John Delach

You may ask: “How was the great blizzard of 2017?”

“How in hell should I know! Mary Ann and I were in Vegas having flown out on Saturday, March 11 for a week-long stay.” (In case you were wondering, Vegas’ week’s weather was sunny in the mid-80s.)

While it’s impossible to completely avoid the hype from a storm of this significance, it is considerably more comfortable to observe it vicariously from a distance. The hype actually began the previous Wednesday when meteorologists first reported conditions for a possible nor’easter were developing in the Southwest. The Jet Stream had setup in a perfect position to accelerate a storm up the East Coast and by Saturday a second storm, this an Alberta Clipper, was racing across the Midwest on a timetable to meet the nor’easter late Monday night or early Tuesday morning. “Gotterdammerung,” headlines proclaimed, “all is lost,” “pray for salvation” and even, “the sky is falling.”

Doom overshadowed New York City; impassable roads, railroads and subways in shambles, airports shut-all flights cancelled. Forecasters were so certain of a direct hit that airlines abandoned even the attempt of flying to cities on the East Coast from DC to Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York and as far north as Providence, Boston and Portland. Airlines abandoned these cities and parked their planes in benign locations to wait out the snow.

“What me worry?” We were in the catbird seat. Our return flight was not until Saturday and by then order was sure to be restored. Curiously, we discovered we were not alone in having left Dodge while the getting out was good.

Our neighbors, Rob and Linda K had also hightailed it on early Sunday morning; destination, St. Thomas, VI. Their absence, especially Rob’s, from snowmageddon could be critical to the well-being of our neighbors on Roger Drive. Linda’s big gift for Rob last Christmas was a powerful two-stroke snow blower, a gift that has remained mostly idle this winter. The exception, a single February double-digit snow fall provided Rob the opportunity to show his stuff and show it he did clearing three different neighbors’ driveways and sidewalks. Rob became the savior of Roger Drive and in a burst of enthusiasm, he vowed to keep these neighbors clear for what remained of this winter season. St. Thomas versus snowmageddon: the winner – St. Thomas. Good luck neighbors, you’ll need it.

We declined Rob’s generous offer. A 2012 hip replacement ended my macho-man plowing days forever and I signed on with an all around handy man and good guy, Roberto, who has saved us every time Mother Nature blasted Port Washington. Thanks to Roberto, we expect go home to a plowed driveway, steps and sidewalk.

The third group of escapees was AWOL, absent without leave. This merry band, Frankie D, Frankie C. and Mikey S. were marooned on Sanibel Island, FL until Friday. They were scheduled to return to New York / New Jersey on Monday evening  from their annual golf trip but received a text message from Jet Blue that afternoon cancelling their flight. AWOL, indeed! Jet Blue’s only alternative; remain in Sanibel until Friday. While not as warm and sunny as Las Vegas or St. Thomas, the Sanibel forecast was high 60s for this week. Not too shabby especially for golf.

I shared the following text message with the gang of three on Tuesday morning: “Boys, looks like you caught the best break of your lives. Enjoy, as, of course, you know this is your last boy’s winter golf-outing, ever. Lynn (Mike’s wife) and Suzanne (Frankie D’s) will be genuinely and perpetually pissed off by the time to get your asses home.”

(Frankie C is single and has an apartment in Stuyvesant Town so he is golden.)

So what happened? In case you missed it, snowmageddon was a near-miss. The storm took a 50-mile dog leg to the west brushing the metropolitan area as it crossed on a diagonal from the southwest to the northeast instead of hitting head on. Two to six inches of snow dropped on southern New Jersey, New York City, Long Island and coastal Connecticut before turning into a messy mixture of sleet, freezing rain and plain rain.

A blame-game followed as mayors, governors, forecasters and transportation experts harrumphed and pointed fingers while the media ducked and weaved and denied over-hyping the event.

I did find one realistic explanation: Tom King, a meteorologist explained: “The storm is there, the precipitation is there – the amount of precipitation is there. The people in eastern Pennsylvania, northern New Jersey, southern (upstate) New York and (most of) Connecticut – they are getting walloped.”

And so it goes…

Day after day, more people come to L.A.

Don’t you tell anybody the whole place slipping away.

Where can you go, when there’s no San Francisco?

Better get ready to tie up the boat in Idaho.

Do you know the swim, you better learn quick Jim.

If you don’t know the swim, better sing the hymn.

By Shango

Have you heard about “Calexit?” I’m not sure when first conceived or its prime mover but this movement to secede from the land of US really gained momentum after Donald Trump was elected the 45th President of the United States. If Mecca exists for the “Trump Is Not My President” crowd, it is without question the Golden State. And well it should be. After all Hillary clobbered The Donald by almost 4,270 million votes in the land of fruit and nuts. Since she also outgained him by almost 1,733 million in New York, this meant that The Donald bested her by 3,138 million votes in the remaining 48 states.

