Saturday in the Park

Saturday in the Park

As we have already established, I am somewhat of a Steelers fan…I have been as long as I can remember.  My Step Dad liked sports…his job actually encompassed it…but that is a blog I am saving for a rainy day.  However, my parents did not like to drive to the games so I rarely got to go.  Queens was too far…even though we lived right on the border…and the Bronx?  Fuggedaboutit. 

My first real Yankee game, one not at Shea, I would drive to myself…in May of 1983…my senior year of high school.  With my first Yankee game under my belt, I now needed to see the Steelers in person.  A week after that Yankee game, the NFL schedules were due out…and there it was.  The game lit up on the page:  Steelers @ Jets Saturday December 10, 1983 12:30 pm.  Not only did I get the Steelers coming to Shea Stadium, but it also was a Saturday game to boot.  The scheduling Gods had answered my prayers.

I was off to college in September of that year.  A few have asked why I chose a university in Pennsylvania…as a matter of fact, why ALL the colleges I applied to were in the Keystone State.  Obviously those who inquired hardly knew me…PA would televise Steeler games on Sunday…what better way to determine my education and my future!  I packed lightly but took a few books, one was my yearbook as I had a hard time letting go…and another was my NFL Bible of Stats…can’t leave home without that!   A good friend from High School had scribbled in my yearbook “I hope you find someone who loves football as much as you…or is deaf”.  I found the former.  My new dormitory neighbor had a bit of a connection…his Dad was a former NFL head coach.  We became fast friends.  As fall headed towards winter, we spent our Sundays studying…oh wait, that wasn’t us!  We were planted in front of the TV from noon to 60 Minutes.  Others would come and go, catching a quarter or 2, but our only movement involved putting beer in and letting beer out.

My football friend’s Dad’s last coaching gig was with the N.Y. Jets, so he had bonds to this team.  He mentioned his loyalties changed year to year, depending on the team the family’s livelihood came from.  I kidded back, same with my Step Dad…but our loyalties changed from game to game.  It was the beginning of November and I subtly mentioned the Saturday Steeler game approaching.  I hoped his Dad still had a few connections left.  It was then I first heard something, something so hideous…so horrendous…that I could not fathom.  At first I thought he was kidding, he had to be.  See, I am usually good at being the butt end of a joke…I will get into that in a future blog.  My friend’s response to my request, “Oh, we can’t go, we have finals on that Saturday”.  Huh?  Weekends were made for Michelob and ME!  I dismissed the statement and filed it away under, "he did not want to disturb his Dad".

Thanksgiving arrived and all our dorm-mates dispersed.  I headed home to familiar friends.  First night back they presented me with the Holy Grail…a ticket to the Steeler/Jets game.  I am in!  I never gave that silly finals talk a thought.  I arrived back at Drexel, ticket in hand.  The semester drew to a close and our finals schedules were posted.  Fortran:  Saturday December 10^th, 11:15 – 1:15.  No, it can’t be!….my pals must have prodded the professor to pull such a prank.  I sought out the schoolteacher and he confirmed…This was no drill.

The game took on even greater importance to me.  Terry Bradshaw, the Steelers future hall of fame quarterback, was returning from injury to play for the first time ALL season.  Even my recently completed English paper, which had to be on a public figure I admired, was on Terry Bradshaw.  I so wanted to see his return in person.  Unfortunately reality was settling in that I would not be attending.  I COULD however watch it on TV.  But wait, the game was at 12:30…the final did not end until 1:15…and by the time I handed my work in, got across campus and to the dorm... it would be almost 2.  I would miss the whole first half of the game!  There was no NFL network back then to show a replay of the game, it was live or not at all.  It was then I took a stand against this Saturday assailant.  I decided I would get as much of the final finished, then exit stage left with enough time to high tail it to the television.  Noon would be my scheduled departure.

