Bob's Blog

A LOT OF SINGING AND DANCING

Last week, after interviewing an assortment of architecture and engineering grad students; I meet up with one of my favorites, a 23 year old architecture major named Chris. He and his buddies take me to dinner nearby. We are seated at a table, order drinks, more drinks, salads and main courses. I noticed they really ate an enormous amount of food. Did I scoff down that much food at that age? I kept thinking; in thirty years your metabolism is going to change!

As I often step back in my out-of-body experience mode and listen to myself, I frequently come to the conclusion; I must sound ridiculous at times. For example, one of the guys was steering a conversation to wishing for something and actually getting what they wished for. I guess because they feel they have so much work and frustration ahead of them to achieve their goals, if only they could just twitch their nose or close their eyes and poof! Ten years have past, and they are successful architects making good money and school is long behind them. So, I ask if anyone has ever seen Damn Yankees. Of course, not! It’s a musical, I say. They have exasperated expressions. I give them a brief synopsis of the play talking about the desire to be a star baseball player for the Washington Senators in exchange for trading your soul to the devil. And they sing songs during this, they ask??? You gotta Have Heart, all you gotta have is heart, I start to sing. They looked at me like this is the gayest thing they have ever heard.

Conversation moves on and we talk about school and careers and movies and politics. In the course of stories, Chris mentions that he had ADD as a kid and his mom used to force him to take medication but he didn’t like how it numbed him, so he would frequently and secretly spit out the pills. Since everything reminds me of theatre, I ask if anyone has ever seen Equus. No one knows what I’m talking about. I begin telling them the plot of Equus: the young man with emotional problems, sexual issues with his girl, the bludgeoning of the horses’ eyes and the earlier methods of psychiatry where doctors actually talk to you instead of just prescribing pills. All this culminating in Dr Dysart’s terrific speech that there was more passion and emotion in this patient than he would ever feel in his life; and yet, it was his job to eradicate all this passion and obsession. Well, I was expecting the same cynicism, but when I looked back out at the three of them across the table, they were all staring at me with eyes boggled out tearing up like they were going to cry. They were riveted and wanted to hear more. Theater won!

Bob posted this on 2012-04-26

THEY DON’T SPEAK TURKISH IN GRAND TURK; PLEASE DISCUSS

Perhaps, for most of you, an afternoon at Jersey Shore conjures up visions of a day at the beach or a reality show. Well, hopefully not a reality show. But for me, it once again refers to the Medical Center in Neptune, where my dad was recently treated for pneumonia. I had on my good son – caregiver hat as I repeatedly sweet talked all the nurses and aides on his floor; occasionally bringing cookies or some other innocent bribe. The time passed slowly as they poked and prodded and attempted to find yet another vein, leaving his arthritic hands swollen and cut from all the needles. I would read him the sports pages when I saw him, help him shave and watch a movie or two. If you raise the volume on Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney enough, you inevitably drown out the din from the next bed. Our conversations were all over the place; I try to keep up with him and his eclectic interests, faking what I’m not familiar with.

He was transferred to a rehab center for a few weeks, because you lose the ability to walk and take care of yourself in a hospital and, besides, just the sound of going to rehab has a certain Mick Jagger flair to it. My cousins think their Uncle Tony is so cool; after all, he’s going to rehab like a broken rock star.

Four months earlier, I was genuinely concerned that we were escorting that same eighty-five year old man on his first cruise since he was in the army. During 1946, he traveled on an LST transport ship across the Atlantic from New York to Germany. His stories invariably sound like he had a great holiday except that he was in military uniform and would have to occasionally vomit off the side of the ship. But from his perspective, like most guys his age, it was a time for growing up and learning something about who you really are. While stationed in Europe, he took advantage of occasional opportunities to take leave, traveling to Switzerland and France, but never once returned to the farmlands of Sicily where he grew up.

We set sail from the port of Miami; later vowing to never do this again. After all, citizens from Florida are likely to be aboard. Worse still, Texans! For those of you from Florida or Texas or are easily offended, please do not read any further.

Since my dad cannot stand up for extended periods of time, I requisition a wheelchair to afford him some comfort. Hallelujah! This is what it must feel like to win the lottery. For when you are behind a man in a wheelchair, you are treated like a VIP, wheeling your celebrity date along the red carpet. The velvet ropes were parted and port employees waved us past the long lines. Hours are shaved off the embarkation process as we roll up the elevators and onto the ship. We were even instructed to skip lifeboat drills altogether, retiring instead to have our first umbrella-laden cocktail.

Our first day at sea is stormy and I’m all at once concerned that we are traveling during hurricane season. What was I thinking? My dad chooses to remain attached to his wheelchair as he can’t manage to walk a straight line to the dining room. Meanwhile, newlyweds at the next table are running in the opposite direction not able to hold down their meal. My cousin Deborah emails me words of comfort, “Bobby, I’m praying for you. You’re in a tropical climate now. There’s no telling what will happen!”

Quite possibly, Deborah’s prayers were answered as the next day, the captain steers us clear of the storm. Sunny skies and calm seas prevail for the rest of our journey. Following a beautiful afternoon at Half Moon Cay, we make certain that my dad is settled comfortably at the outdoor theater to enjoy Monday Night Football on the Jumbo-tron screen. It’s Dallas versus New England and he’s all set to cheer the Patriots to victory. Except, remember when I mentioned all those Texans? Later, on the way back down to his stateroom, he gets to tell me all about the game and the shouting and the flying hot dogs. He was prepared to call for security. A few days later, when he meets Captain Orazio at formal night, he recounts this story to a fellow Italian who has mastered the nod and a smile.

Unaware that my dad was in any kind of danger, Bob and I were kept amused at Winston’s Piano Bar to partake in more docile entertainment. Or, so we thought. Quickly befriended by a band of Texan girlfriends, we began a week of fending off six rabble rousing women who ditched their husbands as well as all sense of decency and sobriety.

The Valor sails from the Bahamas to San Juan, St Thomas and to Grand Turk. You adapt and learn to consume six solid meals a day. My dad evolves from a wheelchair to a chase lounge and finds the stamina to walk the outdoor decks as part of a new resolution. Perhaps, next year, I’ll hear he’s running the New York marathon? We spend our days at the beach or on one of the sun decks; our evenings avoiding the real housewives from Texas. My dad figured out the rules of the slots and would call me each time he won a few dollars more.

At our last port, Grand Turk; besides our private beach, we were treated to the largest configuration of swimming pools imaginable. Plotting a course from pool to pool, according to scenery and activity was like navigating through a three-reel motion picture blockbuster in CinemaScope. Unbelievably, one corner was host to The Endless Summer; although I couldn’t believe the proliferation of surfers on artificial waves. Cocktail was the fare at center court, with rum literally poured directly by the bartender down into the willing gullet of a participant. The newlyweds from Iowa returned with new found sea legs into the middle of Beach Blanket Bingo. And the girls from The Last Picture Show proved themselves as worthy stalkers arriving at what was no longer the Pool of Tranquility just as we were feeling; well, tranquil. The conversation started with, “What did you have to do to get them to let you through the terminal before the rest of us?” They evidently began pursuing us from the very start. We begged off even though they had a lot to talk about and were offering to buy us drinks. Imagine the statue of Justitia balancing a conversation about Rick Perry on one scale and two vodka martinis on the other!

I’m not saying which side won, but I got a T shirt that says I survived a Carnival Cruise.

Bob posted this on 2012-04-17

O CHRISTMAS TREE

During the holidays, the tree was always the center of an argument when I was growing up in the Bronx. Not, should we tell our only son that Santa was an imposter or that there’s no money for that new set of drums, but instead, it was my Mom’s bone of contention that there was never a tree that was big enough. No one ever consulted with a Freudian handbook as to what this really meant and no one attempted to challenge her. It should be mentioned here that I was raised at the top of a five flight walk-up. I think over the years, she may have been a little ticked off about carrying me up along with my baby carriage or stroller, carting up groceries and laundry step by step every day; the daily routine of a 50’s housewife. So, at Christmas, she would take her revenge.

Every time my parents dickered with the vacationing teachers who sold trees during the season, it was all-out war. My Mom kept pointing to this one or that one and then always responded, “no, not big enough”. Eventually she was persuaded to stay at home and not participate in this selection, so my Dad could keep what was left of his dignity and a few dollars in his wallet.

When I was seven, I don’t know how else to describe it, but, my Dad brought home a Charlie Brown tree. All I remember was that my Mom started a tirade, tossing out various un-holiday epitaphs at him with every other sentence being, “you call this a [expletive deleted] tree”? Enjoying the verbal tennis match, for some reason I began to echo the mantra of “you call this a tree”? Totally defeated and frustrated, my Dad grabbed the tree trunk and dragged it back down five flights of stairs.

Up in the apartment, we prepared for the worst; instead, our jaws dropped with surprise and awe at the eight-foot Douglas fir that was now being propped up in the corner of our living room. I can still clearly remember how he had to saw off a portion of the trunk and cut off a few branches to get it to fit, but there it stood, a monument to trees.

These days, when I set up my Dad’s Christmas tree and we argue about the lights or how I bought him a tree topper that would be more appropriate at Rockefeller Center, I remember that mighty fir and the fine toothed saw and the big smiles on our faces Christmas morning.

Wishing you, your family and loved ones the biggest smiles every morning and the spirit of the holiday season every day of your lives!

Bob first posted this on 2006-12-22

Bob posted this on 2011-12-22

WHEN YOUR LIFE FLASHES BEFORE YOUR EYES IN TWENTY FIVE MINUTES

It is a sunny day in May of 1984. Bob and I are in Boca Raton, visiting his parents, when the phone rings. It is my cousin Jayne announcing that her sister has given birth to a baby boy. They are naming him Joseph Robert. This is Deborah’s second son; all my cousins have boys. Frantic, we all rush out to our Avis rent-a-car and point ourselves in the general direction of Palm Beach Memorial Hospital, arguing over directions and acceptable speed limits. All I can think of is the Mertz’s and Ricardo’s tripping over each other when Lucy gave birth to Little Ricky.

It is the most amazing thing! I will never lose the image of Deborah in her hospital bed, pale, tired but overjoyed to be holding up baby Joey for us to see. “Isn’t he precious”, everyone is saying. I am crying thinking that this is one of the most beautiful moments of my life and that Joey is one of the most beautiful babies I may ever see.

“I have not been able to reach anyone yet. I left a message.” Labinot’s voice interrupts, coming over the intercom loud and clear. I let him know that I’m fine and to just keep trying.

When I was organizing some vacation pictures last week, I guess I was sifting through assorted photo montages from the past and Joey was a prominent central figure in many of them as he emails me pictures of himself and my dad during his visits. The photos that I am gingerly inserting into one of my albums are from last May, another sojourn with our friends, Brett and Sean. The snapshots beautifully highlight the beaches of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We are surrounded by blue chairs, colorful umbrellas, and a myriad of hawkers selling blankets, beads, oysters and tattoos.

The ocean is the color of a fake postcard; can’t be real. The pictures help me recollect the leisurely walks along the beach: pure magic! Our traveling companions are the perfect sidekicks like the Mertz’s. Or perhaps, they think of us as the Mertz’s, always ready to jump into a vat of grapes? We visit some fantastic restaurants, savoring all the tasty local cuisine without letting a drop of water touch our lips. Americans are so delicate after all. In particular, The Swedes is a terrific establishment owned by Morgan, an authentic Swede if ever there was one. Morgan walks around the beaches and boardwalks meeting people and passing out his cards. It’s how we found this place. The next day, a Canadian school teacher refers us to an exceptional restaurant named Mama Rosa’s. From the moment we climb the hill and greet Fraulein Helga, we are in love with all the charm and the food and the presentations, the atmosphere and the views. Helga inspires Brett to hit the keyboard and write a sitcom about a zany owner of a beach resort and the madcap antics of her co-workers and guests.

One of the more memorable restaurants that we sample is called El Brujo, and definitely a must for any visitor. It is not on the tourist’s beaten path but instead where the residents of this beautiful city dine. You will run into some of the shopkeepers and possibly your concierge but not your neighbors from Queens.

After dinner, our habit was to take luxurious long walks on the boardwalk drinking in the sea air and enjoying all the sexy Mexican nationals who were vacationing during Easter week. Now let me think, “Where shall we travel to next?”

Suddenly there are several overhead thuds and I am literally jolted out of my daydream. Labinot apologizes, “Sorry about that, chief”, using his Maxwell Smart voice. Apparently, there is another fan of “Get Smart” amongst us, only in reruns. My all-time favorite scene when my friend Michael and I did the recap the next day: Smart is sitting next to a guy at a bar guzzling a beer; only most of the beer is spilling all over himself and the counter and he says, “Pardon me buddy, but some of that is getting in your mouth.”

Michael and I were gymnastically challenged, more at home at a chess match than a boxing match. When we were twelve, we were best friends, the kind that would share secrets and recite last night’s episode of Get Smart word for word during fourth period gym class. We would talk about everything except how to get through this class without all the jeering and name-calling that we became accustomed to. One day I remember, the game was one-on-one soccer; each boy having a turn at kicking the ball into the goal. Somehow, Michael and I were paired against the other, turning a simple run, run, kick, and done into the day’s fifth period. I recollect starting out rather admirably with good form and grace. We were not going to give the others something to laugh over today. Neither of us tripped over our laces or missed the ball (“Missed it by that much”). Our quick pace eventually slowed down into more of a shuffle, shuffle, kick and shuffle. The other boys were yelling and hooting and thrilled that they were missing Sister Rosaria’s fifth period English class. A half hour later (and this is how I remember it), Michael slowed down to a crawl. Sweating profusely, his eyes seemed sleepy, his breathing heavy. He gave up and I kicked the ball into the goal as the gym instructor is anxiously blowing his whistle. Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly, all noise comes to an abrupt halt and the lights go off. I am sitting on the elevator floor in total darkness without even the soothing benefit of a whirring fan. I yell out a few not-so-clever expletives. Labinot’s voice is over the intercom once again, “They’re turning the circuit breakers on and off”. Back to reality once again as the lights abruptly return and the elevator doors open up onto the first floor lobby. Not sure why, but the last twenty five minutes loops around the projector inside my head over and over as I drive to work and once again begin my day.