This head shaker of a divide finally gave credence to a point I made many years ago to a visiting Brit. Way back in 1975, I played guide for Roger on his first trip to the states. His next stop after New York was San Francisco and I explained to him over dinner: “You will fly about five hours non-stop and all that time you will be over the rest of our country. It is important that you never confuse New York or California with what you flew over as that is the United States of America.”

Our past election has stunned the Left Coast, shocking folks and raising Calexit’s profile. People are fit to be tied bordering on hysteria. They want out. I kid you not. In fact, California’s Secretary of State, Alex Padillo, cleared the “# Calexit Independence Referendum” crowd to begin collecting signatures on January 26. They have 180 days from that date to collect the required 585,407 valid signatures from registered voters to place a proposition on the 2018 ballot. The clock is ticking and I estimate their cutoff date to be July 21, 2017.

The Los Angeles Times set out what follows:  If the measure… “gains approval by a majority of voters, it would repeal clauses in the California Constitution stating that the state is an ‘inseparable part of the United States’ and that the U.S. Constitution is the ‘supreme law of the land,’ according to the title and summary prepared by the state attorney general’s office.

Approval…”would (also) place another question on the ballet in 2019, asking, whether California should become a separate country. If at least half the registered voters participate in the vote, with at least 55% of those voting to approve, the results would be treated as California’s declaration of independence.” That vote would be scheduled for March 5, 2019.

The #Calexit crowd argues: “As the sixth largest economy in the world, California is more economically powerful than France and has a population larger than Poland. Point by point, California compares and competes with countries, not just the 49 other states.”

“In our view, the United States of America represents so many things that conflict with Californian values…” (Emphasis added.)

They go on to make “Nine Simple Points” to make their case. I invite you to examine this combination of new speak, P.C. and left-wing mumbo-jumbo at “yescalifornia.org” but here is part of Point 1. Peace and Security: “The only reason terrorists might want to attack us is because we are part of the United States and are guilty by association.”

I pray the Supreme Deity that put all the oil in the Middle East, let the Mets win the 1969 and 1986 World Series, the NY Football Giants win Super Bowls XXV, XLII and XLVI, and the Patriots to win their improbable Super Bowl really exists. I fall down on my knees pleading for one more improbable miracle:

Lord: Let the fruit and nuts go!

Picture the 2020 election: “The Senate would have two fewer Democrats. The House of Representatives would lose 38 Democrats and just 14 Republicans. The U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, among the most liberal in the nation, would be changed irrevocably.”

May I be so bold to suggest my choice for the first Commissar of the Peoples Collective of California?

May I have the envelope: “Oh my God it’s: Comrade Nancy Pelosi.”

No, wait, there’s been a mistake:

Our first commissar is really Comrade Maxine Waters.

Author’s note: “On The Out Side Looking In,” will not appear on March 15 and will resume on March 22. 

Brain freeze, a senior moment, memory lock; call it what we will. They are annoying and frustrating to say the least. Recently, I awoke thinking about goofy inventions or ideas and for the life of me I couldn’t recall the tag commonly used to refer to them. I knew it was a person’s name but other than that…a complete blank. Shout out to the internet. A quick trip to Google, type in, “Name for goofy inventions,” and as if by magic: “Rube Goldberg.”

Here is my dictionary’s definition: “Adjective: accomplishing by complex means what seemingly could be done simply – example: A kind of Rube Goldberg contraption.”

Not clear enough? Here is an expanded explanation: “A Rube Goldberg machine is a contraption, invention, device or apparatus that is deliberately over-engineered to perform a simple task in a complicated fashion. Over the years it has expanded to mean any confusing or complicated system. For example, news headlines include: Is Rep. Bill Thomas the Rube Goldberg of Legislative Reform? and Retirement Insurance is a Rube Goldberg machine.”

Mr. Goldberg (1883-1970) was a prolific cartoonist who drew over 50,000 cartoons and comic strips. While he is most remembered for his wacky ideas, he did have a serious side.  He earned a Pulitzer Prize for the cartoon: “COLD WAR: 1948, Peace Today.” It pictures a post-World War II American suburban home perched on top of an enormous atomic bomb. A couple sits outside in their yard under an umbrella oblivious to living on a bomb or that the bomb is teetering over an abyss labeled “World Destruction.”