Exams where handed out and I had more than my share of #2’s…no time to waste on broken points.  Fortran was my foe that day and the exam consisted of writing 10 programs.  I quickly scribbled as much basic computer gibberish I could for each…hoping to gain points for the obvious.  I went back to the beginning to actually read the questions and fill in the Fortran.  It was at question 6 the bell tolled for me…time to go.  I quickly closed my exam, got up and headed towards the proctor.  What happened next stays embedded in my mind.  400 people looked up and sneered in my direction.  I realized what was happening.  They thought I was actually FINISHED!  That I was such a geeky jerk and I was rubbing it in their faces.  Only my 5 fellow dorm-mates knew of my plan and laughed in amazement…he was REALLY leaving!  THEY knew my exam was nowhere near complete.  On my way out, one friend near the door scoffed…You’re gonna fail.  I responded quietly…Maybe, but I am gonna go drink that case of beer you left in my fridge…touché!

I arrived at my destination just in time to hear that familiar game time music.  My football friend, not a student of Fortran, had my usual spot next to him prepped and ready.  Beer?  I thought you’d never ask.  He had no doubt I would hold to my plan.  The game started and Bradshaw was on fire!  He tossed 2 touchdown passes in the first half and the Steelers took a commanding lead.  Coming back from a commercial break, about an hour into the game…it happened.  “Now in at quarterback for the Steelers…Cliff Stoudt”.  Bradshaw had reinjured his throwing elbow…he would never play another down of football again.

I earned a C that day…however Fortran joined the many Middle Eastern languages to be among the deceased.  I never regretted my decision.  Had I stayed to finish the final, would I have done better…who knows?  What I did know is if I remained, I would have missed Terry Bradshaw’s last foray…his last moment to lead his team…his exclamation point on a hall of fame career.  I was somewhat satisfied with my TV viewing consolation prize.  However, I would later find out from my friends attending the game that it was the best time ever.  They even had their picture show up on the back page of Newsday…

All three of them…next to an empty seat.

Breaking Us in Two

Breaking Us in Two

April showers bring May flowers…and for the last 6 years it also brought my landscaper.  With this cold/warm/cold weather we’ve been getting, I hadn’t taken note that our spring clean up was not carried out.  This includes trimming, grass cutting and general prepping of the yard for summer.   April is a ritual for me…and usually runs like clockwork…Sprinklers - Done, Pool Opened - Done, Spring Cleanup – Waiting, Waiting, Waiting.  Unfortunately, Meatloaf was wrong…2 out of 3 IS bad.

Despite a mild winter, the yard was strewn with leaves and broken branches.  Even with Max’s mulching abilities, the volume was too much for him to munch.  Also the grass began to grow, and grow.  The deck disappeared.  The weeds started to beat the flowers back, deeper into their beds.   Vines winded unchecked, attacking innocent evergreens as if angry at them that they had flourished year round.  Our address read 1313 Mockingbird Lane.

But where was my guy?

Our last communiqué was a certified correspondence containing last season’s paid invoice and a promise of this years contract.  The contract never came, but I held out hope.   I waited and began to worry his company no longer existed.  Or worse, was he all right…did something happen to him?   Unlike our sprinkler and pool places, my landscaper is a one-man show.  He whisks in at his convenience so I was accustomed to him hanging me on the vine.  I finally brought myself to call, which I never had to do before.  The sound of a business greeting soothed my fears of closer.  I left a message…and days went by.  I waited…like it was a post first date call.  Did he get my message? Should I call him again?  Would that be too soon?  He HAD to be coming, he always arrived eventually…RIGHT?

Days turned into weeks.  I was hesitant on hiring someone else since I thought as soon as they came…he would show up.  I didn’t want him to think I failed to keep the faith.  Christina and I decided to attack the avalanche of arbor ourselves.  We weed whacked a path that seemed more suited for a machete.   Both of us made little headway as the dense darkness consumed us.  She shouted at me “just call him again”…I assume it was her…. the brush hid her whereabouts.

I gave in.  I called and left an ultimatum…if you don’t show by Sunday, I am moving on.  The weekend came and went…and I was left at the altar.

Breaking up is hard to do…even when it is just with your landscaper.