Bob posted this on 2011-10-05

NOT FROM THE WARM AND FUZZY

My cousin Deborah and I have an agreement of sorts regarding our grandparents. If there is a Heaven and the two of us are walking around and see grandma amongst the clouds and the angels, we will immediately run over to her (but, of course, it’s Heaven, so, in slow motion). When we finally draw near to her, we will both outstretch our hands and give her a big slap on the face. I’m serious. I apologize to all of you who have fond memories of their grandparents full of warm hugs and home cooking.

Apparently, this was not the case for us. I understand our great grandmother immigrated to this country with her daughters after our great grandfather died of syphilis. The lore is that they penned the term philanderer after him as his name was Filippo; at least, this is how my mom explained it. Quite possibly, they had such a difficult struggle as four women braving New York during the early part of the last century that they bartered their hearts to survive.

Recently, I returned to the Tenement Museum on Orchard Street; this time sequestered with a group to tour the Baldizzi family apartment, a Sicilian family during the Great Depression. It is truly a rewarding and enlightening museum that I highly recommend. When one of the tourists discovered that I share similar heritage, she recited an entire litany of endearing family traditions that her Sicilian in-laws introduced into her otherwise homogenous life. At one point, I found it necessary to stifle her. I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was not my life.

One of the bizarrely funny stories my mom often shared with me and my cousins involved a

birthday present that she elaborately wrapped with her father. Early in their marriage, my

grandfather sought to overwhelm my grandmother with a very special birthday surprise. He

sneaked out of the apartment and made all the arrangements to meet with a photographer. If

you’re imagining a valentine of the loving couple, you would be mistaken. In his portrait, he

was dressed to the nines: his best suit and tie, starched collar and freshly waxed mustache

as he fancied himself the Rudolph Valentino of the Bronx. When my grandma’s birthday arrived,

with much pomp and circumstance, she was handed a beautiful package filled with his cabinet-

card photographs in a variety of sizes. Certainly, Josephina would appreciate the effort

and money spent on a portrait of her beloved Domenico? Or, maybe not?

Thus began round one of the “fight of the century”. That moniker would only come out of retirement in time for Joe Frasier to fight Mohammad Ali in 1971. In the interim, my grandma seized her weapon of choice; the broom, and began to pummel my grandfather over and over out of the apartment and down two flights of stairs. For some reason their marriage and their bodies survived intact throughout years of exhibition bouts and they were fixtures of their Bronx neighborhood till they were in their eighties. After grandpa died, my grandmother mourned her loss feverishly as her kids were grown up and out of the house as well. She had no one to beat up anymore. And don’t look at me; I was a very good boy! And I was smart enough to hide the broom.

My mom and her siblings didn’t fare as well; they often began a story with, “See this scar?” I cannot imagine what it was like raising five children in the Bronx during the Great Depression. Nor can I imagine telling a tale about watching a broom handle broken into pieces over your brother either. At least not without swelling music from a Hitchcock movie in the background. But this was real, not a movie. This was family.

As we soon embark upon another holiday to Mexico with friends, I am once again reminded that family is indeed determined by the heart and not by a family tree or the swing of a broom handle.

Bob posted this on 2011-04-14

THE CRAZY GLUE WILL PEAL OFF IN A FEW DAYS

Since I am the product of a zealously overprotective mom, one of the few ER experiences that come to mind is the time my friend Larry announced to me, “I’ve just swallowed a blood clot”. He had decided to spend his college graduation money on a nose job so that he could resemble the man in his imagination instead of the man in the mirror. The operation was considered a success until our dinner together when he made this announcement under the proviso that I probably didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. He called his doctor and moments later, we were on our way to the Lenox Hill emergency room. If I’m not mistaken, Lenox Hill’s other claim to fame is that it was Elizabeth Taylor’s first choice for hospital care in New York. As the nurses and doctors hovered over Larry, I was consigned to the waiting area with a menagerie of earsplitting psychotics and victims of gun shots and stabbings. This is where Elizabeth Taylor felt most comfortable? I can still remember someone screaming that it was so damn hot in here while ripping apart his shirt. Ping! Ping! Buttons were airborne, flying to all four corners of the room.

This reminiscence was on my mind as I accompanied my dad to Jersey Shore Medical Center on Tuesday to replace his defibrillator. We arrived early and answered a barrage of questions while nurses extracted vials of blood. Although a somber mood prevailed around us, my dad tried to ease the tension by joking with everyone who introduced themselves as part of the process. After a lengthy preview, the opening act curtain was about to rise as fourteen people in lab coats descended upon us to wheel him away for surgery. Some of the younger technicians were joking about how much a used defibrillator lists for on eBay. The hip anesthesiologist bantered with him while nurses squealed, promising to fix him up with their moms. They were impressed that I typed up a list of his medications; even more impressed that he was lucid enough to discuss it with them. I was told to wait and encouraged to have lunch and partake in hospital food. Several hours later they wheeled out his gurney to a standing ovation. Triumph!

After a quick lunch that he proceeded to choke down (literally), my dad was discharged in my care. I was informed that he should take his meds and resume his daily routine. Just like Humpty Dumpty, he is all put back together again. The nurses explain that the crazy glue (instead of stitches) will peal off his chest in a few days. Driving him back home, we stop at Ocean Grove to gaze at the waves and for drugs and liquor; happy with the many diversions. Moments later, he is stretched out on his Lazy-Boy watching CNN, anticipating his long-awaited dinner. Although his thermostat read seventy-five degrees, he started complaining that he was freezing; teeth chattering, shaking, the whole nine yards. Retrospectively, this may have been a reaction to the procedure, the antibiotics or blood-thinner. But as a necessary precaution, contact was made with his cardiologist who felt he should come to the ER at once. I am opposed to ER's for many reasons, some of which are included in the first paragraph. Driving across Route 33, I recounted my past experience as entertainment. As we arrive at the medical center, there is a blackout in the parking lot which doesn’t seem to affect him much but noticeably shook me up.

Offering his ID to reception, a woman races in shattering our eardrums while crying, "My son has just been shot, my son has just been shot". The ER nurses checked my dad’s vitals and gave him oxygen thru a bong-like device. We sat in triage behind a pregnant lady and an accident victim waiting to see an ER doctor for over three hours! They were pacing the floor even longer to no avail, so what were our chances? By this time, he seemed remarkably better, possibly out of fear that we would be there all night. Asking to be discharged on our own, we both enjoyed a good nights’ sleep and thankfully, he looked like a new man in the morning. All is well!

Bob posted this on 2011-03-24

WHAT HAPPENS IN MILTONIA…

Often, I find that a favorite book may influence my mood; my very being and pepper my speech. Is the story that’s unfolding on the pages in front of me any less real than the last week of my life? For long ago, I read a story that was set in Miltonia and it introduced me to the notion of that locale which lingered in my mind till circumstances compelled me to destinations south.

Accordingly, we arrived in Miltonia on New Year’s Eve after a tedious and exhaustive drive. I have forgotten when exactly I stopped paying attention to the road signs and landmarks. Perhaps it was after another strip mall or church or deserted air field? Enough snow remained on the sides of the road to hide whatever character they may have originally possessed. With both hands on the wheel, I felt relieved to know that all the events of the previous weekend lingered at the Point, where they remained under thirty inches of snow. Given the recent winter weather, my concerns did not surface until recently.

Our ambition at this juncture, was to start the year on the right foot; and that perhaps Miltonia could provide the necessary ingredients to do so. The trunk of our car was packed; no, crammed with every possible portable possession. Certainly, we had all that we needed and more. So, after driving for over four hours, and once again filling the gas tank with wads of cash, I rang the doorbell at John Rowland Trail.

Our hosts were a bit puzzled at the early hour but that was easily explained due to the situation. Exaggerated nods welcomed us into their warm vestibule where Junior would once lay claim. We stomped our boots on the welcome mat eliminating any of the excess snow and ice that remained on the road where we parked. Our hosts could not be more hospitable or more congenial. Every possible effort was made to erase the money pit from our thoughts and conversation, effectively erasing our brain’s memory cards.

The weekend commenced with an array of activities. Every item gets to be checked off a list; from a fantastic pair of jeans to a pair of oars. We dine on one sumptuous feast after another sprinkled with fine drink and sweets. We once again settle into the Ethel Merman room surrounded by more and more Ethel. Another New Years rings in sublimely with a little Dick Clark and a little Anderson Cooper; surely something for everyone.

On the way back, we reiterate all the highs and lows from football to music. It is so lovely to regress back to childhood where a story could be repeated over and over, embracing the familiar with every word. The money pit does not embrace us upon our return but instead schemes up a new catastrophe for us to toss our coins and dollar bills. A good friend (and occasional younger sister) advises me that I need to take things into perspective. Do I have my health? Am I hungry? She’s right, of course.

Tomorrow, my travels take me to Neptune, NJ and the Jersey Shore Medical Center where my dad will have his defibrillator replaced. He’s on the five year plan and his five years are up. He has the whole evening to get anxious and hungry and think about his life. I am sure that he will not waste a second thinking about bills or a leaky roof or a failing bulkhead. The important stuff is the loves of your life and the legacy you leave behind.

Bob posted this on 2011-03-21

Bob posted this on 2011-03-21

OVER THE RIVER

My favorite handyman and painter stopped by the house on Saturday because there is always a reason to do so. However, he brought his five year old along for the ride which initially frightened me as he seemed like a great prop to bring along when asking for a raise. “The boy needs to eat”, I can hear him saying. But, Landon was there just because he enjoyed hanging out with his dad. He’s five, after all; he presumably doesn’t know better. I walked him out back seeing as he enjoyed gazing at the array of birds. And since I am quite competent at identifying Canada geese, seagulls and cormorants, I seemed like an authority to my adolescent audience of one; even for a moment. When I picked him up to get a bird’s eye view, so to speak, he reacted with appropriate wows and giggles. But then, he asked me to put him down as he was not a baby anymore and perfectly capable of walking on his own. For a precious half hour, I got to play Uncle Bob without being invited to his Thanksgiving Dinner.

As in prior years, the Thanksgiving invitation that I embrace is at our DC family consisting of various brothers and sisters-in-laws and their respective friends and family. We will haul my dad for the car journey down with the back seat all to himself. Well, not quite; he shares legroom with his infamous turkey dressing. Our very first extended family Thanksgiving was celebrated many years ago in my parents’ apartment in Woodhaven, Queens, where my mom liked to crank up the heat to a tropical climate. Up until that day, they prepared a sausage stuffing as Italians really like to make use of a pig in some form at all times. Friends will boast that they freeze the discarded head to later feed to the dogs (or to the wolves, I forget). And, then, there were my Uncle Joe’s pigskin shoes. But, the diets of guests necessitated a change in the menu; and so the Giangrasso’s entered a brand new age of vegetarian stuffed turkeys. Thanksgiving, after all, is about adaptability. Do you think the pilgrims wanted to eat eels and a side of corn?

As we embarked on our trek down the turnpike, we accepted the need to make a rest stop every half hour. Whether the passengers are five or eighty-five, the situations are often the same. It is always time to visit the little boy’s room and discuss the never ending question; “Are we there yet?” As you wait on a line that is almost as long as the girl’s, you have to agree that this is a very popular activity. I noticed that the mode of dress for car travel took another step down the fashion ladder as last year’s sweat shirts and shorts had been replaced by pajamas. Represented were Spiderman pj’s for the youngsters and NFL pj’s for the grownups. Rummaging through some old snapshots recently, there were pictures featuring my dad and some of his buddies at a Yankee game. Once you get past their youth and mugging for the camera, you take in that most were outfitted in suits and ties! Enthusiasm for these former Ford Models could only imply that my imagination must be more at ease in 1947.

After our 97th pit stop, Magellan informs us that “we have arrived”! Settled into our rooms, unpacked and savoring the various aromas of Slovakian and American cooking, we are in need of a diversion. Therefore, we release all our pent up energy by grabbing our wallets and charge cards and run over to Rodman’s. Rodman’s is an icon to the Chevy Chase/DC area in the same manner as Fairway is to the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Need a cutting board or a potato peeler? Need a pair of socks or a zucchini or an excellent bottle of cabernet? Everything your heart desires is at Rodman’s. I believe they even run a dating service.

An assortment of guests around the table makes everything more interesting, particularly a young man named Jason with an appetite of a voracious Klingon. Once most of us can’t eat another morsel, we all reflect round robin as to what we may be grateful for; each thankful for a different aspect of health and love. It may sound corny, but it never fails to well up tears in my eyes.

Black Friday begins at Filene’s, Sports Authority or Nordstrom’s Rack depending on the desire. Since my dad is having breathing problems due to a change in medication, we settle on a long slow snail-like walk. Our annual day-after brunch at Alice’s is splendid as she surrounds herself with young people; always engaging and funny. The never-ending bounty continues as there is always room for one more piece of pumpkin pie. That evening, we catch a local production of “Golden Boy”, an old Clifford Odets workhorse that speaks volumes about the war between art and materialism, pitting spiritual ideals against the lust for instant fame and wealth. It’s extraordinary and worth seeing if you get a chance to rent the movie. The only deterrent was the lack of three or four intermissions to accommodate my dad’s trips to the lounge (and therefore, mine).

The next day’s museum extravaganza takes us to the new American History building, part of the Smithsonian’s major renovation. Sited prominently on the National Mall, the museum is housed in a McKim, Mead & White edifice that first opened in 1964. Needing new systems and a better flow of activity, the firm of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill created an ambitious plan that included completely reorganizing the museum’s circulation by removing the marble panels that blocked the view to the third floor, creating a central atrium with a new skylight and a grand staircase to connect the museum’s first and second floors, while modernizing all the building’s support systems.