However, it is the concept expressed in his serendipitous cartoons and explanations that define him in the American experience. Copyright restrictions prevent me from reproducing one of his classic cartoons, the “Self-Operating Napkin.” Please allow me to attempt to explain the image:

Professor Butts sits at a table before a bowl of soup, spoon in hand. He is wearing a collar around his head that supports a number of platforms. These platforms hold various objects including a parrot, a pail, a cigarette lighter, a sky rocket and a pendulum holding a napkin. The pendulum is attached to the bottom of a clock and held in place by a string.

A different string is attached to the professor’s soup spoon.

As he raises the spoon of soup to his mouth, the motion jerks the string launching a cracker in the direction of the parrot. Parrot jumps after cracker spilling seeds from its perch into the pail. The extra weight pulls another string opening and igniting the lighter setting the rocket’s fuse on fire. As the rocket takes off, a sickle attached to it cuts the string holding the pendulum in check. The pendulum, now free, swings back and forth with the movement of the clock’s second hand thereby wiping off the professor’s chin. Mr. Goldberg noted in his caption: “After the meal, substitute a harmonica for the napkin and you’ll be able to entertain the guests with a little music.”

Confused? Look up: “Rube Goldberg’s Self-Operated Napkin.”

While the expression: Rube Goldberg is unique to North America, Wikipedia notes that the concept is fairly widespread. In Australia, wacky machines are called Bruce Petty. In Austria, they are known as Franz Gsellmann, in Great Britain, Heath Robinson contraption, and in Denmark, Storm P maskiner, after Robert Storm Petersen. All were cartoonists. Similar expressions exist in India, Japan, Spain and Turkey, named after characters created by local cartoonists.

Goldberg lives on in annual contests held in various locations across the United States. Foremost are MIT’s “Friday After Thanksgiving” (FAT) competition and Purdue University’s National Rube Goldberg Machine contest. The FAT event brings together amateur teams who erect elaborate chain reaction machines that are linked together in a string.

Other contests like Purdue’s create annual themes where school teams compete to create the best device to accomplish the task in a minimum of at least 20 steps. Past challenges have included: devices that sharpen a pencil, adhere a stamp to a letter, assemble a hamburger or screw a light bulb into a socket.

Rube Goldberg machines can be found in movies, puzzles video games and board games such as Mouse Trap. No doubt fascination with wacky devices is permanent and future “what ifs”  are  only limited by our imagination.

Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus (The Circus) is calling it quits after 146 years. The owners are figuratively folding their tents and going out of business this spring. Let me make this clear before we continue, “The Circus” in this piece is Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus and nothing else. Conveniently for me, the last stand for the Eastern version of The Greatest Show on Earth will be at the newly rebuilt Nassau Coliseum on May 21^st. Tickets for the last performance are currently being re-sold at a range of prices from $250 to $2,980. I don’t plan to attend, but I may seek out the final nesting place for The Circus train that will be parked as close as possible to this venue.

The Wall Street Journal took a stand on this blaming the animal activists wrongly making the case of supposed animal abuse as the reason for its demise. In fact, the courts did find against these activists but the bad publicity and changing attitudes took their toll and the circus reluctantly eliminated the elephant acts in 2016. Elephants have always been the people’s choice. We love elephants and well we should. They are unique, gentle, sweet creatures. Similar to Golden Retrievers but just too damn big to have as a pet. Elephants at the zoo are fine but The Circus gives us the opportunity to watch them strut their stuff.

Elimination of these wonderful beasts was the final nail in the coffin but the patient was already on life support. Curiously, despite our collective fond memories of the circus, its very existence has been a struggle even in the best of times. The logistics alone are monumental.

The Circus is a mobile show, actually two shows, the Blue Tour and the Red Tour. Each tour spends the season traveling on and living in two separate circus trains each a mile long with 60 cars: 40 passenger cars that the workers and performers call home and 20 freight cars carrying everything from equipment to the stars personal automobiles. Films showing these impressive trains moving about the country can be found on line.

The living quarters are converted passenger stock dating back to the post-World War II golden age of streamliners: circa 1949 to 1962. The Circus mechanics have to be one part Houdini to keep this so called heritage rolling stock up to the Federal Railroad Administration’s codes. Everything about The Circus is Eisenhower’s America.

Throw out lines we all use originated there: “Rain or shine,” from circuses with tents. “Hold your horses,” warning drivers to let the elephants through. “White elephant, grandstanding, get the show on the road and jump on the bandwagon,” are other examples. As a kid growing up, I can recall three expressions that my mother and her friends and neighbors used to express exasperation with confusion and crowds: “What is this, Grand Central Station,” “This is a Cecile B. DeMill production” and “This is a three ring circus.”