Against All Odds

Against All Odds

I never want to make light of someone’s death, but the recent suicide of NFL great Junior Seau got me thinking…and therefore writing.  His status among the elite brought more press than most, but he became the 8^th member of the San Diego Chargers who would die an early death…and they all played for that one magical season in 1994 when they went to the teams ONLY Superbowl.  When the 5^th member passed away, statisticians said the odds of this happening to one team was less than 1%...now they don’t even bother to calculate it.  I have put my own ideas to explain the unexplainable.  I hope not to offend.

You may have noticed I am a Steelers fan.  All you have to do is crack open my basement door to be hit by a tsunami of Black and Gold.  Players passing before their time is nothing new to those who follow the Steelers.  With Seau’s suicide, many have searched for a cause…and head trauma seems to be the consensus.  This can explain some, but not all.  The Steelers did have their own suicide, Terry Long, in 2005.  Another, Justin Strzelczyk, in 2004, led NYS police on a high-speed chase the wrong way on the thruway.  He eventually ended up losing a head on battle with a tractor-trailer.  It was later deemed both these men suffered from head trauma.  But what of the others?  David Little in 2005, breaking rule number one of weight lifting, did not have a spotter.  He lost the grip of his barbell and it rolled on his neck and it suffocated him.  Another, however, the one that touched me the most was Steve Courson…happening a day after my birthday in 2005.  At age 50, he was on his land cutting down a huge tree.  It did not cooperate and the tree began to fall a different direction.  In that direction was his dog, a black lab.  He rushed to protect his dog like he had rushed to protect his quarterback many years before.  The dog was safe, his master was not.   These players may have died around the same time, but they never all played for the team at the same time.   The story of the 1994 San Diego Chargers is a bit different, they shared a magical season…but at what price?

It was January 1995…playoff time for the 1994 season and the Steelers were the team to beat in the AFC.  I had just arrived back from Pittsburgh after attending the Steelers’ first playoff match and frostbite still filled my fingers.  You see, the game was frigid, it WAS winter in Pittsburgh.  Game time temps hovered in the teens, but the wind chill drove it too low for zero.  During the game, I was warmed by the booze in my “bar”noculars and the beating the Burgh boys put on the Browns.  It was cold, very cold…It was Steelers weather!  Wearily resting from my trip, the phone rang…luckily this coincided with feeling coming back to my fingers.  It was a friend from Steeler Nation calling with an extra ticket to the next game.   He asked if I was up for another arctic adventure back to the Burgh.  Duh…let me get my “bar”noculars!  I had hardly settled back in NY before I was off again.  This time as we arrived something was different.  I thought the car was overheating…I was sweating.  It was warm…too warm.  This was a time before weather.com…the Internet, smart phones…possibly even the weather channel.  We just assumed a week deeper into winter Pittsburgh would be a freeze-age wasteland.  I believe we even sang those words to the Who song somewhere near Harrisburg.  The Steelers’ home field advantage was the weather, but this warm weather, playing a warm weather team, the San Diego Chargers…put a pit in my stomach.

It was now Sunday, game day. The Steelers were a HUGE favorite to be victorious and venture back to the Superbowl.  Gone were my gloves, my jacket, my ski mask…and my “bar”noculars.  I wore a recently purchased T-shirt, since there was never any thought of packing such light attire.  We arrived early at the stadium, and the local media spotted my eagerness to be interviewed.  A guy with the worst hairpiece since Jim Carr approached.  Son, what do you think of the game today?  My response eerily haunts me to this day…”Well, I got a bad feeling about today.  Seems the Chargers brought their warm weather with them…wonder whose soul they had to sell for 60 degree temps during a Pittsburgh winter.”  He huffed at me, having given him more words than he wished and sought out a less sober fan.  I guess all he wanted was the 2 words Steelers and Superbowl.  The San Diego Chargers won that day; on plays that probably would not have prevailed had the weather been worse.  This would be the last victory for these 45 men.