To accomplish these goals, SOM’s design focuses on a new central public core for the building continually providing more modern, more iconic introductions to its exhibits. “Abe Lincoln: An Extraordinary Life” features such artifacts as the top hat he wore to Ford’s Theatre on the night he was assassinated. A centerpiece of this public space is a soaring abstract flag with its design based on the concept and physics of a waving flag and is above the entrance to the gallery that features the newly preserved Star-Spangled Banner, one of the Museum’s greatest treasures. After accompanying my dad up and down the stairs last night to rest, we all agreed that a wheelchair would enable my dad to experience everything including every inaugural ball gown worn by each of the first ladies. Giddy as a school boy as I pushed him throughout, he bought into all my color commentary the same way Landon assumed that I knew the difference between a goose and a heron.

They say that there is a certain role reversal with your parents as they age and they may say that a bit too often. But I’m glad I got to do wheelies with my dad possibly to get even with him for bouncing, banging and slamming me in my baby carriage up five flights of tenement stairs. Ouch! Perhaps to emphasize that he is after all what I offered around the table when it became my turn to give thanks.

Bob posted this on 2010-12-23

COUSINS ON THE VERGE

“Local authorities have reported that a body has washed ashore on the beaches of Manalapan, FL.”, as reported in The Palm Beach Post, October 3, 2010.

Hours earlier, officials stated that they received a phone call from a very distraught Deborah Romano claiming that upon taking her Yorkshire terrier for a walk became aware that her husband was missing from their home. Because of fatal threats made earlier that day, the twenty-four hour waiting period was waved and an investigation conducted immediately. This reporter contacted the Sheriff’s department and spoke to the local deputy, “We have scoured all of Mr. Romano’s favorite haunts; his son’s house, the junk yard, Pep Boys and six of the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts but came up empty handed.” As this was reported, Ms Romano was on her way to the morgue to identify the body. I asked Ms Romano what she would do next. Her response was odd but clear. With a sly smile, she said, “Perhaps a cruise? Ciao!”

All of the above was emailed to me on the last day of our Florida vacation; our first since we were plummeted with hamburgers. My initial reaction was; wait a minute, who wrote this? Despite the fact that the email was sent from my cousin’s address, I had no idea that she has a noticeable sense of humor. Life is indeed an everyday learning experience. So, you’re probably asking yourself what prompted her email. On the last day of our vacation, my cousin Jaynie hosted a farewell party at her home in Boca. We were surrounded by all the usual Florida suspects; my cousin with her husband Michael and son, Marko; Deborah, Tom, Joey and Danielle Romano as well as Joe and Judy Greco; my Florida family. As the evening progressed and the wine and beer bottles accumulated in the recycling bins, we had plenty of opportunity to go down memory lane, a favorite task that my family excels at. Of course, it is more entertaining to discuss the various peculiar proclivities of our family instead of the warm, fuzzy moments that bring a tear to your eye. As I was retelling an assortment of anecdotes that could make up its own twitter page, “Stuff My Uncle Jerry Said”, Tom remarked that our family was very strange, possibly, stranger than most. He asked if this was a penchant of our relatives or of all Sicilians. “Are you weirder than normal Italians?”

This now probably makes complete sense out of the first paragraph, I suppose. Who put a “hit” on Tom and why? After his comments and our loud retorts, anyone entering our vicinity could only assume that we all share an acerbic sense of humor or that he would wash up on shore with a note around his big toe that said: Tom swims with the fishes.

Our return to Florida despite an overabundance of friends, family and hamburger missiles was precipitated by our gazillion dollar bulkhead. It seems that the Money Pit only becomes more so as the calendar pages are torn off each month, financially preventing us from booking hotel rooms and updating our passports. No matter; we can obviously make enough lemonade to feed a picnic in this group and there is a lot of love going around. We began our trek to sunny Florida by taking a detour to Key West. Subsequent to a vacation twenty years ago that emanated with street urchins and a cramped, dirty motel, Key West was on a distant back burner until now. Seeking a modest diversion, we gave it another try to rousing applause. However, we did not get the nature gene. During the laborious four-hour drive over forty-three bridges, I defy anyone to still be elated over the amazing crystal blue water and array of wild birds upon arriving at your destination.

We settled in at a lovely resort named after the Equator and were promptly informed that the only other guests were also from the Jersey Shore. Okay, everybody sing it’s a small world after all! I suppose there’s an advantage to arriving off-season when hurricanes are expected any moment. You can garner so much attention that you feel like royalty, which is not a bad thing. I spent most afternoons ambling around serene gingerbread neighborhoods snapping pictures wherever I was moved to do so. At any moment, you expected an inebriated Tennessee Williams to saunter out of one of the many brightly painted doors having just completed “A Streetcar Named Desire”. In this fantasy, he would mutter about everyman’s mendacity, where the facts are far and few between and suspiciously sound like one of my stories. Key West provided us with a surplus of fine dining including A&B Lobster, 915, and my favorite off Duvall Street minimally named The Café. This purely perfect vegetarian restaurant offered me an extraordinary watermelon and blue cheese salad to start, a remarkable acorn squash baked with corn, cranberries and curried couscous and what else for desert but a flourless chocolate torte. It was like stepping into a little bit of vegetarian heaven for a few short hours.

An equally long drive back to the mainland is punctuated by forty-three signs identifying every bridge which is somewhat entertaining as it gives you something to do, namely, read the signage. But I don’t know, quite possibly, this experience was nothing but a holographic image displaying the same friggen birds over and over again. They say that time is the longest distance between two places.

The rest of the week reunites us with the remainder of our friends and family, all on their own turf. I was initially very apprehensive about the ubiquitous cloud over my head from the journey’s inauguration as doom and gloom Bill Evans repeatedly forecasted possible storm warnings. Once more, my cousins warned that this is, after all, a tropical environment. Prepared for torrents of inclement weather, we packed umbrellas and rain slickers, neither of which we put to any use. So, whether we were simply sunbathing around our friend’s pool or barbequing burgers at the assembly of Strange Italians, we took pleasure in an abundance of sumptuous sunshine every day. One evening, Deb and I spent most of the day together and then arranged for everyone to meet up with us on the streets of Lake Worth for very trendy al fresco dining. This gave us ample chance to genuinely relax, break bread and appreciate our extended family. We all competed to tell the latest story or the new joke. Luckily, we are on the street, giving Danielle an opportunity for an occasional smoke. Joey proudly informs us about his new promotion. Deb regales me with her career transformation teaching CNA training courses. Bob and Tom talk about the gazillion dollar bulkhead. And so it goes.

Tennessee Williams supposed that “It is easier to identify with the characters that verge upon hysteria, that are desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.”

Bob posted this on 2010-11-23

WHAT I DID BETWEEN STORIES

It’s been a long time since I’ve put pen to paper and I have thought long and hard as to why that is. Perhaps an extraordinarily slow employment business has rendered me frustrated and unproductive. Rarely feeling like diving into a story; unless another doom and gloom yarn about the economy makes a good story? It is doubtful that there’s an amusing tale somewhere about lines of candidates or daddies wheeling strollers at the playground.

In the meantime, I’ve been aggressively trying to wine and dine new clients. “We also serve who simply stand and wait” serves as a mantra for many in my position. Try to picture this. We’re at a very expensive restaurant in downtown Manhattan and my perspective patron used his free lunch to criticize me and most Americans, thoroughly denounce Obama and then inform me about a recent hire that he paid for at half my price.

Do I hear Bob needs a vacation, perhaps? Funny you should say that! Upon our return from Saint Maarten and Anguilla in May, there was unanimous opinion from the peanut gallery that I have never looked so relaxed and so happy. I’ll repeat this because I like the sound of it. I have never looked so relaxed and so happy. What was the formula for this phenomenon? I brought my blackberry, so I was not oblivious to the workplace. I did not dine out at the best of restaurants every night; did not discover ancient civilizations, visit art galleries or museums. What then? We enjoyed the company of friends; I guess the perfect formula.

Our sojourn began at the crack of dawn (literally) as we meet up with our friends, Brett and Sean. Settled in at the closest Starbucks near our departure gate, all on caffeine highs talking over the other; we wait for our flight or flight of fancy. On the plane, Sean begins to read “Probation”, while “South of Broad” rests on my lap. Someone named Carlos is supposed to meet up with us at the Saint Maarten airport and take us to our new home for the week, the Villa Mahogany. Carlos, however, is preoccupied texting his mom and searching for where his cell phone can muster up three bars. This, essentially, foretells the week, as we must learn the pace and the philosophy of the island; there’s always tomorrow. Although channeling Scarlet, our house is presided over by Isyline, our rotund housekeeper who keeps a very watchful eye on this group. The Villa Mahogany is an unbelievably beautiful as it is substantial. Bob rented us a six bedroom villa (at the same price) when our charming two bedroom bungalow fell through at the last moment.

First up on our agenda, four Top Chefs locate the local supermarket, maxing our charge cards on chicken, booze and ice cream. By evening, it is noticeable that we have a lot of time to do a lot of nothing and we definitely luxuriate in that feeling. “I can’t believe its only 8:00!!!” I treat everyone to a real Italian Sunday sauce, refusing to reveal any of the secret family ingredients in the process. Grandma made me promise to keep the secret or risk spending the rest of my life as a contralto.

We pass the days exploring the many nearby beaches, some peacefully deserted, others bustling with wall-to-wall families. Bob and Brett have found their symmetry at driving and navigating the crowded narrow roads. We are enjoying telling our life stories to a brand new audience. Our spectators have discovered all the right rejoinders like, ‘oh, really” and “tell me more”; raising an eyebrow here and chuckling there. Our first expedition finds us at a postage-stamp size beach called Cupecoy. The beach comes equipped with a dirt ditch identified as a parking lot and an attendant passing out usable umbrellas and rum punch. The sun is a bit intense; so is the rum punch and I decide to take the next day off from the rest of the world as a Bob-Day is necessary on occasion. By nightfall, the combination of the demon rum and sun has taken its toll on the others as well. Who can be expected to stay awake through “Die, Die, My Darling” after all? (Brett has brought along a suitcase of videos to entertain.)

And then there were two. While Bob and Brett explored the beaches on the French side of the island, Sean and I had the opportunity to bond and recover. With the house alone to ourselves, there was plenty of time to sleep, read and plan dinner. Our housekeeper, (quick, was her name Valvoline?) appears to perform an endless series of tasks around us seamlessly, although I am not altogether sure about what she is really doing. Feeling that they wanted to contribute more to dinner, the sun worshipers return with a head of cauliflower, no doubt for some different version of beach volleyball.

The following day finds us embarking on an exciting journey to visit cousins Bonita and Kai in Anguilla. We set sail on the first ferry to Anguilla from Marigot Bay, whereupon, Bonita is waving, hooting and whistling at our arrival. A mini-tour of the island has been arranged stopping at astonishing churches, breathtaking beaches and amazing old wood frame houses. A quick detour finds us at their favorite beach; one that is so secluded that you need to climb down a rope to get to it. Of course, their house is on the tour, highlighted by their new fountain, vegetable garden and one of the largest cisterns on the island. On the road again, we are treated to a wonderful lunch of fresh and spicy fish at Smokey’s and then continue our tour of the beaches. A wonderful and refreshing swim ignores the swimming after eating rule our mothers taught us. It was a fabulous day and we already miss Bonita and Kai on the ferry back to St Maarten. Another low-key evening is enjoyed while we feast on leftover gruel (Brett’s term) made up of pasta, shrimp and eggplant.

Le Galion is the next beach we endeavor, and delight in swimming out to the various floating docks. I am fascinated by one of the dads throwing his sons like sacks of potatoes into the water over and over again and decide I couldn’t do this. My guess is that I would have made a terrible father, not wanting to risk drowning my next of kin. We are recommended to feast tonight near the Grande Casse at a restaurant called The Tropicana, sans Ricky Ricardo. This is truly one of the more exceptional restaurants that I have savored, sampling red snapper, snails, fresh vegetables and rack of lamb. A nice long walk finishes up the evening. The next day finds us at Orientale Beach, a bit crowded, but it suffices as a venue to finish my book. This latest foray into the South by Pat Conroy has transported me back to another era in his usual eloquent and rewarding fashion. You are consistently summoned to read sentence after sentence over again because it all sounds so lyrical. Nearing the end of our celebration, Brett and I must undertake one of our most herculean tasks: to use up all the remaining food in the refrigerator. The MacGyver dip that ensues is made up of an assortment of leftovers including cauliflower, garlic and a packet of mayonnaise. Where’s our prize? Our last evening finds us dining at a more unassuming eatery but with a spectacular view of the Caribbean and an outdoor pool (or a fish hatchery, depending on who you ask). At the villa, we finish the ice cream and the booze, saving the remaining dip for tomorrow’s omelet.

That omelet is comprised of more cauliflower and garlic than eggs, but who cares? There is one final walk on the beach. Brett dusts off his new sponge collection. We say our goodbyes to Brylcreem, pack up and are off to the airport for the flight home. Sean is detained at Kennedy for a bit because he seems to be a suspected IRA terrorist. No matter, we make it back. The next day, everyone tells me that I have never looked so relaxed and so happy. Wait, this is where I started! I think I will browse through my pictures once again and close my eyes and transport myself back to Saint Maarten. I miss the peacefulness and the stunning beaches. But mostly, I miss the everyday camaraderie of our good friends who are like family. As we prepare for sunny Florida to visit my cousins Deb and Jayne and their families I am reminded once again that families are simply determined by the heart.

Bob posted this on 2010-09-24

ON THE ROAD AGAIN!

I am celebrating a snow day by taking pen to hand (yes, pen to hand); writing the old fashioned, unfashionable way seems more genuine to me. The recent snowstorms have captured the media frenzy to such a degree they have even catapulted John Edwards to the back of the papers. While I have now twice risked back pain and heart attacks to shovel my mile-long (I may be a little off, but not much) driveway at the Shore from eighteen inches of snow, Washington DC has been plummeted with over twenty or thirty inches depending on who you believe. This is evidently still not the record as it did not rival the three-foot snowfall of 1772 as noted in Thomas Jefferson’s diary, if we are to believe a politician who was secretly having relations with his slaves as opposed to a former aide. What an opportunity that would have made for Fox News!