Being a city kid, I never saw The Circus under the big top that the owners abandoned in 1956. My circus experiences all happened in Madison Square Garden. To be honest, this annual event was never the experience once described by a reporter as being, “Like Christmas, your birthday and the Fourth of July all happening on the same day.”

The annual hype never failed to raise my expectations. The grand, gaudy and colorful posters and newspaper photographs of the elephants being led out of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and across town to the Garden fed my excitement. (The Circus train parked in the Pennsylvania Railroad’s passenger train yards in Sunnyside, Queens and the tunnel was the easiest way to move these magnificent creatures under the East River.)

Reality was deflating and sum total of my circus experiences – confusion. My mother was right; a person can’t absorb a three ring circus. Too much activity going on at the same time and it’s all terribly confusing.

Later in life, I escorted my daughter and son and other guests to my company’s corporate box at Madison Square Garden to witness later editions of The Circus. My company was quite generous in making their box available to different managers to share with staff and their children. One senior person would attend to maintain some semblance of sanity and be responsible for ordering hot dogs, popcorn soft drinks and other kid friendly food. Since the box hung from the ceiling, it seemed to me that a touch of mystery and awe was lost since we looked down on the trapeze artists and tight-rope walkers.

The main things I took away from those experiences were horrible headaches.

According to Rodney A. Huey, who authored, “An Abbreviated History of The Circus,” The Circus was undone by the coming of age of Nouveau Circuses that began in the mid-1970s. Mr. Huey quotes, Ernest Albrecht to explain the origin of this new venue. (If you are like me, you will find this explanation to be a remarkable example of new-speak mumbo-jumbo.) “Its birth was synergetic, reactionary, bicoastal and organically conceived by a group of aspiring artists…”

That leaves us with Cirque du Soleil that began in the mid-1980s as a subsidized money-losing show to celebrate the 450^th anniversary of the French discovery of Canada. But it gained traction and today…” boasts more than a dozen traveling units and operates stationary productions in Orlando, Tokyo, New York and Las Vegas.”

And so it goes. Cirque du Soleil is now the circus of record and The Circus will be no more. When the lights go out at the Nassau Coliseum after the last show on May 21, 2017, the cast, crew and roustabouts will board the circus train for their last trip to Florida: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus – RIP

Going home is such a ride,

Gong home is such a ride,

Isn’t going home a long and lonely ride?

What could possibly go wrong?

Most of us are familiar with the crash of a Tesla Model S in 2016 on US Highway 27 outside of Williston, Florida. Joshua Brown was traveling at 74 mph using cruise control and his Tesla’s Automatic Emergency Braking and Forward Collision Warning systems commonly referred to as an “autopilot.”

At the intersection of NE 140^th Court, he encountered a tractor-trailer driven by Frank Baressi making a left turn onto NE 140^th thereby blocking Highway 77. For whatever reason, neither Mr. Brown nor the vehicles autopilot recognized the truck and the Tesla passed under the trailer without slowing down. The National Highway Transportation Safety Administration (NHTSA) reported that Mr. Brown had seven seconds to take action by braking or attempting to steer around the truck.  The crash sheared off the windshield and roof of the Tesla killing Mr. Brown. The report noted: … “Mr. Brown failed to observe the truck crossing his path”…”took no evasive action.” and “There were no skid marks from braking and telematics pulled from the Tesla showed the brake pedal was never pressed.”

The sedan traveled more than 900 feet after the initial impact hitting two wire fences and a wooden utility pole before the now powerless car came to a stop. Damage to the truck and trailer were minimal and the police allowed Mr. Baressi to complete his delivery two miles away before taking possession of the vehicle.

Despite the obvious, both the NHTSA and the Florida Highway Patrol considered Mr. Baressi at fault for failing to give right of way during a left turn.

Further, the “NHTSA found the autopilot system had worked appropriately and was not designed to alert on a crossing vehicle.”

“Tesla’s own investigation revealed that the car’s cameras failed to notice the white side of the trailer against the brightly lit sky. Tesla notes that if the car had impacted the wheels of the trailer or the truck itself, the vehicle’s safety systems would likely have prevented serious injury.”

The reports do not speculate what Mr. Brown was doing prior to the accident and Tesla’s CEO Elon Musk has made the point that the autopilot saves lives. “One percent is 12,000 lives saved every year,” Musk said last September. “I think it would be morally wrong to withhold functionalities that improve safety in order to avoid criticisms or for fear of being involved in lawsuits.”