David Griggs would be the first.  Only 5 months after defeating the Steelers, he died when his car slid off an expressway ramp and slammed into a large sign pole.  7 others would perish in their own unique way…the latest being Junior Seau.  Rodney Culver would die in a plane crash…Shawn Lee a heart attack…Chris Mims, obesity.  It was as if they were cast in the movie Seven…or Final Destination.  While all these deaths could be shrugged off…it was the story of Doug Miller that brought me to write this.  While camping on the Colorado River he was killed by lightning…surviving an initial strike, then being hit by a second.  You talk about the odds.  The 1994 San Diego Charger team was a close, overachieving team…beating those same kind of odds.  They snuck into the playoffs, they snuck into Pittsburgh and they snuck out with a trip to the Superbowl.  It would seem these odds are catching up with them.

In the course of ones life we find ourselves looking up…or down…for answers, for prayer, for deals.  “I would give it all”…if you could only give me this.   That year did the Devil come down to San Diego looking for a soul to steal?  Did these men offer something…everything, so they could have that one moment an athlete dreams of?  It is hard to brush this off as coincidence…especially when these men had little in common except that magical season in 1994.  The San Diego Chargers have not made the Superbowl since.

Perhaps the Devil stole all the souls he needed…

Easy as 1-2-3

Easy as 1-2-3

I booked my flight last minute. I decided to leave from MacArthur Airport in Islip.  By not going to JFK or Laguardia, the rush hour I would not have to face.  I wound up, however, like a pitched stone skipping my way down the east coast to New Orleans.

The first part of my journey was a customary commute.  The route resulted in my passing of a particular railway platform.  I could almost see the familiar faces facing downward as they dwelled upon another day of drudgery.  Today I would not be among them.  As I arrived, as if on cue, possibly the loudest clap of thunder echoed across the airport.  My personal rain cloud (see past blog) perturbed I was trying to leave without him.  Security was light at this little landing strip so no terminal troubles this time.  I arrived at my “gate”, a bank of 10 seats and a big window.  On the other side of the glass was our little prop plane strapped with restraints in the wind and rain.  I started to hum “La Bamba”.  The adjacent gate passengers gathered for a bigger bird, one going directly to DC.  Hey!  I was going to DC, but my first skip would be Philly…wish I was on THAT plane.  Damn Orbitz.

The rain rescinded and boarding began.  My ticket to paradise stated zone “dead last”.  Near the front of the line were the Lockhorns.  This dueling duet was on their first travel in 30 years.  I know, I heard them, everyone heard them.  The plane was no more than 20 feet from the door.  Once we exited the building, the rain returned…but even I can make that distance in short order.  As I arrived at the plane I was abruptly halted.  Seems the Lockhorns, already dryly inside, gridlocked the line as they tried to fit their round carry on peg into the square overhead hole.  I was standing in the rain.  A few minutes in the downpour and I was drenched.  As I finally reached the seated set, I resisted the urge to shake off on them like a wet pooch.  But wait!  Even better, they were occupying my seat.  I looked to the flight attendant for assistance.  She just pointed to an empty chair as if she was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come pointing at my prewritten headstone.  This solitary seat was adjacent to a gigantic gentleman.  I longed for the LIRR.

I arrived in Philly…Wet, Squashed and Aggravated…and also late.  Luckily, I still had some time between flights.  We arrived at Gate E and I needed to get to Gate C…no problem.  Well, noboby puts baby in a corner, but apparently Gate E was a different story.  It resided in the FAR corner of the airport, away from its brethren.  I would have to take the shuttle and I observed 2 lines at the entrance…Gates A/B and C/D.  One was empty…the other snaked around forever.  Take a wild guess which line was mine.  Time ticked away.  Thoughts of breakfast vanished.  My sneakers still squished.  I successfully navigated this Disney-esque line and boarded the bus as my plane began boarding…but Gate C was now in reach.  A quick glance at the big board delivers me the info that my flight is on time.  As I near the gate, my smart phone app informs me my flight is on time.  As I get to the gate, my flight was NOT on time.  In fact, the plane was not even there.  Relieved I did not miss my flight, a new worry was birthed.  If this plane were running late, I would miss my connecting flight in DC.