This is a not-so-clever segue to our recent trip to Washington over the holidays; an annual event that came about due to road conditions and the desire for my Dad’s turkey dressing. I’ve only recently been corrected that stuffing that is indeed not stuffed in the turkey is really dressing. This holiday tradition began in Queens at my parents’ last apartment in that borough before retiring to New Jersey. They relished the thought of making a lavish dinner for people outside the immediate family the way they normally anticipated international terrorists. When told that one of the dinner guests didn’t eat red meat, they proceeded to make their sausage stuffing as if they were stone deaf to such matters or they really didn’t understand the concept. This precipitated one of those fights you have with your parents reminiscent of when you were fifteen. My clandestine mission was to hand-pick every single piece of sausage from the vegetables and bread, hiding the carnivorous delights out of sight. You realize your ability at subterfuge when you can rejoinder compliments about the tastiest stuffing that anyone ever ate with a smile instead of choking on it. The following year, my parents learned to eliminate the meat altogether, and thus, their ultimate vegetable dressing was born.

After my Mom passed away and my Dad gained a seemingly new-found freedom, we’ve been taking the vegetable stuffing/dressing on the road visiting the same friends and family on their turf, DC and vicinity. We always start first thing in the morning, pick up my Dad and proceed to fend off his requests for rest stops as best we can. His other mantra; not unlike, “Are we there yet?” is “Are we in Delaware?” There is no reason why Delaware should hold such importance to our journey, but it evidently does to him. It is also one of those road markers that are tough to clearly define as you only know you’re in Delaware when you’re leaving. So, I almost never have the right answer for him, not because I can’t recognize the Delaware Memorial Bridge, but I’m not really paying attention long enough to notice. Four hours after we began, the final leg of our journey finds us speeding off the Beltway and onto the side streets of Maryland and DC. I later discover upon my return home that my zealous punctuality garnered not one but two speeding tickets generated by those cameras from Brave New World.

The first order of business is to visit and have drinks with friends in Chevy Chase, giving me the opportunity to earn my second ticket. We all make note that it is indeed after twelve o’clock. How civilized! Later, dinner is very festive and so tasty. Jana is one of those steadfast cooks that is never deterred with a new recipe or recreating a trusted and traditional favorite. Although, it’s not like something so remarkably unusual is going to come flying out of the oven on Thanksgiving. For example, some traditional Italians always start with a pasta course, even at breakfast. Then, there’s always room for a roast pig. I have friends who freeze the head for later. I’m serious. But that is not the case at Jana and David’s. Two traditional Slovakian turkeys come out of the oven along with sides and my Dad’s meatless dressing. Several desserts later I am satiated with food and conversation to the point of a migraine and retire to a much deserved coma.

There are two other established customs while spending Thanksgiving in Washington. Friday morning brunch at Alice’s is the foremost filled with more lively conversation than a late night talk show. Alice always surrounds herself with the most eclectic and entertaining bunch that it really deserves to be filmed for YouTube. This elicits enough energy to have our own personal playtime. There are those who enjoy rummaging antique stores, those taking credit card-in-hand and pushing through the crowded department stores and those like my Dad who are happy with as many football games as time allots. The other Washingtonian tradition is to enjoy one of the many museums and attractions. This year we all visited Hillwood, the Marjorie Merriweather Post estate; an extraordinary house of many collections focusing on Russian and French art and porcelain. When Mrs. Post wasn’t amassing objects of art, she was collecting husbands; four to be exact, each bringing another nuance to the table. A multimillionaire at the age of twenty-seven as the sole heir to the Post Cereal Company, she became known for her accomplishments in business and philanthropy. Acknowledged as a distinguished collector, Mrs. Post died at Hillwood in 1973, leaving the estate as a museum for the enjoyment of future generations.

Although New Years Eve provides most people with the ultimate anxiety of not doing it alone, I am lucky enough to be part of the best group of friends in Asbury Park who would never let that happen. But the next day provides us with the opportunity to once again, get out of town! The road to Rehoboth is a long one and coincidently also begins at the crack of dawn. Without my dad, there is less of a need to “rest” and no need to discuss Delaware as it is our destination. Bruce and Richard provide the ultimate accommodations offering what is the equivalent of any fine bed and breakfast as well as America’s only Ethel Merman Suite. Sleeping amongst Ethel memorabilia only wets your appetite for more. We all head out to the antiques shops in the area, essentially recreating Thanksgiving weekend: Antique stores, bargain sales and football games. I am thrilled that each evening we dine near a crackling fire, as this is indeed the coldest winter in thirty years. The continual gusts of wind manage to blow most homeowners’ Christmas ornaments into a collective heap prompting many to start disassembling their decorations into their respective garages. Our final morning spells disaster as these same gusts of wind blow out the pilot of the hot water heater. I wonder when the last time sleeping with Ethel Merman prompted a cold shower. Rapidly responding to my cold water screams, Richard promptly assembled tools and matches for the next morning activity. As this comes to a close, I am reminded of a quote on a David Sedaris CD that a good friend gave me for the holidays. Explaining his need to write it down for the entertainment of others, he tells a tale about his sister who was about to confide a secret. She hesitates, asking him to promise that he never write about it in one of his short stores. To which he replied, “I don’t think I can; after all, what are you going to do with it?” And this is what I did with mine!

Bob posted this on 2010-02-25

IF IT'S TUESDAY, THIS MUST BE KARNAK

It seems my wise and ever so young-at-heart cousin Joannie has resumed her quest to travel the world. She was recently telling me about her plans for a whirlwind vacation despite the fact that there were a multitude of the usual concerns. “Bobby, my feet are killing me now; what am I going to do next year?”

Enabled by her astute observations, we decided to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, echoing the mantra, “If not now, when?” And when you think adventure, admit it, you’re wearing one of those Indiana Jones fedoras, riding a camel with the Pyramids in the background. So, Bob’s adventure was to journey to ancient Egypt; to explore the vistas once ruled by the pharaohs and to travel along the Nile, one of the world’s longest rivers and perhaps, the river most instilled with its country’s history, architecture and culture.

But, quite frankly, I’ve been often told that I do not actually have a sense of adventure. The fedoras were unceremoniously nixed with a practical vial of Ambien in its place. With previous airline mishaps lingering in the back of my mind, I worried that similar could occur; say, if my luggage would take a detour to Milan. However, all apprehension is erased the moment you get your first glimpse of these monuments to the pharaohs.

As we all arrive at the Ramses Hilton, it was already dusk with enough time for a quick orientation of Cairo’s waterfront. Venturing out into the bustling city, we discover that Egypt has not quite embraced the traffic light, much less street lamps. Our destination was a restaurant across the Nile which meant navigating the street traffic (resembling an interstate highway), two bridges and a park. Guides suggest crossing the street by taking a deep breath, a swig of gin and hanging on to the locals. Ah, the adventure begins!

As you dodge and weave through speeding cars and trucks, you pray for one more chance, swearing that you’ll be a good person from now on. The streets are populated by an array of young people having a romantic evening away from their families. This helps comfort the New York voices in your head that are yelling at you, “Mace”! With every step, there is the anticipation of the return trip. I ate with the attitude; better make this your best meal, it may be the last. But all your qualms quickly evaporate as you gaze down onto the beautiful and luminous Nile, crammed with a flotilla of small boats. Each is brightly decorated with colored lights, giving off an aura of Christmas on the Nile.

Sameh, our well-informed guide and Egyptologist takes us on our first excursion to the Pyramids of Giza. The Pyramids cannot disappoint. At 450 feet, they are taller than most New York high rises and were the tallest structures until the mid nineteenth century. You are suckered into taking countless pictures, but no photo can ever do them justice. One of the more worthwhile travel blogs suggested packing a wad of singles and some Imodium. This already proved to be advice well-taken as I found that I needed to bribe some of the local children to use my camera and snap away again and again and again.

Although the building of the pyramids seems to be a mystery to most, I am more than comfortable with the alien theories; particularly Vulcan. And although our dedicated Egyptologist seems knowledgeable, would I ever know if he was lying? Elizabeth Taylor was King Tutankhamen’s wife, right? After all, she was married so many times.

The Sphinx was equally amazing. Really, there are no words to describe these sights. Really - the end. Okay, I’m obviously lying because you still need further instruction mounting a camel. The good news is that they kneel so you can easily climb aboard, like handicapped buses. Even still, I couldn't tell who grunted more, the camel or me.

Time for a quick dip in the hotel pool! My hair was so dusty (you’re in the middle of a desert) that I could no longer put a comb through it. This attempt at relaxation was definitely warranted as we have to get up at 2:00 the next day for a 5:00 flight to Aswan. Am I on vacation? The reason for the early start is because our guide knows that every day in Egypt begins sunny and hot; and then, later it gets sunny and even hotter. The earlier we start, the less likely to get sunstroke. However, since our initial flight went all too smoothly and we forgot to sacrifice a lamb this morning because, it was after all, 2:00 in the morning; we experience our first flight delay of the trip. The captain informed us that there is a “technical snag” which we assume is airline parlance for engine fire. As our group waits for a replacement plane, we are treated to free Pepsi Cola’s. Anyone remember when they used to offer complimentary champagne?

Today is the hottest day of my life. I'm not impressed that it's a dry heat when it's 110 in the shade. Its amazing ancient civilizations got anything done. Perhaps, Vulcans were not bothered by the heat. After a visit to the High Dam, we sail on the Nile in a traditional felucca. This restful sojourn is a prelude to our river cruise ship, the MS Norma.

Following lunch, we journey to the temple of Isis at Philae. This amazing sanctuary was built over 2000 years ago. The Greeks and Romans later "vandalized" it, by adding their own wall carvings and converting the structure for their use, followed by 19th century graffiti from Europeans. The temple was moved from its original location (the island of Philae) after the High Dam was built. Like the temple at Abu Simbel, this structure would have been lost in Lake Nasser had it not been relocated. For good behavior, we are allowed to rise the next day at 3:30 as we take to the air for Abu Simbel. As I’ve said, you need to see Egypt’s antiquities with your own two eyes because no picture can ever do them justice. Although you may have seen photos of the Ramses statues, none will capture their scale and beauty. The temple itself was built into a mountain with the famous statues guarding the entrance. Inside are more figures along with extensive and colorful wall carvings, mostly depicting King Ramses in battle.

The sanctuary is famous for its lighting; built so that on two days each year the rising sun shines through the entrance and illuminates three of the four statues in the back. The fourth statue is the god of darkness and does not get lit by the sun. How amazing! The entire temple was cut out of its original mountain location when the High Dam was built and relocated to its present position on Lake Nasser. I would consider this an engineering feat that is comparable to the original construction. Naturally, our sightseeing was not over for the day as we toured Kom Ombo, dedicated to the crocodile god, Sobek (obviously Vulcan) and to Horus, the falcon god. Built symmetrically with two sanctuaries accommodating two deities, the particularly beautiful setting overlooking the Nile is both breathtaking and a cause for much of its destruction.

One of the highlights of our trip is the evening’s galabeya party! Buying these Egyptian nightshirts was our first taste of Egyptian extreme negotiation with a little help of another shipmate. The party was mostly about parading around in our costumes and lots of drinking (to make us comfortable in our costumes). By the way, where do men who wear this traditional garment keep their keys? I strongly suggest warming up the keys before tucking them in your underwear.

The list of sites and activities is endless. We cruise to Edfu paying our respects to another monument to Horus; then to Luxor and the Valley of the Kings. Good news! This extraordinary graveyard is built into the mountains and, so a bit cooler than most. Approaching the end of the seventh day, we visit the gigantic complex at Karnak (yet another Vulcan), a great choice to reach at dusk; more comfortable and the photo ops are more dramatic. Guide books describe Karnak as jaw dropping and I agree. It is so huge! As the largest ancient religious site in the world, Karnak is actually a walled-in campus of temples built for the various rulers du jour. The farther you go into the complex, the older your surroundings. We are treated to another unidentifiable delay on Egypt Air and manage on three hours sleep. Am I too old for this? I know…if not now, when?

We are beginning to be allowed a bit more sleep…but just a little. After breakfast, we step aboard our bus winding through the desert to Alexandria, the birthplace of Cleopatra. Alexandria is the second largest city in Egypt and one of the oldest cities in the world. Our itinerary consists of Pompey’s Pillar, the flooded Kom Elshokafa Catacombs (consisting of multi-level chambers and burial niches), the National Museum and a Roman amphitheater. The catacombs were long forgotten until a donkey accidentally fell into one of the labyrinths. Back at our hotel, the luxurious Renaissance, some of our fellow sightseers take a swim in the Mediterranean or join us for drinks. We all dine en masse next door at a five-star restaurant at what was King Farouk’s Palace and Gardens. Unfortunately, we are treated to a no star dinner and retire very weary and underfed.

Back in Cairo, our destination is a nearby airport hotel, Meridian Heliopolis, providing us with starchy, stick-to-your-ribs food while others munch on their Imodium. Most have signed on for the sound and light show at the Pyramids, which is definitely cheesy but it gives us another opportunity to visit the ultimate icon.

Our last day in Cairo provided us an opportunity to go it alone. This is one of my favorite days. I am not sure that we are tour bus people at heart, but we certainly gave it a good college try. How else could we have done so much without someone like Sameh leading us by the hand? We arrange for a driver named Sayed to take us to an area known as the Citadel and are introduced to foot covers as we amble around several mosques, namely, the Mohamed Ali mosque (no, not that Ali) and Al Rifai. Sayed buys me a supply of Coca-Cola to soothe my stomach. Back in the prehistoric era, you could buy coke syrup from soda fountains and it still works for me. After our fill of mosques, we visit the Gayer-Anderson Museum which was the residence of a British officer and his wife until 1942. A vast collection of paintings and china remain as he left them with an added accumulation of dust. At the Khan Al Khalili market, we peruse over jewelry, magnets, pyramids; all the good stuff. Attempting to locate our driver (I definitely like the sound of “our driver”); we chat with a police officer and his buddies who are undercover cops, all proudly displaying their pistols. A quiet dinner and a needed rest by the pool await us. All that’s left is the flight back to New York and the desire to have some quality time with my pillow and dream. Known as the cradle of civilization and a cradle for inspiration for centuries, Egypt has been the destination that has certainly sparked a burst of inspiration in my heart.