If Mr. Musk is this concerned about safety, perhaps he’d like to comment on a certain option Tesla offers to the public? Back in 2015, Tesla announced that their Model S sedan would include a so called, “Ludicrous Option” in top end Model S line that has a base price of $119,200.  David Undercoffler of Autonews.com noted: “The electric-vehicle maker, channeling one of the more absurd moments of Mel Brooks’ comedy, ‘Spaceballs, ’announced this $10,000 option…that runs zero to 60 in a face-stretching 2.8 seconds.”

Tesla already had “Insane Mode” an option that made this leap in 3.2 seconds. Musk explained to reporters, “Nobody was asking for Ludicrous Mode because it was too ludicrous. Insane mode has been incredibly well-received. We figured out by engineering Zero to 60 mph in 2.8 seconds, (this) puts the Model S, a large sedan, in the realm of some of the fastest sports cars on the road today. It’s faster than Porsche’s top-end 911 Turbo S which needs 2.9 seconds to hit the same speed.”

Fast forward to January of 2017. The following story appeared on the front page of my local paper, Port Washington News, written by Meagan McCarty under the headline: “The Miracle At Soundview:”

“Date night is something that all couples look forward to, as did a middle aged couple who wanted to see a movie and drove their Tesla to the Soundview Cinema on Shore Road, Wednesday, January 18.

“After the movie let out, with the wife behind the wheel, the couple started to make their way to Shore Road by driving through the shopping center lot. According to first responders, the driver was trying to navigate the lot when she inadvertently hit the button for ‘Ludicrous Mode.’

“Once that button was pushed, the driver lost control of the vehicle, striking a brick stanchion at the entrance, toppling it and pinning the passenger underneath.”

The stanchion was actually a concrete pillar encased in bricks measuring three feet wide on each side and twelve feet high.  

“The Tesla appeared completely flattened, like an abstract sculpture with shards of glass and twisted metal…Almost immediately the driver walked out of the vehicle, stunned and shaken, but mercifully, nothing more. It took rescue workers 35 minutes to stabilize both the wreck and the stanchion that fell on top of the passenger’s side before they were able to extract her husband.  He complained of a bruised shoulder to EMS workers before he was transported to St. Francis Hospital for further examination. “

Would someone please explain to me if Elon Musk is so concerned about the morality of increasing safety, why on earth would he decided to equip a sedan with such a feature and then sell it to middle aged customers?

The following is a guest story written by my daughter, Beth.

I had avoided getting a dog for some time but my days were numbered. My excuses (our family move, young children, summer vacation) were running out and the day of reckoning was coming.

Late last August I had lunch with our 12-year old, Marlowe and my husband, Tom and they really put the pressure on –When were we going to get a dog? They were tired of my excuses and concerns and they were ready. Tom and I walked away from that lunch in different corners but quickly resolved our differences, as modern couples do, over text messages. I texted Tom that we should talk to our neighbor, Mark, who lived with a small, older rescue dog named P.B. to think about how we could do something similar. We reasoned that finding a dog, a little older and maybe lightly trained would make the whole situation easier. We left it at that.

I woke up early the next day, a Saturday morning, to head to the local bagel store. As I was getting ready to leave our doorbell rang. It was Mark from next door – he asked me to step into the hallway because he had a question for me. I thought he was asking us to dog sit for P.B. as we had done earlier in the summer.

Dog sitting was not on his mind but dogs were. He explained that he had had dinner at the new Thai restaurant across the street from our building and that the owner A. (short for a very long Thai name) had approached him during his dinner. It seems that A. had found a dog tied up two blocks over from our building on Friday morning. The dog was scruffy and alone except for an empty bowl of food. A. already had a dog – plus she had just opened a new restaurant – and she could not keep the dog she found. In fact, when she first saw the dog tied up she just passed him and went home. A true animal lover, A. could not stop thinking about this poor dog’s predicament and within an hour of returning home she went back and rescued him. A. had named him Sampson and Mark thought of us immediately when A. asked him about taking Sampson home.

I was a little overwhelmed by Mark’s proposition – Is this it? Is this how we wind up with a dog? I decided to take the kids to get bagels and leave Tom sleeping and revisit this all in a few hours.

As I headed out of my building with my kids in tow there was A. across the street walking her dog and Sampson. She knew we wanted a dog from Mark and we all stopped on the sidewalk for what would become a life changing transaction. A. introduced us to this small furry creature with a cheerful disposition and a serious under bite. He was beyond what we could have hoped for, small but sturdy, hypoallergenic and friendly. I told the kids to go get their father and Tom came to meet us from a sound sleep. After all agreeing, A. handed us Sampson’s leash and he was ours. Suffice to say, we never saw those bagels.

We took him to the Vet and learned that he had no chip, weighed around 16 pounds and was between 1 and 2 years old. We kept the name Sampson because it seemed to suit him. And, thus began our adventure of dog ownership.