10:15 departure became 10:20, then 10:25…finally finding a home at 10:35.  Why 10:35?  Apparently airline policy stated that they will not rebook you on another flight if you have more than 30 minutes to connect…my 53 minutes in DC was reduced to 33...plenty of time I was told.  We departed “near” the new time and we were on our way.  I perused the inflight publications for a Dulles map to plan my play from Gate A to Gate C.  Shuttle huh, why am I not surprised.  This was a short stones skip flight…I was going to make it.  Then HE showed up again.  “Passengers, this is the captain speaking.  We need to circle around the airport.  Seems a small shower has sprung up over the airport”.  The flight was late, my rain cloud however was right on time.

33 minutes was now reduced to 18.  My only consolation was misery loves company, and my cushion companion had even less.  At the gate I allowed him passage past me.  I being anchored down waiting for my planeside check in…he was free to flee.  I gathered my baggage and sought the shuttle. 10 minutes.  No line, she was about to leave.  I sat in the last seat, winding up next to my plane partner.  His early escape had gotten him no further than I.  This odd vehicle was nothing like the bus in Philly.  This lunar lander docked directly into the terminal.  It jolted out of the exit like an escape pod.  Viewing the returning oversized extra-terrestrial twin truck, I felt like an extra in Avatar.  I believe our driver was part Na’vi.  Our transportation finally achieved coitus with terminal C and we stormed the beaches.  5 minutes to find my gate.  I never knew the final fate of my fellow flyer.  I arrived at my destination…Gate C7…with 2 minutes to spare.

I peered up at the gate’s screen…

My flight was delayed…

Heathrow...We have a problem

Heathrow...We have a problem

As I prepare for my trip to New Orleans, I am reminded of another fateful flight.

Christina and I travelled to England.  We had a wonderful stay with her friend.  She took us to off the beaten path pubs and avoided the tourist trap taverns.  We drank, we ate and we purchased.   Our adventure was over and we arrived at Heathrow for our departure.  We went through customs…taking a little longer than the travelers behind us would like.  See, we had stretched the limit of our carryon cargo, after amassing a bounty of gifts.  We went through security (you will have to use your imagination for the details from a previous blog) and boarded the plane.  Did I say our adventure was over?

It was years since I had been on such a large plane.  The seats were lush and roomy, and this was in commoner class.  Movies, music and a GPS showing position of the plane.  The movie selection was less than blockbuster, and having packed my book in the check in luggage...along with a lot of other import items, I settled in for a long flight’s nap.  About 2 hours into the flight I awoke… since the beer I had borrowed at the airport bar came a knockin'.  I returned to my seat with the intention of slumber.  Then it happened…oh so subtly.  The plane began to bank.  So timid was this turn no one was the wiser.  My wife remained engrossed in her music.  I on the other hand, while I am no Copernicus, noticed the setting sun was now on the other side of the plane.  Last I checked there were no u-turn signs hanging over the Atlantic.  I alerted my love of this repositioning.  She quickly quaffed, You must be mistaken, go to sleep…and she headed back to her headphones.

At first, my fears focused on New York City.  What cataclysmic crisis occurred to alter our air travel?  Then my thoughts turned to the plane itself.  It was only 2 ½ years since 9/11 and airlines were still considered the weapon of choice.  It seemed like forever before the captain came on the intercom.  He informed us we had turned around…DUH.   I nudged Christina and gave her “That” look … you know, the “I told you so” look.   The pilot continued to tell us we developed a leak and had lost ½ of our hydraulic fluid and we were returning to Heathrow.  Now, while I did well on the SAT’s, I never remember a question of such simplicity.  If you leave from point A and travel to point B and you lose ½ your hydraulic fluid, when you leave from point B and travel back to point A…how much more hydraulic fluid will you lose?  If you said “The OTHER ½”…you are well on your way to a 1600.