Bob posted this on 2009-11-25

I’VE GOT ANOTHER STORY!

Recently, we were listening to my Dad expound upon story after story at La Cipollina, our favorite restaurant in Freehold. With additional friends at the table, he had a new audience to entertain and he was thoroughly enjoying the effect. My Dad taught me long ago that it is all about the story; the details don’t matter as much as the punch line.

When planning my trip to Sicily (see previous blog), I would often ask my Dad if he knew the town or site I was referring to or how long it took to get there. His advice was always punctuated with one-of-a-kind allusions and anecdotes, having his own sense of time and navigation. For example, Calatafimi was two hours distance on his donkey, Lucia. This excursion yielded a camping trip to the beach with the necessary tent and gear thrown into Lucia’s cart. No doubt, you may all remember your own family mule named after a 1950’s sitcom star?

Life for the Giangrasso family in Santa Ninfa had been a lot simpler but very comfortable. It revolved around the farm where they grew tomatoes, eggplant, garlic, wheat, grapes as well as fig, apple, olive and walnut trees. They used the fruits of their labor for food, to trade and to sell. Tree limbs and walnut shells would be used for kindling. Bread and spaghetti were prepared from the wheat. Barrels of wine were processed from the grapes and pressed every November. Twice a week, my Dad would hitch four large urns onto Lucia and trod over to the spring where he would fill them; two for the family and two to sell, picking prickly pears and snails off the cactus on the way back. He attended school every morning including Saturdays about a half mile from home at Santa Anna’s and down the road from the carabinieri.

My Dad was born on October 4th, 1926 and travelled to America with my grandmother when he was twelve. Like most immigrant families of that era, my grandfather arrived earlier to scout out a job and a home; establishing himself before sending for the rest of his family. Only, he seemed to forget to do the last part. Unhindered, Antonino and his Mom arrived with most of their possessions in four suitcases without benefit of language or shelter. Thoroughly lost on his first day in New York and dwarfed amidst the dizzying array of tall buildings, he somehow managed to find his way returning with a half-eaten loaf of bread from a to-do list. And to answer your likely question: yes, they sold Lucia. They sold a lifestyle and bought into a new world of fast cars and fast company.

After the antipasto plates were cleared and more wine was opened by waiters struggling with the machinations of a corkscrew, we progressed from pasta to pigs belly to dessert. In tandem to a life progressing from a shift in the army, to his first job, to meeting my Mom, their honeymoon, vacations and of course, my arrival onto the scene, we dined on course after course. He likes to vary between portraying his wife as the love of his life and the woman who proceeded to wallop him after a state trooper stopped him for speeding at 85 miles per hour. Needless to say, he didn’t get a ticket. This may be food for thought the next time you are pulled over. It’s even better than a story.

Bob posted this on 2009-09-02

FACING YOUR FEARS IN COSTA RICA

Fear often surfaces in the most commonplace situations as well as exotic locales. Fear may take the form of spiders and snakes. It may appear in a darkened alleyway or high atop the pyramids. Perhaps it can occur deep within the recesses of this computer? Whereas I’m not afraid of heights, I have often been afraid of situations when I just happen to be up high; for instance, flying. How do those things stay up in the air, anyway? Yes, I heard about aerodynamics, but, come on, really? So began my recent trip to Costa Rica aboard a Cessna Grand Caravan, a single engine twelve passenger prop. Arriving at our connecting flight with time to spare (what’s with that?), we climbed aboard the Sansa Airlines miniature aircraft. Swiftly and efficiently, this toy version of an airplane soared upward over the mountains and above the clouds while I carefully contemplated every eyelet of my sneakers. I made light conversation with other passengers, discussing the various nuances of choosing a plumber as well as whom they favored on American Idol. We talked about everything but the fact that we were surrounded by mountains not conducive to emergency landings. Thankfully, before you could explain the plotline of Lost, we were descending safely onto the Quepos airstrip which would vaguely resemble your driveway, assuming you lived on a dirt road.

The runway was quite possibly the only flat surface in all of Costa Rica. The drive to our hotel was a Central American version of over the river and through the woods. Although one would assume that all terrain vehicles would be everyone’s preference, we invariably rode in one of the many bright blood red cabs about the size of a Ford Focus. Built into the mountains, our hotel, like many others, sat atop the lush and flourishing forest with views of the Pacific in the distance. We quickly got to know many of the other guests as most converged there for happy hour, before climbing up a road to dinner; another pleasant surprise. Firstly, you can drink the water (fear number two). Most amazingly, the town boasted some of the most sophisticated dining that we’ve experienced in a long time. Although we frequently ate the freshest, choicest fish, a fine meal could be had with diverse fair such as arroz con pollo or roast pork. Fittingly, the tuna “was like butter” became the adapted turn of phrase for the week.

Whenever I visit my cousins in Florida, we often race from town to town searching for a dry patch of sand. Upon arriving at West Palm International, the heavens customarily open up to torrents of never-ending rain. Deborah tells me that after all, Florida is a tropical climate and points to a map of the Caribbean. Conversely, on this vacation, each morning began after an early breakfast with an unwieldy but unhurried walk down to the beautiful town beach. Once on the way down, I stopped to take a photo of the beach from a Kodak vantage point. After doing so, a nearby tree limb promptly fell upon the ramshackle road and could have hurt me considerably had I not stopped (fear number three). The ocean was amazing; warm as bath water and wild enough to provide a thrill ride for the many surfers. I was elated at the consistent sunshine, but irritated that I once again fell asleep under an umbrella that was not programmed to custom alter my shade. As a result, this pale body turned many shades of red, prompting one of the other guests to comment that my complexion was outside the Crayola box.

The prime fear of the week was also my most anticipated escapade; having planned a canopy zip line experience from the beginning. Waking up that morning became a nerve-racking undertaking, along with having breakfast, talking and smiling for the camera for I was surely en route to death row. This was it! My affairs were in order; I expressed all my goodbyes. But, to my inconceivable surprise, sailing high above the rainforest canopy grew to be my most memorable experience. This is an adventure for people of all ages, interests and physical conditions (I am exhibit A). There were 18 tree house platforms, 10 zip lines, 2 repel lines and one “Tarzan” swing. After the first short zip, you feel reassured that everyone is safely hooked onto what look like clothes lines (really). This is apparently not the bitter end you imagined as there are no noticeable lifeless bodies lying in the foliage. As you slide from tree to tree, you wonder why they even call this a zip line, and since you need a distraction, songs like “Zip Goes a Million” or “Zing Go My Heart Strings” come to mind, but don’t offer any clarification. “Zipping” back and forth, very often backwards, you ignore the pulleys’ mechanical whirring noise in your ears that drown out the bird calls and monkey chattering; but there is nary a zip to be heard. Swinging through the air like Johnny Weissmuller, many try to duplicate the yell, but still no zip. In the end you make it to the finish and realize you may have faced your greatest fears but had the best time of your life in the process.

Bob posted this on 2009-05-08

HOW I LEARNED TO PAINT

Recently, several weekends have been devoted to the pursuit of painting my living and dining rooms and closets. Painting ceilings may have been fine for Michelangelo on scaffolding but difficult for this fifty-five year-old. Auspiciously, I received help from the young man who mows my lawn. When I was a youngster, it was my Dad who taught me all I needed to know.

I grew up on the fifth floor of a five-floor walk-up which posed a number of problems. Consider the myriad of possibilities as my Mom navigated a stroller, the day’s groceries, handbag, and of course, me, up five flights of stairs. In the 1950’s, everything did not magically fold up into a backpack. I am sure she walked up backwards, bouncing and bobbing up and down on each tread. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom; stopping on each landing to rest and give me a brief respite from being shaken and stirred over and over again.

These were the same embarrassment of stairs that I would race down two at a time in my teens and the same stairs my high school friends refused to climb. Like it was yesterday, I still recall Jimmy and Larry searching for the nonexistent elevator when I met up with them in the lobby. By default, my regimen was consistently more active than theirs, just from daily arrivals and departures. Jimmy’s sole exercise and biggest claim to fame was the ability to open a can of Ballantine Ale with his teeth.

I could have simply bragged to my friends that I lived in the penthouse. But, regardless of any positive spins, penthouse apartments are located directly under the roof; and ours was notorious for leaks. As soon as the building super would patch up the latest crisis, the rain water would find a path of least resistance and enter our apartment through a new tributary. Once again, our ceiling would discolor, stain and crack wide open. Startled by the drip, drip, drip, we would be reminded to strategically arrange buckets throughout the apartment. This bell ringer signaled that it was time, once again, to paint the apartment starting with the troubled ceiling. For some reason, my Dad was great with a paintbrush, applying a fresh coat of paint like a make-up artist, covering every wrinkle and blemish. This was a skill passed down to his son through years of practice and inclement weather. In the process, I learned to apply masking tape to windows, clean up many spills and balance myself on the top step of a ladder.

Years later, I would sequester these high school friends as apprentice painters, sharing my Dad’s skills with them. Since a little friendly persuasion is a fine art, I did not use the Huckleberry Finn approach, instead eliciting their sympathy as I had no one else to ask. To up the ante, a family dinner was thrown in for good measure. Because there was never a set time at the dinner table in their own homes, this offer was as much a curiosity as it was part feast and part opera. As stereotypical Italian cooks, my parents only knew how to make dinner for twenty regardless of the guest list. So, there was plenty to eat and plenty of animated conversation that my Mom was not accustomed to, along with an eight track of The Supremes blaring in the background. And me; I got a freshly painted bedroom in a dozen shades of green while imparting the art of feathering door moldings and sanding freshly applied plaster. Does it get any better?

Bob posted this on 2009-04-09

HOME OWNERSHIP IS NOT FOR SISSIES

Recently, I arrived at the house to discover that the garage door opener wasn’t working; only to realize I was wrong…the garage door opener was perfectly fine…but, our electricity was out. Yes, it was the blackout of 2008! This was not good because it was, after all, a blackout. It was also one of those occasions when I remembered my freezer was filled to feed a family of twelve. So, I did what I had to do: called JCP&L and strolled to Nick’s Pizzeria armed with a bottle of wine. On the way back, I met up with a very ornery lineman from JCP&L and directed him to my transformer. Yes, I have my own transformer and it was as dead as a doornail; no other home in Wanamassa was affected! Ornery wouldn’t say a word to me. I don’t think he ever went home to his wife and said, “Gee whiz, honey, I love my job!” A special team would be dispatched and arrive later that evening at no special time in particular as no one wanted to make a commitment to one. Two cherry pickers with a complete crew eventually arrived, fixed the problem and rang my front doorbell at 1:00 in the morning to tell me the really good news.

One of the reasons it was so important to get the lights back on was so that our washing machine repairman could arrive the next day and perform his magic without attempting to do it by candlelight. Our Maytag broke on the previous weekend, and after Eatontown Appliance suggested that we just buy a new machine, I opened up the Yellow Pages, my heart and my wallet to another repairman who was happy to make a house call and even happier to save our dependable Maytag. When the repair guy returned later in the day to pick up a forgotten tool, he once again called me on my cell instead of ringing the front doorbell. I asked; “Why are you being such a stranger? Why not ring the doorbell?” “Your doorbell isn’t working”, he replied in an exasperated tone.

This was only Saturday afternoon. I haven’t had the time to get to my Dad’s yet and I couldn’t imagine what I’d find over there. Meanwhile, I’m trying to find a way to cleverly work into the story that there is also a leaky roof and a wet basement to contend with. I know you wouldn’t believe it. Besides, I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on writing this with the plop plop plop noise and the whirring noise emanating from the sump pump. But the Maytag is spinning and the doorbell, well, the doorbell can wait until tomorrow.

On the TV show, “Green Acres”, I can remember many scenes where the Haney Place, as it was called, was completely falling apart; walls caving in…stairs crumbling apart…doorknobs coming off in your hand. Mentally and emotionally, I think it’s a lot worse when there is no stereotypical imagery to foster the laugh-track. When the roof is leaking or a light fixture falls off the ceiling or a seagull flies off with an outside lamp (yes!); it’s still Holly Patel’s house. But a few moments every summer, the sun is shining, the lake seems blissfully clean, rowers and fishermen are equally having a blast and I am out on what we like to call our Tiki bar having a drink or some rocky road and I think…this is perfection. I try to embrace this thought whenever Holly’s house is reminding me who’s the boss.

Bob posted this on 2009-01-16

BACK FROM BA

When I was a kid, I curiously enjoyed playing one of my Mom’s old 78 rpm recordings over and over again, surely endearing myself to the neighbors. The black and white Decca label identified the tango as La Compasita with music by Xavier Cugat and his orchestra. I found the music haunting; the sort that stays with you all day. Never did I think I would hear this stirring and emblematic rhythm repeatedly until my recent vacation to Buenos Aires, which first piqued our curiosity when friends described this destination as the Paris of South America.

Possibly because of my share of airline tribulations, I was somewhat wary in the beginning. Need I bring up our Alitalia debacle again? To totally throw us off the track, the round trip flights proceeded without a snag. Something felt fishy. Every guide book and travel advisor warned us about safety: “Secure your wallet in your front pocket; no flashy jewelry; don’t walk down deserted streets at night.” On the contrary, I never felt at risk. We were instructed to take walking tours of neighborhoods without giving too many specifics, leaving me concerned if there would be enough to do.

My fears were quelled as our journey progressed; the days filled with so much pleasure. Staying in the Centro District afforded an easy walk to any tourists’ first stop, the Casa Rosato, although a bit more salmon than rose. Unfortunately, you are not allowed inside the gates, preventing every theatre geek from doing what he was destined to do; sing, “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”, on that infamous balcony. My first night was highlighted by the best steak of the week at a great restaurant (although one of the few times we heard people speaking English) in the Puerto Madero called La Caballeriza.