Needless to say he is the love of our lives. Most of my original worries were fulfilled – the dog walker costs a fortune, as do all dog expenses, the kids don’t help nearly as much as they promised they would and he has occasional accidents. But owning a dog is not a rationale decision, it is an emotional one and he has captured all of hearts.

 I would be remiss if I did not note that Sampson has a particular love for my parents’ dog Max. Max, who some may know is the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers, views Sampson as an unfortunate small beast to be sniffed and dismissed on each occasion they meet. Once Max creates action, Sampson insists on participating by biting Max’s back legs. To date, Max has refused to acknowledge this annoyance.

January 1, 2017 was indeed a Happy New Year’s celebration for the citizens of New York City.  Through, and because of, the clout of Andrew Cuomo, Governor of the State of New York and the absolute Tsar of the MTA (take that Cuomo’s arch-enemy, comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio) the Second Avenue Subway finally opened for service as promised at the start of the New Year.

Admittedly, this newly completed line is just a small portion of a grand idea. Less than two miles long, It begins at the existing station at 63^rd Street and Lexington Avenue where the new tunnel continues toward the East River before turning north under Second Avenue to reach three new stations at 72nd, 86th and 96th Streets.

Critics point out that this mere hint of a real subway cost $4.8 billion, that the next phase extending the line to 125th Street may cost $6 billion and may not be built for another ten- years. Smart money bets the line will never reach its ultimate southern terminus in lower Manhattan. One wag noted that the cost of subway construction in New York was more than four times the cost in Barcelona and twice the cost of Paris. He compared this to paying $60 for a steak at Peter Lugers while being able to get a steak at a Parisian bistro for less than $30. “How much better could the steak be at Peter Lugers at double the price?”

For the record, I have had the pleasure to partake great steaks at famous New York steak houses like Lugers, The Palm, Sparks and Keene’s. Fate has also allowed me to dine in Paris. By way of comparison, I will make two points: First, if you can’t tell the difference between the steaks in New York and anywhere else, stick with chicken. Second, you get what you pay for: The New York cuts are out-of-this world. As for the Parisian cuisine, that piece of meat you are served has about a 50 / 50 shot of originating from a horse.

But this is a time for celebration. Set aside the negativity, part of the Second Avenue Subway first proposed 80 years ago is finally a reality. This is the hoped for salvation that most New Yorkers had resolved they would never see.

If you ever lived on the East Side in the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties and commuted to work, your only access to the subway system was the grossly over-crowded Lexington Avenue Subway. This became a daily descent into your own personal hell with no alternative except yellow taxis or Uber.

The Lex’s express stop at 86^th Street was a hub of horror. Narrow entrances / exits have to accommodate both those wanting to get in and wanting to get out. Double-decked with local service above and express below, every rush hour train creates a combat zone. The quick and those left behind.

The opening of this new line has finally ended that bondage and suffering. I say to those critical wags; balderdash! As a certified NYC transit geek, long ago deemed with the handle, “Johnny Transit,” I invite you to celebrate the Second Avenue Subway:  Oh come let us explore it.

Bob Christman and I made our opening run on Wednesday, January 19. We boarded a Q-Train at Herald Square and rode it north.  We’d only ridden as far north as 57^th Street when the door at the end of our car opened and a beggar entered imploring us passengers with his tale of woo. After he passed, Bob observed, “New subway; same ole panhandlers.”

We rode to the end of the line at 96^th Street then worked our way back south stopping to explore the other two stops. The run north along the new tube was noticeable for its speed, smoothness and relative quietness.

Along the way we exited at 86 Street for a leisurely lunch of beer and sauerbraten at the Heidelberg Restaurant that Zagat’s describes as, “a remnant of old Yorkville.” This 1938 vintage Bauhaus lived up to our needs. German lager on tap and acceptable sauerbraten; good, but not outstanding, made for a satisfying lunch.

Pleased, we returned to the underground. The sounds of trains entering and leaving the station are muffled by concrete ties that are mounted on noise reducing rubber gaskets allowing us to experience a semblance of quiet at least by New York subway standards.

Each station features a spacious and uncluttered island platform that is well-lit and well ventilated. A lower mezzanine extends the length of the station above the platform featuring large cutouts that offer unobstructed views of the vaulted ceiling directly from the platform. The effect creates a space both open and airy.

Entering and exiting each of these new stations is a joy to behold. Multiple stairs, escalators and elevators connect platform and mezzanine with exits at both the north and south ends of each station. These three stations are set apart by individual art work themes that decorate the mezzanine walls. Second sets of escalators, stairs and elevators take passengers either to an upper mezzanine or directly to the street. The length of those escalators leading directly to the street is similar to those in London revealing how deep down below street level  these stations were tunneled.