Christina inquired of me if hydraulic fluid was important…as visions of the Iowa incident danced in my head.  I informed her flying was fine, landing…not so much.  We should be all right for now, worry when we were closer.  Never one for calmness, Christina clamored…What can we do?, What should we do?...and she looked to me for an answer.  At this moment, the Devil on my left shoulder gave me an idea, and under the circumstances I believe the Angel on the right even said, What the Hell!  So…I suggested we join The Mile High Club…Hey, if your gonna go, not a bad way to go out!

Now, there are few times in a man’s life when he realizes his words went awry…and this was one of them.  I believe I heard under her breathe, You better HOPE this aircraft crashes Mister.  My temptations thwarted I turned to the TV…the offering “Stuck on You” was the best of a bad selection.  If I had to continue to view this, better to have the plane plummet now.  I peered at my partner and her eyes were fixated on the GPS…eyeing every update.  1 hour 20 minutes to Heathrow…1 hour 19 minutes to Heathrow.  Since my sexual fate was sealed, I chimed in with the updates to intensify her fear…1 hour 18 minutes to IMPACT, 1 hour 17 minutes to IMPACT.  Yeah, and she still married me…

We approached the airport like the pilot had a hundred times before.  Except this time, in final approach, the plane shuttered like it was shaking off fleas.  Having a flying lesson or two, and watching a lot of Bugs Bunny,  I knew the flaps needed to be down..and they were not.  These flaps slow the plane’s airspeed for landing, and they are deployed using…you guessed it…Hydraulic fluid!  That damn SAT question came to fruition.  The plane pulled up to the port, sending me to sights of Sioux City.  Our pilot came on the intercom, confirming my correct conclusion of the SAT conundrum.  “We have had a complete failure of the central hydraulic system. Flight attendants please prepare the passengers for an emergency landing.”  At this time I recalled the airlines decided to alter the wording from “crash” landing to “emergency’ landing to calm the travelers fears.  Yeah, good luck with that.  Of course it also made me think, did they change the name of the pilot’s cabin area to “flight deck” from “cockpit” so I didn’t wind up there while trying to join the Mile High Club?  Yeah, even at this moment I was thinking about IT.

On our second approach, the plane was filled with prayers of all languages and faiths.  I, on the other had…in my best Homer voice…began singing “Oh, Those Golden Grahams”…never losing a chance for humor (see season 5, episode15).  This time I observed the flaps going down.  I comforted Christina, I told her we were going to be all right well before the wheels touched down.  I figured I was going to survive, I needed to make amends!  The plane landed safely and made it’s way to the airport’s gate. Christina and I were the last ones to exit making like Charlton Heston and Karen Black…as if we landed the plane ourselves.

Well, we made it…but no one was there to greet us…as a matter of fact…where did everyone go?  This twilight-esque moment was soon shattered by the stupidity of the situation.  After we exited the long and lonesome gate ramp, we found our flight. What was this???  We had to go through Customs??  Not prepared for a returning flight, customs was manned by a lonely sole…most likely awakened from his slumber.  Winding our way, we eventually arrived at his counter.  Do you have anything to declare sir, he asked.  Yeah, I declare you are all idiots!  We went up, we came down…we almost crashed, where the hell do you think we went?  Christina calmed me down to avoid an international incident...and we were on our way.

However, no planes where flying out that night and the airlines put us up in a hotel.  We inquired to the location of our luggage.  Since it had been already checked in, it would be spending the night in a storage bin and not joining us.  Great…our carry on’s were filled with food and fair…and no toiletries or underwear.  Well, we made the best of it…and our family and friends would have to forgo a few gifts.

The next morning we boarded a new plane, with a new pilot and new flight attendants…but our fate would be the same…we were delayed...

Seems our new plane had developed a little engine trouble…

Mustang Sale-y

 
Mustang Sale-y

I was never “That Guy” who was into cars, but I did enjoy driving…and certainly found myself behind the wheel more often than not.  There was a poignant point in my life I was everyone’s chauffer.  It continued in college, as I was the man with the motorcar…it was so long ago I believe that is how they were referred to.  My chariot of choice was a 4 cylinder 1984 Datsun, before they grew up and became Nissan.  Now 4 cylinders, 4 schmylenders…what does that mean?  Well, it meant to me that if I had two or more traveling partners, the A/C was on…going up the smallest incline was near impossible.