I find myself taking turns humming La Compasita and Don’t Cry for Me Argentina. The next day begins around the lawns and lakes of Palermo Woods, 200 acres affording you the ability to walk, jog, ride a paddle boat and drink in the scenery amidst the whirring sounds of the surrounding traffic. Crossing every street feels like you’re eighty years old navigating the Grand Concourse with a walker. A stroll throughout Palermo reminds me of the fact that I don’t like to window shop, which is disconcerting because this city is meant for serious shoppers. When you explore Museo Evita, dubbed “my life, my mission, my destiny”, you can’t help but buy into her mystique because this is obviously a culture that still venerates her. A later expedition to Recoleta allows for homage at the cemetery where she was recently interred. It seems her body got lost on the way to the mausoleum –long story.

Sunday is all about shopping. (OK, I lied - it all depends on the prize.) Transported by subte to San Telmo, you can spend an entire day amongst the open markets, booths, kiosks and cavernous stores. The evening is highlighted by El Viego Almacen, the tango show extraordinaire, offering a performance filled with young, talented dancers. I met the first of many sight-seeing Brazilians with the question; “Are you voting for Obama?”

The following day, my cab arrives at La Boca, surely the oldest and most colorful neighborhood. Its most famous street is called Caminito for little path; the remains of an early twentieth century Italian neighborhood, made up of immigrants attracted to the port’s opportunities. Afterwards, we team up with friends from New Jersey because who ever has time to get together in New Jersey? We take a leisurely walk to a superb Italian restaurant in Puerto Madero called La Parolaccia and savor a multitude of flavors and what is certainly the best Italian food I have ever eaten (forgive me Mom). We return for our second dinner later in the week –it is that good!

On Tuesday, I begin by navigating the lines and paperwork at the ferry terminal to Uruguay. Luckily, I meet a couple from Brazil who negotiate information for a price –a vote for Obama, of course. My daytrip centers around Colonia Del Sacramento named after the central church. The subsequent day begins at a laundry on Esmeralda, a trade-off for packing light and then to the infamous Norma, a purveyor of watchbands on Libertad, the equivalent of 47th Street. Adding some additional culture to my diet, I locate the Fine Arts Museum with a pinch of Renoir, Lautrec and Monet; a sampling menu with a few extravagant specials. By now, I completely understand siesta time, and later attempt to find a café friends have suggested. This expedition teaches me that Parrilla means grilled, every bistro promotes grilled meats, Chile is a long street and there are countless restaurants on Chile, resulting in my only bad meal.

Thursday, I embarked on an excursion with multiple elements working for it, beginning from a real live rail station to Tigre, a river town which is the embarkation point for boats that ply the Delta de Parana. A picturesque riverboat ride leisurely makes its way through a maze of canals accessible only by boat. I take a million pictures, some of which are actually worthwhile. Later, an elegant dining experience at Thymus could satisfy even a vegetarian but take note that all of the meals have one common thread – plenty of salt! I hailed another cab (the subways stop running at 11:00) to Ideal, THE Tango hall, where the milongas linger to the wee hours.

Friday morning finds me at one of the best attractions on this trip! At 11:00 AM (not before); the doors open at El Zanjon de Granados, a very unusual restoration. The Argentine guide explains that during an initial renovation in the 70’s, a network of tunnels was uncovered, revealing artifacts and foundations from former houses on this site dating back centuries. After years of careful excavation, this treasure became available for all to see.

With a whole day before my flight, I use the time on Saturday to take in whatever may have been missed, if that is possible. For one, the Museum of Decorative Arts is as much about the French neoclassical mansion as it is about the furnishings and artwork. I locate our friends’ original recommendation, La Gran Parrilla del Plata, where we dine on our final steak in Argentina. Treated to complimentary champagne to bid us farewell and then take one last stroll through the marvelously broken tiled streets crowded with portenos (locals), tourists and litter. It’s a very long walk on another sunny day and it feels great!

Bob posted this on 2008-11-06

LIFE WITH FATHER –MILLENIUM EDITION

This 1939 Broadway play ran for seven years to become the longest running non-musical play, a record that it still holds. So, why not present a revival with a twist? In the millennium edition, the roles are all reversed. My Dad is always joking, “Now you get to play the dad”, to everyone’s amusement and my consternation.

I’m sure many of us have stood by and watched our parents make bargains with the devil. After my dad had a pacemaker installed, he felt, “As long as I’m feeling fine, people live with these for years and years”. As he started to lose his sight, he said, “As long as I can get around and take long walks, I’ll be fine”. This year, aggravated arthritis brought about an extreme deterioration on my Dad’s lower spine, causing limited walking ability. After falling a few times, we all felt that he was luckier to have cracked some ribs than his head.

Until recently, most of the bonding my father and I have enjoyed took place under a 4x8 model train board. I have always loved model trains; they still bring out the inner boy in me. One of my earliest childhood memories was playing with a set of tin toy trains with my cousin Deborah. (A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there were toys and household objects made of materials other than petroleum-based products.) Out of the blue and totally out of character for her, Deborah decided to stomp down hard on my caboose. What do you mean? I did nothing to provoke her! To quell my unrelenting sobbing and prevent further fighting, my Dad proceeded to reconstruct the caboose, bending it this way and that until it looked almost new. I was overjoyed and he was my hero for life. Later, when I got the Lionel’s, we would spend many hours wiring the train tracks, operating cars and accessories to the transformer. Actually, playing with the trains was secondary to putting the layouts together; possibly because we did this as a father-son project.

Before my Mom passed on, we found the means to reunite this bond; at first to take care of her and then to take care of each other. This relationship seems to endure throughout the bargaining and I try to use every opportunity I get to tap into any of the Kodak moments that have yellowed with age.

We all recently saw a production of Damn Yankees where a frustrated fan makes a deal with the devil, trading his soul to be young and fit again. In this instance, it was to play baseball and beat the Yankees. Imagine if the stakes were to do something as simple as watch your nephew play ball. What would you bargain?

Bob posted this on 2008-08-15

VALLARTA TIMES EIGHT…

The popular television show, Desperate Housewives, uses the device of a narrator to cleverly connect the various stories, wrapping each episode in a nice neat bow. Evidently, it is only in death that Mary Alice has gained the wisdom to comment on the escapades of her friends and neighbors. Many of you, after reading, “I’ll Never Go to Mexico Again” may have unconsciously tried on that persona for size. Narrator: How often do we break our promises to ourselves? I’ll start my diet tomorrow… Just one more cigarette… She’ll never find out…

My cell phone rang at around the time I would normally go watch the sun set at a favorite bistro in Puerto Vallarta. I will say this once. These are not ordinary sunsets. The cacophony of colors was unlike anything I have seen before and it amazed me every single day. Invariably, every day, there was a certain repetition on this trip that was so relaxing and peaceful, making that phone call a bit jarring. If I didn’t enjoy writing these tomes, I could simply sum up the vacation, Vallarta times eight. Start by eating breakfast…a walk to the beach…lunch…dip in the ocean…drinks at sunset…another shower…dinner…walk the Malecon (boardwalk)…sleep. Repeat eight times.

This was the perfect vacation for those who want to get away from work or stress or family pressures. Many encouraged me to fill my days with tours and recreational activities such as various boat trips, Rhythms of the Night, horseback riding, parasailing and the Canopy Tours. I was determined to try this exciting eco-adventure, zipping from tree to tree on cables over jungles. A young man on facebook teased; “after all, my Dad is older than you and he did it with me”. Believe me; I wanted to email him back with an affirmation. Narrator: Because, sometimes, even a young man’s taunts cannot deter us from a good book.

Much of the days were spent at Playa Los Muertos, spread out under little thatched umbrellas on blue beach chairs; by afternoon, sipping margaritas. From your chair, you could make new friends, buy jewelry and trinkets, reserve excursions and read a book. One set of new companions spent their afternoons emptying buckets of beer. Another twosome solved numerous puzzles in between even more numerous dips into the ocean. It was the sort of calming routine you could get accustomed to in an instant.

Dining in Vallarta was a treasure and an adventure. Since you know I was concerned about keeping food down, I did not eat from colorful street vendors, stayed clear from salads and did not drink the water. Even still, there was a night or two where my body needed to, shall I say, adjust. After that hurdle, there was an array of fine, distinctive restaurants. Favorites were Boca Bento (tasted a perfect mako ceviche), El Arrayan (dined with a couple of California girls), Bananas (where we met up with a delightful owner, an expatriate from Chicago and her son James, a rebellious twenty-something who dropped out of school) and our favorite, El Brujo, an authentic “cocina” that new friends from NJ suggested. Each evening, after walks throughout the Zona Romantica, we would catch up with all at Garbo’s, the local watering hole, delighting in live jazz and abundant tequila.

Narrator: All right, all right, what about the phone call? It seems that James (from Bananas) was arrested, evidently hanging around with the wrong crowd at the beach, air thickened with pungent smoke. Could I set bail? He couldn’t possibly tell his mother. Perhaps, I rescued him from a life of crime. Narrator: Or worse.

We reacquainted ourselves with our new vacation friends from Bloomfield this past weekend. When I asked, “What was the best part of your vacation?” Without skipping a beat, one of them replied, “Meeting you, of course.” Or as Mary Alice would conclude our episode, “Because in Vallarta, the friends you make, are the ones you keep!”

Bob posted this on 2008-05-30

I'll Never Go To Mexico Again!

During the Spring of 1985, I ventured to Mexico on vacation…only my second time outside the US. My adventure began on an Aero Mexico 727 on an ordinary day except for the extraordinary turbulence we encountered. The plane looked pretty much the same as you would expect although the color palate and the uniforms were holdovers from the 70’s. Around the large single movie screen that separated our seats from first class were several compartments that hid trays and supplies for the attendants. At one point, while the plane was rocking back and forth to our destination, the compartments began to open; one tray after another started flying toward an unwitting and wide-eyed audience. Zing! Zing! Zing! We all feared that our heads would be sliced off by these detonated weapons of mass destruction. What a way to start the trip!

First stop was Mexico City as we joined a tour that promised all the usual like the Hanging Gardens, the Pyramids and various churches and cathedrals. Unfamiliar with tour protocol, I switched some itinerary around because of weather and my younger, swifter pace. This inadvertently caused World War Three, which sounded more surprising in 1985 than it would in 2008. There were some individuals who pointedly did not like me. (HOW COULD THIS BE???) At the next dinner together, I am ashamed to say that I laughed heartedly at the sounds of one of these people vomiting her guts up. It would be at this point that Lucy would look up and do a double-take, pretending to be afraid at the inevitable lighting bolt striking her.

My lightning bolt struck during the Ballet Folklorico’s performance at the magnificent Palace of Fine Arts. I always assumed that Montezuma’s Revenge was a simple case of diarrhea. You go to the bathroom and you’re done. I had no idea. I had to hurriedly take a cab home to our hotel and hop back and forth from the toilet to the bed to the toilet, not knowing which end to point toward the plumbing at any given time. This turned into the most effective three-day diet I have ever tried. As we were about to leave for Taxco, the silver capital, I became a bit disoriented because our entire tour group had vanished. I was essentially wasted; slowly sipping a coca-cola (during my childhood, your Mom could get you cola syrup for an upset stomach); wide-eyed at the prospect of what shall I do next?

The next thing I can recall was arriving in Acapulco, where we finally got to relax and enjoy the native foods and drinks and especially those natives. It was a most enjoyable way to end this sojourn, but would I ever go back? Could I ever drink the water again?

OK, here’s your answer! I will be embarking to Puerto Vallarta tomorrow morning for a weeks stay on a beautiful beach with a lot of beautiful scenery!

¡Tenga una gran semana! Please feel free to stay in contact with Ken or Mike during my absense. If you need to contact me, my cell number is 732-239-8148.

Bob posted this on 2008-04-18

What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate

Good News! I informed the candidate she could start on Monday. Instead, she answered that she needed at least two months before starting the job. This was after two interviews, reference checking and numerous emails and phone calls. Two months? I imagined that I was Strother Martin in the film, “Cool Hand Luke” and I was addressing the prisoners: “Don’t you ever talk that way to me. Never! You know, what we have here is just a failure to communicate. Some men…you just can’t reach…” Each word is pronounced slowly and deliberately with extra emphasis given to “failure to communicate”. Returning to reality, I thanked her, and bid her farewell.

Growing up in the Bronx, I first majored in communications watching “I Love Lucy” reruns and bearing witness to the verbal tennis matches my parents would occasionally participate in; the most famous being Leonard vs. Leonardo. This particular exchange all began en route to apply for their marriage license and they had to find Leonard Street. My Dad would ask, “Which way to Leonardo Street”? My Mom would correct, “Leonard”; and later, “Leonard, dammit”. Legend has it that this was repeated maybe a dozen times and then rerun the rest of their lives; almost as many times as Lucy stomped her feet in a vat of grapes or hawked Vitameatavegamin.

So, I think all will agree that excellent communications is a key factor to success, navigating the streets of Manhattan and even apartment hunting. When I first moved to the city, a prudent real estate agent wisely cautioned me not to laugh at the managing agent who had a voice like Mickey Mouse. I recognized that same voice many years later, when I overheard him talking about his incarceration.

Similarly, I used to have a client whom I’m sure is the reason they invented the term, pregnant pause. Before an interview, I always prepare the candidate with as much information as possible in an effort to make both parties more at ease, adding a few personal particulars like nervous ticks or speech patterns. In this case, I would warn the aspiring contender that there may be a lingering gap between questions. “Don’t be alarmed! When it seems like she’s fallen asleep with her eyes open (like Dagwood, another cartoon character), she’s just thinking of her next question.” It worked.

Since I hope you’re just a bit curious….after two more interviews and with every last detail spelled out beforehand…success is at hand! And, he’s starting Monday!

Bob posted this on 2008-03-24

A Couple Of Hanging Pawns

There was much written in the news about Bobby Fischer last week; he died in Iceland at 64. Obituaries used adjectives like bitter, friendless, troubled genius.

During the years when I was growing up in the Bronx, it became somewhat fashionable or even cool to play chess owing to Bobby Fischer. There was much favorable press because of his tournaments for the Manhattan Chess Club with plenty of pictures plastered on pages of the New York’s dailies. At sixteen, he managed to edge Sputnik away from the headlines; not an easy achievement given the paranoia associated with what many considered a spy satellite.

