that one semester worked…better than I could have imagined.  The group gathered recently for a wedding.  We relived our Cancun trip along with all our other adventures.  That fall I wound up forming friendships that would last a lifetime.

And I wound up richer for it.