Too new for dirt, vermin and graffiti, the stations are well-covered by security cameras and uniformed NYPD officers. So grand, so modern, the Second Avenue Subway is everything a Twenty-First Century transit facility should be.

With all its glitz and glamor, our new subway is an appropriate addition for the silk-stocking Upper East Side that it serves. I salute Cuomo and Co. for finally bringing it in and I salute the designers and builders who created this brilliant addition. Unfortunately, these three stations are also a reminder of how old the rest of the system is and they do not reflect the subway system we love to hate:

New York, New York, It’s a hell of a town.

The people ride around in a hole in the ground.

Some snooze,

some booze,

if you snooze,

they steal your shoes,

as the subways go rolling along.

There is a very good likelihood that I am about to deliberately descend into the rabbit hole where I will be lost in a strange and incomprehensible world. Like a good number of you, my understanding of social media is minimal.  Granted, I am slightly ahead of the Patriot’s Coach, Bill Belichick who recently referred to electronic sites with made up names like “SnapFace” and “InstantChat.”  Though I don’t participate directly in social media, I am aware of Facebook, Skype, Twitter, Snapchat, Linkelin and YouTube.

I have impressions of these platforms. Facebook is where people put their egos to show off who they are, what they do, where they go, what they love and hate and how great their kids are. Snapchat is where kids, teens and young adults can make assholes of themselves. Skype is how to video chat with family and friends around the world for free. Linkelin is where to find a better job and YouTube replays an endless number of videos, mostly of pets doing stupid things.

Now, thanks to President Donald Trump, Twitter is the one that I am trying hardest to understand. Not what it is or what it does, this I believe I get. I see Twitter as a place where an individual can make a brief proclamation making a quick, brief point, the electronic version of shouting out to a crowd using a megaphone. Like using a megaphone, the individual has to stop and take deep breathes to continue. Likewise Twitter’s format forces the author to send separate messages to continue making a point.

I get this but I am just beginning to understand why it appears that Trump is addicted to Twitter but there is a rationale to his supposed madness? There was a piece in The New York Times explaining why the press / media can’t deal with Trump’s tweets. The author made the point that reporters are totally addicted to all forms of social media so as to stay on top of breaking events and not be scooped in this era of instant and changing headlines.

I have discovered that there are just over 60 different social media sites and Twitter is only the seventh most popular. Facebook is number one with well over one billion hits a month. Next is WhatsApp with 850 million, then WeChat (700), Ozone (640) Tumblr (550) and Instagram (400) before Twitter’s 320 million.

That’s just the top seven sites and how many can the average reporter possibly track at any given time? But enter Trump. In a way he simplifies the search for breaking news. Why troll sites like Google+, Viber, Line, Snapchat, Pinterest and Telegram when all one has to be is alert to the next early-morning “bulldog” edition of Trump’s tweets.

Once these messages reach the media’s hand-held devices, it is off to the races. Scribes react immediately and furiously “re-tweeting” his messages to each other and launching new versions, making commentary and issuing challenges to build the story or fact checking to verify or attack the accuracy of Trump’s tweets. It seems obvious this is the press’ / media’s intent, but it is not the consequence. Instead of developing the story, their actions and reactions actually fan the flames of Trump’s rants until they fuel fire storms sucking the oxygen out of other news much of it more important and relevant than his daily rants.

Trump breaks all of their rules of communications, analysis and distribution of information. In the pre-Trump world, policy would be presented by the President in a speech, a written presentation or a document that we once called a “white paper.” The press would react; analyze, debate, critique, challenge approve or disapprove. That’s the way media liked it and liked doing business.

Trump preempts the process through his attacking tweets. These tweets are not a new phenomenon. This has been Donald Trump’s early morning modus operandi for a dog’s age but the press didn’t pay attention until his campaign got legs. Now, media reaction converts sleeping dogs into exploding bombs that carry his message everywhere with priority and importance overshadowing other news regardless of its importance.  Trump didn’t plan this, he fell into it but he’s smart enough to recognize the weapon he now has.

What the scribes and commentators should do is downplay or ignore his rants so that they develop at their own speed or slowly die from a lack of interest or real content. But the press can’t do that. It is completely alien and contrary to their addiction to the need for speed and to stay on top and ahead of breaking news. They can’t resist the scoop so they push it as hard and fast as they can.

Trump recognizes that the press can never get ahead of him because he decides when and where to strike. They can only react to what he sends out. So it works for him as they are always on their back foot and they can’t help themselves from doing it. By the time they get their hands around the subject he’s moved on to a new rant.