Eventually this Datsun died after giving everything she had.  I was left pedestrian.  But wait!  My parents had procured a car for my sibling.  He was of unqualified driving age, yet they found the need. (I will blog about my parents another day).  This vehicle resided in the driveway like a monument to waste in the garden of ignorance.  It was just what I needed!  I brought life back to this metallic monolith.  A 1973 Ford Mustang…8 cylinders.  I could have friends AND A/C AND inclines…what more could a motorist ask for!  I had caught Mustang fever.  Unfortunately, this was only temporary transportation so my mind meandered to a more modern model.  It was 1992 and time for a new car.

Now, you may have noticed Ford had a little financial fiasco recently.  Something about Bankruptcy and Bailouts.  The blame placed squarely on extravagant, out of touch management.  I, however, have a differing opinion…maybe the foundation of Ford was cracked.  Ladies and Gentleman, I give you…the Salesman.

I had never shopped for a new car and haggling was not my forte.  I decided to phone a friend.  He makes the Priceline Negotiator look like Pushover Paige (I’m not that kind of pushover!).  He agreed to accompany me on my car quest.  His idea was to locate last year’s models rotting on the lot.  We finally found a Ford dealer with such.  I picked out a pristine performer.  Having my future car discovered, I searched for a salesman.  You fool!...my friend snickered… let them come to you.  They will be all over you like ants at a picnic…and you’re the big turkey leg.  I was easy prey…a salesman’s dream.

Surprisingly the salesman sent was a sarcastic Frank Nelson…as if that annoying guy who always says Ye-e-e-es wasn’t caustic enough.  Every question we asked was retorted with a snippy, Why Ye-e-e-es…it has this, Why Ye-e-e-es it has that.  We went in to close the deal and I let my friend fire away…and he followed with a low-ball yet fair offer.  To our “surprise” he said, Why Ye-e-e-es, let me ask my manager.  He soon returned triumphantly, Why Ye-e-e-es..we can do that price.  We were stunned it was so simple!  After he saw our glee, his mouth formed a word I thought he was not capable of…Well, No-o-o-oo…we can’t really do THAT price.  We were dumbfounded he allowed us to endure in our delight, just to radically remove it.  We immediately departed…and Frankie boy was stunned why.  Panicking, as he parlayed a sale into fail, he nervously followed asking, Are you guys going to Norristown Ford?  I turned and responded…Well, we weren’t…but Well, Ye-e-e-es…thanks to you we are!

In spite of this event, I eventually forgave Ford and mustered up a Mustang.  I enjoyed our long term relationship til her engine block broke.  I decided to continue my love affair.

It was now 2002 and thoughts of Mr. Nelson had dissipated.  It was the Internet age and my frugal friend was no longer needed.  I decided to go it alone and scoured online for my Mustang match.  I found her, VIN number and all.  Armed with a print out, I proceeded to the place of purchase.  I bee-lined right up to the car like I already owned it.  I was easy prey…a salesman’s dream.  Deja Vu all over again!

This time they sent me Gil from the Simpsons.  He approached me like he never made a sale before.  I could swear I heard him mutter…Ole Gil really needs this.  He sheepishly stuttered to me, What can I do to have you drive home in this Mustang today?,…as if he was reading it from Chapter 1 of Selling for Dummies.  I made it simple for the simpleton; I wanted Cash Back or Low Financing…whichever worked best for me.  My mistake, these two choices were two too many.  He summoned his supervisor.  This new suited schlep approached with, What can I do to have you drive home in this Mustang today?  What… were they cloning these guys in the back room?  I repeated my need, but he could not help either.  How could I choose between the options if you could not tell me the APR or the amount of cash back?  Ignoring my plea, he just repeated, What can I do to have you drive home in this Mustang today?  I responded with, I know what you DID do, you managed to have me drive home in the SAME Mustang I came in today.  His last ditch effort, he defiantly declared, Well, there is no guarantee this car will be here when you get back.  I chuckled at him, The way you guys sell cars…I GUARANTEE it will be here for a LONG, LONG time!