The fact is that when I was twelve, I didn’t have many friends; essentially, I hadn’t found my voice, but I was smart. As a good boy that others loved to hate, I remember during a very disruptive summer day, when any self-respecting teacher wants to throttle her students, Sister Leah Anne began writing my name (and my name alone) on the blackboard. She proclaimed that everyone was going to detention except Bob. Talk about winning popularity contests! Then, by the end of the sixth grade, Mike Sanfillipo arrived at Santa Maria’s as his family just moved into the area. We both liked Get Smart and McHale’s Navy. We both were miserable at competitive sports, but often pitted against each other by Machiavellian gym teachers. You didn’t want to be on the sidelines watching us play one-on-one (like a couple of “hanging pawns”) unless you had lots of time on your hands.

But, we excelled at chess. Or at least, he did; and he let me play with him. On Saturdays, I would walk to his Dad’s gas station, where he’d be helping out. We would go to the back office, filled with posters of Bobby Fischer, Raquel Welch (from the movie, Bedazzled) as well as an assortment of Playboy Magazines. And we’d play until we worked up a sweat or until he cried checkmate. It was great because I could tell others that I was hanging out at my friend’s garage instead of confessing any details. And, I had a friend. There is so much joy associated with that one six-letter word.

I kept in touch with Mike though high school; at the very least, we needed to follow Fisher’s victory over Spassky at Reykjavik. But as Fischer later descended into madness, our areas of commonality drifted further and further apart. We never played again. Often, a boy’s insight into chess is an obsession with order and structure. As the world begins to unfold accompanied by messy human interactions; chess as well as all that is logical takes an extended holiday. Perhaps as Mike read the very same headlines last week, his thoughts also wandered back to a time in the back of his Dad’s garage. Me? I rented Bedazzled.

Bob posted this on 2008-01-22

Happy Days

One afternoon, when I was five years old, my Mom hauled me along to her friend Julia’s apartment because it was the 50’s and every 50’s housewife was certainly entitled to an occasional coffee klatch. To my delight, her son’s new set of Lionel Trains were temporarily set up in the living room for all to see. Julia entertained me for what seemed like only a nanosecond with a memorable demonstration, sternly asking me (with furrowed brow) not to touch any of it. Assumingly, all good boys will do what they’re told.

The O-gauge trains moved around the layout at record pace but never out of my sight for a moment. I still remember that Louis was lucky enough to own a Norfolk and Western Steam Engine pulling about a half-dozen of the coolest freight cars including an automatic refrigerated box car, where a frenzied milkman on caffeine flings milk cans out onto a platform. But one of the most noteworthy characteristics for me was the engine whistle triggered by depressing a toggle switch on the mighty ZW transformer which had the power to pull four massive trains at once. You have no idea how badly I was hooked on that whistle; no doubt my eyes grew to the size of golf balls in excitement.

While my Mom and Julia retired to the kitchen, I was left alone to my clever devices able to quietly mimic all the step-by-step procedures enabling the trains to do what they do best. But it wasn’t enough until I heard the blast of that locomotive’s whistle. You should know that I was taught not to touch anything in other people’s homes; my parents were particularly strict with me and I did not have to be told twice. Also, I was not a blithering idiot. Indeed, I knew that if I blew the whistle, I blew the whistle on myself as well.

Meanwhile, the trains whirred around the track, round and round, picking up speed with each turn. There was no stopping me at this point, as I cleverly engaged the milkman to release a round of cans onto an empty platform to the rhythm of tenement steam pipes clanking in the background. However, satisfaction was imperfect until my fingers caressed that toggle switch on the transformer. At first, it was just a gentle tug, no more than a whisper; then a slightly more forceful “woo”. Not yet satisfied and feeling invincible at this point, the sound of “WOO WOOO WOOOO” could be heard clear down to the stoop, never mind in the next room.

It is not fully clear what happened next. Often times, prisoners will have a form of amnesia to protect themselves from the psychological terror of reliving their torture. All I know is, after my sobbing subsided, my parents assured me that if I was a good boy (and I thought I was), Santa would undoubtedly reward me with my own set of trains. Looking back, my fondest childhood memories with my Dad were not on the playing field or gone fishing but instead tinkering with the track, smoke pellets and the automated cars...and, of course, my own ZW with the built-in whistle. Can you hear the “WOO WOOO WOOOO”? I still can!

Wishing all of you and your loved ones the happiest moments to cherish, in effect, your own “set of trains” to share and enjoy together!

Bob posted this on 2007-12-19

Over The River and Through the Woods 07

We made our annual trek down to DC with my Dad in tow. Only, nothing funny or scary or unusual happened. It’s true; everyone behaved themselves. All the various turkeys (fowl and otherwise), stuffing and desserts were all represented in record portions, but at the same time, everyone was polite and minded their manners. After all, what we do at Thanksgiving is share, somewhat like the Pilgrims shared with our Native American Indians (before they wiped them off the continent). With plenty of downtime, I got to finish reading David Gerrold’s novel, “Martian Child” using up a box of Kleenex in the process. If any readers have yet to see the movie, read the book instead. As the quintessential wanna-be parent, I’m a sucker for stuff like this. I spend a fair amount of time parenting my Dad, but, it’s not the same.

Speaking of Gerrold (science fiction author of The Star Wolf series and so many others), delving instead into science fact can be a very entertaining way of passing your stay in the nation’s capital. We spent a day at the Air and Space Museum at Dulles Airport, where we were able to view a Boeing 307 Stratoliner, the first pressurized airliner; the Boeing 367-80 "Dash 80," the prototype for the Boeing 707, America's first commercial jet airliner; and an Air France Concorde, the first supersonic airliner. Then, there were examples of human spaceflight including the Enterprise Space Shuttle as well as Mercury, Gemini and Apollo spacecraft.

Since the first venture into space by Russian cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin in 1961, more than 500 others have flown upwards toward the stars. The first American in space, Alan Shepard, hoped to fly in the Mercury capsule which is on display, but that spaceflight was cancelled to make room for the next series of missions leading to Apollo, where man walked on the surface of the moon or in a television studio, depending if you believe Oliver Stone or not.

With the focus on gigantic displays that engulf your senses; from hot-air balloons to spaceships; my Dad was more than satiated with exhibits big enough for him to actually see. All of it was a reminder that far-reaching greatness and invention and an attitude that we could do the impossible were once the very essence of this country and it could be again. To quote Senator Obama, “America is the sum of our dreams…what binds us together is that we stand up for each other's dreams, that we reaffirm that fundamental belief through our daily lives. It's time to do that once more. It's time to reclaim the American dream.”

Bob posted this on 2007-12-04

Five Easy Rules for Vacationing In Sicily

Arriving home after spending approximately nine days on an Alitalia 777 and one day in Sicily, I am eternally grateful for that one fine day. Seriously, if you ever have to choose between a mule and an Alitalia flight, choose the mule. The mule will be faster and not as rude. Delays persisted; planes needed to be replaced. On the return trip, the reservation was cancelled altogether. (When I complained, the “capo” felt it was a revelation to tell me that after all, we are not friends.)

If you plan to make your own travel arrangements to Sicily, here are words of advice: 1) Do not fly on Alitalia; 2) try to feel more comfortable on Air TAAG, perhaps flying out of Angola; 3) you could choose to disguise yourself as a package and fly FedEx; 4) take a Mediterranean cruise; 5) or give yourself a week to work out the kinks.

The rest of the trip was fantastic! After finally arriving in Catania, we picked up our Smart Car, traveling the autostrada to Taormina. Only we find Castelmola instead…not to worry, it will come in handy for the next day. Discovering the charming streets of Taormina, we dine at a trattoria, having the most authentic spaghetti dinner imaginable. (I would say better than my grandmother, but she didn’t send out many invitations to her table.)

While driving in Sicily, you must quickly learn to navigate your vehicle at 150 km/hour and not be further responsible for the array of people circumnavigating the narrow streets on crutches. I lost count of the number of people we saw with casts. There are no words of advice as there was such a disparity of road conditions throughout. One day, you are driving at record speeds round and round Mount Etna; the next day trailing a procession of about a hundred people walking to a burial site. However familiar with Taormina, it was a daily occurrence to get lost. At one point I found myself driving down a cobblestone alleyway that was so narrow I am forced to retract the side view mirrors fearing that both sides of the car will be scarred for life.

There are five simple rules for driving in Sicily: 1) If you are driving on a sidewalk, one wheel should touch the curb; 2) when passing slow moving vehicles, beware of bus drivers using their ipod; 3) when backing out of a tunnel, you MUST use your headlights; 4) you should be at least nine years old to drive; 5) and if you are drinking the vino, the minimum age climbs to thirteen.

Getting lost in Sicily was sadly a daily occurrence, although no matter where you turned, the scenery was worthy of a painting. Despite my inability to master a foreign language, Italians are invariably willing to give you directions without concern for your incapability to understand a single word. Speaking of a lack of direction, unless you fail miserably at Italian for Dummies, it would be very handy to know a few well-chosen phrases: 1) Go up the mountain; 2) go up the mountain some more; 3) go down the mountain; 4) watch out for the goats and 5) where am I?

Can you imagine that even getting a parking ticket becomes a unique Italian experience? In the picturesque village of Forza D’Agro, we inadvertently parked in a resident’s spot. The signage was complicated (in Italian) and the size of a postage stamp. Fittingly, I was informed that the fine could be paid at a post office if we could figure out the process. Easy! Every resident and employee in the local “l’ufficio postale” was willing to help my cause and become a friend for life. Asked about our day, I would answer that it was a blast - we paid a parking ticket!

When dining at a trattoria or pizzeria in Sicily, you may want to 1) steer clear of shrimp as Italians confuse this word for crawfish; 2) experiment with the surprisingly fine local wine; 3) sample all the fish (more than likely, one of the area fishermen has just delivered his catch in a bag); 4) order many of the regional pasta dishes but ask the waiter to take it back if it arrives in any state other than “al dente”; 5) meet and talk to the friendly people at the next table.

This was an excursion of fine dining. I have often said that there is no such thing as a bad meal in Italy and I still mean it. The fresh tomato and mozzarella salad that I devoured at a café at the Capo San Marco simply was the best I ever had. Then, there was a delightful meal at a restaurant in Taormina called Licchio’s, where I befriended an entire soccer team as well as the chef, Antonino. In Sciacca, a particularly sensational experience was had at Hostaria Del Vicolo, the town’s premier restaurant with postcards claiming, “il gusto dell’eccellenza mediterranea”. Breakfasts comprised fresh bread, fruit and cheese bought from the neighborhood delicatezza.

Although we traveled from Taormina to Savoca to Mount Etna to Piazza Armenia to Sciacca to Agrigento to Santa Ninfa to Palermo, what we will remember most are the people...beautiful smiling faces, big hearts and generous spirits.

However, if pressed to come up with the most memorable sites, at the very top would be Mount Etna, called Mongibeddu in Sicilian, the largest volcano in Europe. Then, the Valley of the Temples in Agrigento, founded in the sixth century was described as “the most beautiful of the mortals where the inhabitants lived their life as if they were going to die tomorrow”. Third choice would be Teatro Greco in Taormina, extended by the Romans for Gladiator events. Obviously realty entertainment prevailed over serious drama even in the Hellenistic period. Next would be Villa Romana, where you can see fourth century mosaics undergoing a flurry of restoration. My final “must see” would be Palazzo de Normanni in Palermo, overwhelming with culture and history. This is the crown jewel of a city that is an urban paradox. Exquisite examples of architecture coexist in a garbage strewn city that rations water and is the most polluted in Italy.

Our stay in Sicily ended with an enchanting dinner at a noisy trattoria filled with locals and their bambinos. Again, I was impressed with the fresh and finely prepared dishes and mesmerized by the gregarious people eating, gossiping, ordering more mineral water and reprimanding their children; all with their eyes glued to the soccer game as they cheered Roma, Roma, Roma! I hope to further share more experiences such as these with all my friends and associates such as you. The diet can start tomorrow…

Bob posted this on 2007-10-10

Intermezzo

My Aunt Phyllis was our family’s designated grandma caretaker, a position she took on since she was the only one of my mother’s siblings who never married…not even once (three times was the norm). As an aunt, it was her responsibility to be hip and funny as well as a window to the outside world. Whenever we were together, she brought us laughter to the bewilderment of those beyond our circle.

On one of the occasions when she invited me to dinner, between the pasta and main courses, she served this very naïve kid from the Bronx a champagne glass filled with sorbet, calling it the intermezzo. Used throughout Europe as a way to cleanse the palate between courses, I couldn’t imagine anything better; nor could I figure out where she got the idea.

I think of this point in time as the calendar’s intermezzo. Summer is about over, some major projects are behind us; various computer glitches are hopefully solved and a mound of success stories with paying clients are on the horizon (knock on wood). I am about to embark on a much-deserved vacation to the home-world (Star Trek fans will get this); what amounts to ten days (Sept 27th until Oct 7th) in Sicily.

Plans, so far, are to arrive at Catania airport via Rome, picking up a Mercedes SmartCar (pretend a Cooper Mini is a SUV), and driving to Taormina. Besides enjoying this lush seaside town’s many tourist attractions (there seem to be lots of antiques as well as antiquities), we hope to see Castelmola, the mummies of Savoca and of course, Mount Etna. Next, will be Sciacca, resting amongst a grove of olive trees. From here, we will visit Agrigento (a valley of magnificent Greek temples) and take a short excursion to my father’s home town of Santa Ninfa, attempting to look up his street, Via Selenunte. A linguist is lined up to help me say things like… “I swear the Giangrasso’s don’t owe any money”. With some luck there will be plenty of spare time to make use of the multitude of Mediterranean beaches. Last stop will be Palermo; and amongst the many locales will be La Kalsa, the closest thing to the Casba outside of the Arab community.

The thing about intermezzos is that as good as they are; there’s still the main course and dessert on the way. Aunt Phyllis was always prepared with an incredible finish, taste sensations like Veal Marsala and canoles. Similarly, no matter where I travel, it will always be a joy to get back to all of you, the icing on the cake. She would be hysterical right about now, ready with a snappy retort.

Bob posted this on 2007-09-24

Fish Tales?

In Sunday’s Times, the creator of the HBO show, “Entourage”, admitted that while growing up in Queens, “my friends and I just walked around the neighborhood all day and talked and laughed.” Reading memoirs, it is routine to wonder where the truth starts and where it stops. Are they all fish tales, no different than told by teenage boys passing the time? So, in an ecumenical spirit, because many of you appreciated my recent blogs involving Dad and my car, the following will have something for everyone!

Last week I accompanied my Dad to Toms River for his first of two cataract surgeries. I left Teaneck early Thursday morning to pick him up at his house in Freehold, hoping to deliver him safe and sound for his operation.

However, an exit away from our destination, we had a blowout. Aghast at the smoking shards of rubber, I fully realize that this must be experienced to be appreciated. One minute we’re driving along, nervous patient in tow; the next moment, it’s as though I’m towing a tractor-trailer. While we’re on the subject, although I assume others experience an occasional flat tire, say, once or twice in the span of a car, for me, it’s as the Macys slogan, “a part of my life”. Not working at a construction site, I am paranoid that this could be the machinations of a disgruntled employee –but, could I possibly have one?

Moments after a call to AAA, the State Police had a uniformed young man pulling up to my rear to save the day. He assured us that everything would be all right. I begged to differ, explaining about my Dad’s imminent appointment. The next thing I know, Trooper Bryan is offering my Dad an escort to the center, while I await road service. Whisked away with sirens blaring, I devilishly imagine the passenger with handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. But that’s the difference between HBO and Bob’s Blog.

PS…all went well!

Bob posted this on 2007-06-13

Fort Lauderdale, SVU

The peaceful and picturesque city of Fort Lauderdale, with a population of nearly 167,000 people is the seventh largest city in Florida. Due to a myriad of serene waterways, it is known as the Venice of America and is one of the safest metropolitan areas in the world. However, this is not always so.

Arriving last Saturday to witness my cousin Joey be united with his sweetheart, Danielle, I am almost reminded of an arranged marriage from a far away culture since they know each other for so long. But, can Florida really be considered a) far away or b) a culture?

Without skipping a beat, I am whisked from the airport to the event, quickly changing into a suit and tie. We all have time to get reacquainted with each others new hairstyles; everyone amazed that I have squeaked by without a gray hair, but were shocked to see that the 22 year-old groom inherited his Dad’s less desirable genes. The ceremony was beautiful; the reception, most festive, one and all having the best of times. At least there wasn’t any evidence of food fights or excessive vomiting. We all had a chance to dance with our favorite bunny-hoppers, and I especially enjoyed watching my Dad cut a rug.

With the wedding literally being the icing on the cake, Florida is all about eating. Visiting with every relative and friend is simply another dining experience. If it’s Tuesday, it must be dinner with Deborah. At one point, my cousin Jayne and I were returning to her car after breakfast, only to be fender-bendered by a van full of teens. Since there was nary any damage, I encouraged her to leave; after all, I needed to change for my next meal. Ignoring my wishes, she summoned the police, who quickly arrive, thrilled to meet the day’s quota. The young officer is further emboldened when he realizes its Dave’s Mom. Apparently, he went to school with her oldest. At this point, the teens all roll out of the van realizing it’s also Mark’s Mom, begging her forgiveness. Such dilemmas are the real trials and tribulations of suburban housewives!

On our last night, I decided to walk off a pound or two after dinner, before the airline charges me for excess baggage on the return flight. While strolling on A1A, I am struck by a hamburger (yes, a hamburger), hurled by a passing motorcyclist. Although I am not hurt, I feel mortified that people would throw food outside of a soccer field. And since I don’t have any kids who may know half the police force, I choose instead to go up and pack, ready for anything my employees hurl at me. And to think only a few days ago, I was prepared to duck at a flying piece of wedding cake!

Bob posted this on 2007-05-03

A Misfire In Cylinder 5

My Toyota repair guy called to let me know I had a misfire in cylinder five; probably water condensation. I am relieved to know it is nothing serious and there is no charge for the diagnostic.

Good luck and car ownership have not always been synonymous for me. My first car was a bright blue 1971 Simca, a four-cylinder marvel which Chrysler briefly imported from France, unfortunately before the lemon laws. I remember I paid only $1971.00. Labeled as semi-automatic transmission, the car was equipped with a manual choke. The hapless driver was instructed to release the choke during the daily warm-up ritual and open it as-needed while driving. As-needed generally meant all the time; otherwise the car had the pick-up of a lazy old mule with heart failure.

Initial treks with my new car usually entailed long drives out to Jones Beach with Larry, my best friend from Mount Saint Michael, who further encouraged me to routinely pull open the choke in order to break the sound barrier on the Southern State Parkway. He would later protest that he was forced to hang his body out the window in order to balance the car during every hair-raising turn.

One of the first orders of business was to find a suitable mechanic as foreign cars were not repaired at the corner gas station “in those days”. It was seemingly my fortune to find the irascible Jack (pronounced Jeck) and his brother Drek (yes, Drek) who immediately made plans with their travel agent in a mysterious Eastern European tongue whenever I arrived. As the Simca gradually challenged my sanity and wallet more and more, I paid added visits to those siblings in Greenpoint’s North Side. It was a straight sprint down Metropolitan Avenue to their shop on McGuiness Boulevard; a fact that was pretty beneficial the time Larry had to tow me to the shop behind his brother’s Dodge Dart. I’m sure the chain marks lasted well beyond the life of both cars. Then there was the time my window mechanism broke during a snow storm which taught me to maintain a “poker face” during adversity; no doubt all who witnessed presumed I thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of wet snow on my face.

Ultimately, I sold the car to Jack for $500. It was either that or pay him for a new transmission. So, as my Toyota mechanic is busy flushing out the cylinders, I think back on that Simca, doing wheelies on the Southern State and wonder where Jack and Drek are vacationing now?

Bob posted this on 2007-02-23

O Christmas Tree

During the holidays, the tree was always the center of an argument when I was growing up in the Bronx. Not, should we tell our only son that Santa was an imposter or that there’s no money for that new set of drums, but instead, it was my Mom’s bone of contention that there was never a tree that was big enough. No one ever consulted with a Freudian handbook as to what this really meant and no one attempted to challenge her. It should be mentioned here that I was raised at the top of a five flight walk-up. I think she may have been a little ticked off about carrying me up along with my baby carriage or stroller, carting up groceries and laundry step by step every day; the daily routine of a 50’s housewife. So, at Christmas, she would take her revenge.

Every time my parents dickered with the vacationing teachers who sold trees during the season, it was all-out war. My Mom kept pointing to this one or that one and then always responded, “no, not big enough”. Eventually she was persuaded to stay at home and not participate in this selection, so my Dad could keep what was left of his dignity and a few dollars in his wallet.

When I was seven, I don’t know how else to describe it, but, my Dad brought home a Charlie Brown tree. All I remember was that my Mom started a tirade, tossing out various un-holiday epitaphs at him with every other sentence being, “you call this a [expletive deleted] tree”? Enjoying the verbal tennis match, for some reason I began to echo the mantra of “you call this a tree”? Totally defeated and frustrated, my Dad grabbed the tree trunk and dragged it back down five flights of stairs. Up in the apartment, we prepared for the worst; instead, our jaws dropped with surprise and awe at the nine-foot Douglas fir that was now being propped up in the corner of our living room. I can still clearly remember how he had to saw off a portion of the trunk and cut off a few branches to get it to fit, but there it stood, a monument to trees.

These days, when I set up my Dad’s Christmas tree and we argue about the lights or how I bought him a tree topper that would be more appropriate at Rockefeller Center, I remember that mighty fir and the fine toothed saw and the big smiles on our faces Christmas morning.

Wishing you, your family and loved ones the biggest smiles every morning and the spirit of the holiday season every day of your lives!

Bob posted this on 2006-12-22

Over the River and Through the Woods to Grandmother’s House…

My family in the DC area beckoned once again, prompting us to trek down the Turnpike, over the Delaware bridges and through the Capital Beltway. OK, there were no woods, ditto grandma. The twelve of us around the table were surrounded by two of every food group. At least I thought I saw two turkeys (and I’m not talking about the guests), two trays of potatoes, stuffing, carrots, sour cabbage (a Slovak specialty), etc. I thought it was odd that I was served two glasses of wine, but I’ve learned never to argue about such things in large groups. My Dad is in charge of the stuffing as it is an old family recipe, originally called sausage stuffing. But, he no longer prepares it with sausage nor does he actually stuff it into a turkey. I guess it’s all about half-truths going way back to the Pilgrims. We were all urged to openly discuss our own personal reasons for giving thanks on this day starting with the oldest. It was accepted that my 80-year old Dad was first-up, but I was appalled to discover that I was next. Naturally, I was thankful I wasn’t first.

Since Thanksgiving is not just about eating (you’ll just have to trust me), we all managed to enjoy some of the nearby sightseeing and shopping. The more retail challenged spent a half-day at the National Portrait Gallery affording us a magnificent view into one of Washington’s oldest buildings that came to life in 1836 to house the US Patent Office. The America’s President’s exhibition lies at the heart of the museum to tell our country’s history through individuals who’ve shaped it.

Because our little group knows no limits of diversity, we had insider information regarding one of the best Indian restaurants around. Can you say “authentic”? Sitting in a semi-circle on sofas, we were first presented a wash basin with warm water and terrycloth towels. No utensils are offered; thus, the hand-washing ritual. Since the towels become your dinner napkin, whoever has the bleach concession at Mem Sahib, surely makes a fortune. Without the benefit of a menu, we were all impressed with the array of different and tasty dishes that were chosen for us and served family-style. You quickly get over any awkwardness about eating with your hands once you are served a whole curried chicken without a carving knife. To think that the day before, we made such a big deal about slicing up the turkey like a Normal Rockwell painting! The ultimate highlight of the evening for my Dad was the entertainment, a belly dancer, which I believe they outsourced to one of the girls from the Christmas Spectacular at the Kennedy Center. He was riveted by her performance while I sat in trepidation that he would join her at any given moment. After all, he already has the belly.

Thinking back to the above dinner request, I am indeed thankful and blessed to include so many of you as my friends, loved ones and comrades-in-arms. Hope your Thanksgiving was equally enjoyable!

Bob posted this on 2006-11-28

Back from Toronto

They say that Canada can be a disorienting place and this is true. It looks a lot like the US but with fewer geese. Pretty much everywhere you go outside of Montreal, it sounds like the US, but it’s not. You feel like you’ve been dropped into an alternate reality, a parallel universe, where you read and speak the language but you don’t have all the necessary information to be a fully functioning member of society. Everything appears familiar, but then you catch a glimpse of the Queen on a ten-dollar bill-and you think to yourself, I’m not at home.

After several days in Toronto, you realize that a few days are enough to do the tourist thing and not be overwhelmed by too many cathedrals, too many art galleries, too many eighth wonders of the world. The easiest mode of transportation to get around is the subway (yes, that’s what it’s called, not the metro), where the cars have labels prominently warning passengers “do not charge doors”. I somehow imagine bulls charging into the station en masse. Either by hoof or by foot, you are swiftly transported from romantic castles like Casa Loma to monolithic skyscrapers in minutes. I swear that there are six historic homes left in Toronto but the remaining skyline offers the impression that the city was rebuilt after 1975. Prominent architects such as Daniel Libeskind and Frank Gehry have buildings under construction. Gehry was born here and often reminds the public that, like it or not, the built environment shapes our lives.

Like many big cities in the US, theatre is somewhat prolific, although we only had the opportunity to attend two shows. In particular, we saw a fantastic one-man extravaganza called “Here Lies Henry”, where the protagonist, seemingly a pathological liar, is really dead and the audience is fittingly his slice of heaven.

And then there was the Falls, where the Maid of the Mist is even now the best way to enjoy the experience. You know you’re in Canada because you can actually see Niagara Falls, as opposed to being in greater Buffalo, where you may have to jump off a diving board onto one of the ferry boats that take you into and under the water. I ordinarily do not like amusement rides; I certainly don’t like water parks. However, this was spectacular. In the very thick of it all, water strikes you from all sides. Swathed in a few feet of Saran Wrap, you still get wet anyway but you don’t care at all. For you too are in heaven, humbled by an abundance of perpetual rainbows; I dare anyone to settle for less than a hundred photos.

Bob posted this on 2006-10-09

... what happened?

I’ve been reading a memoir entitled RED WEATHER, by first-time author, Paul Toutonghi. Through his narrator, Yuri, he recounts a portrait of his father who dreams of being a country-western singer but works nights as a janitor. Reconciling their differences by the epilogue, the result is a touching love letter that I would highly recommend.

I finished the book on Monday when I accompanied my Dad to his ophthalmologist. At 80, he has macular degeneration and can no longer read. This has continued to frustrate him over the last few years as he gives up more and more. There were newspapers and magazines, books, menus, maps and now, driving. This is a man who bought no less than three newspapers a day when I was a kid (we all particularly liked the Daily Mirror). Forget about trying to set a digital clock every time the power goes out. Although, a friend’s Mom solves this by taping over the dial so the flashing numbers don’t irritate her.

One of the many adjustments he’s been forced to endure is to actually listen, and, listen carefully to sportscasters for example. To be honest, he doesn’t make a habit out of listening even to me. As my cousin Deb explains it; he’ll listen when I have something interesting to say. Since he can’t see the scorecards and statistics stream across the bottom of the screen, he is dependant upon the likes of John Madden and Rob Stone. He sorely misses Jim MacKay and Howard Kossel.

Over dinner at Lorenzo’s, his favorite Freehold eatery, I let him regale me with a story of a simpler time when he saw the Jersey Joe Walcott – Rocky Marciano rematch. He and my uncle take their seats; pour themselves a beer and light up cigars. During the brief distraction, within barely a puff or two, against the odds on all scorecards, Marciano retained the World Heavyweight crown by a knockout minutes into the very first round. He always finishes this story by laughing uproariously out loud, “What happened?”

It’s what I say every day.

Bob posted this on 2006-08-10