Fool me once, shame on you…fool me twice, I now drive a BMW…

Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head

Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head

Some people are followed by a dark cloud while others have clouds with silver linings…my cumulous companion contains rain.  I am the guy from the old Weather Channel commercial...coming in from the outside proclaiming, I hate the rain!  Except in my version, when the liquid lover at the bar argues angrily FOR rain, I will beat him into submission with my umbrella.

I am not exactly sure when this moisture monster decided to stalk my outdoor existence.  I refer back to my first outdoor concert…beautiful Forest Hills tennis center.  A quaint little venue in the middle of a Queens oasis…uncovered.  The rain came, the music was cut short.  I thought I would have better luck at the beach, Jones Beach Theater, wonderfully placed by the ocean and bay.  But soon the water below was followed by the water from above.  The rain came, the music was cut short.   Maybe the 3^rd time was a charm.  I decided to travel to Philly to the Mann Music Center.  It was outdoors, but it contained seats and stage covered by a shed.  This would guarantee the show would go on…but alas, there are no guarantees in life.  The deluge was so heavy that flooding occurred near the electrical equipment.  The rain came, the music was cut short.

My flooding friend was also a fan of football.  I had traveled to Pittsburgh to treat myself for a game on my birthday.  I recall sitting as it approached halftime of the Steelers game.  Christina had gone for beers, not realizing she took the umbrellas with her.  He saw his opportunity to strike!  What started as a trickle became a full faucet.  I sat there taking my punishment.  I had no umbrella, I had no beer, the Steelers were losing…and I was soaking wet…Happy F’n Birthday to ME!

What about baseball you say?  They STOP baseball when it is raining.  Why yes, yes they do!  I tried to outsmart him.  Journeying to Yankee Stadium and knowing he would try to “rain on my parade”…I purchased tickets to allow us warm, safe and dry passage into the Mohegan Sun Bar.  A beautifully constructed covered area in centerfield,  with a full view of the action.  This time I saw him coming.  We bugged out of our regular seats early and headed for shelter.  We arrived before the others since I had inside info of the oncoming onslaught.  Without catching a drop, we settled at a stand up area behind the paid seating, a prime spot.  It poured…peering out the massive window it looked like the whole bar was going through a carwash.  But we were warm, safe and dry!  Not so fast…the ceiling of the bar began to leak on us.  A billion dollar stadium, and I was under the only non watertight spot.  Victory was his.

Over the years there were more outdoor concerts, more sporting events...and more rain.  Seems the evidence of my own personal pourer has always been there.  You see, it was a few years back I decided to test the theory, was this cloud actually mine.  Others get caught in this rain too right?  I created a challenge for him on my wedding weekend.  I dared this devil of downpour…but there was a catch.  The actual wedding day is for the bride – leave that alone.  I beckoned him to bring it for the rehearsal BBQ the evening before.  This was MY party…and all the guests were welcome.  The forecast was for a perfect weekend, so friends scoffed he wouldn’t show.  The tent was up, the BBQ was glowing and the guests arrived…and so did he.

Rain, rain, go away, follow Mike and ruin HIS day.  The sky’s opened but of course, and I knew it was from just one source.  Our hosts proclaimed, it hadn’t rained and that Vermont was in drought…but I had brought, that moisture port…of which I had no doubt.   I always wanted to be Dr. Seuss.

The sun would shine brightly the following day…but today he was sleeping on the job.  Luckily the guests, the music and the tables were covered.  Out alone in the rain, a single figure manned the ½ barrel of burning briquettes.   I took my challis of defeat and assumed my position next to him.  Puzzled, the grill master turned to me, letting me know he had it under control…I have nothing to worry about.  I informed him I did not doubt his abilities, but I had brought this bridal shower to the party.  And it’s my party, I’ll get wet if I want to.

My rain cloud would have it no other way.