Think about it. In this way Trump controls the dialogue and not the press.

How long he can continue is anybody’s guess, but meanwhile, like it or not, it’s brilliant!

The New York Times had the chutzpah to run a feature as their lead story in the January 8, 2017 edition of the Metropolitan Section with an inflammatory headline:

The Mob’s ‘Last Candy Jar’: New York’s Waterfront may not be what it was,but organized crime is still clinging to what remains.

This lengthy piece by Joseph Goldstein reported that “investigators say the mob is still present.”

Really? Just because a nephew of a famous wise guy made $400,000 in a single year because he was never off the clock “even when he was at home sleeping.” So what!

“Three consecutive presidents of Newark longshoremen’s union were convicted of extortion.”  Give me a break.

“Walter M. Arsenault, the executive director of the Waterfront Commission insists the mob remains unchanged since ‘On the Waterfront.’ The only difference is now it’s in color.” Well, to quote Mandy Rice Davies reaction when Lord Astor denied having sex with her: “He would (say that), wouldn’t he?”

George Daggett, counsel for the International Longshoremen’s Association (ILU) and cousin of its president, Harold Daggett, demonstrated the commission’s bias and harassing tactics in a suit he brought on behalf of Pasquale Falcetti Jr., a NJ longshoreman. “Mr. Falcetti,”  (Mr. Daggett) said, “was denied a port registration card by the Waterfront Commission for no other reason, apparently, than ‘who this kid’s father is’ – Pasquale (Uncle Patty) Falcetti, a convicted racketeer and reputed leader in the Genovese family, currently in federal prison.”

Mr. Arsenault countered and noted: “You can’t throw a rock on either side of the waterfront without hitting a brother, son or daughter of a made member.”

Supposedly, “the Gigantes, for instance, have 10 relatives – mostly nephews, in-laws and grandsons – working on the waterfront. “

But, let us leave the last word to George’s cousin Harold. So speaketh the president of the ILU: “There is an old saying. The son or nephew should not carry the sins of the father or an uncle.”

Case closed: shut up and fuhgeddaboudit.

The Noro Stomach Virus is that horribly infectious sickness that usually makes headlines went it strikes a cruise ship’s complement of confined passengers turning the “love boat” into “voyage of the dammed.”

Since mid-November, it has struck and continues to strike people in the Metropolitan area with a vengeance. Appropriately, it has selected the period of time surrounding the 75 Anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor to suddenly and deliberately attack individuals and families with devastating results.

Our ordeal began with a sneak attack on grandson, Matty, during the week of December 11 in the early hours of the day. Poor Matty never saw the virus coming and suffered both torpedo and bomb hits. Laid low by its severity, he was knocked out of action for five days.

Brother, Drew, was next attacked repeatedly by a lesser dose that never took him out but slowed him down to a crawl for over a week.

All of this happened several days before Christmas. As is our custom, Mary Ann, Max and I made our way to Fairfield on Christmas Eve to celebrate and open gifts in the morning. We took the chance and all was well as we enjoyed Chinese food for dinner, another Dec. 24 tradition. We left for New Hampshire and our daughter’s family early Christmas morning to repeat the process sans Chinese food.

The game plan called for the Connecticut Delachs to join us in Marlow on December 29^th but Noro whip sawed Michael on Tuesday while at work in Manhattan. Needless to say, his early commute home to Fairfield, Connecticut was a seemingly endless ordeal. He barely held it together while on the train trading violence for uncontrolled sweats but then paid the awful price for being able to do so once off the train.

And so ended those plans. What was left of the holidays ended the night of the 29^th when our son-in-law, Tom, had his turn arrive without warning. We quickly shelved the idea to stay through New Year’s Day as we decided to “get out of Dodge while the getting out was good.”

Tom heroically extended himself to assist in helping to leave and Beth rewarded him by driving home to Brooklyn as he slept.

New Years was quiet which is not unusual for us allowing me to watch my Giants beat the Redskins and get ready for the Packers in a wild card game the following weekend.

The week got off on a good note, a local R.O.M.E.O. (Retired Old Men Eating Out) lunch on Tuesday and lunch and a show in the city on Wednesday to celebrate Mary Ann’s upcoming birthday. We ate at Gallagher’s Steak House and saw a stirring revival of Irving Berlin’s, “Holiday Inn.”

Thursday, my plan was to meet friends at Penn Station and ride the newly opened Second Avenue Subway. NOT: at 2:30 AM, Noro struck. I was amazed how low I fell so quickly. I was able to overcome the nausea but I felt like I had been knocked so hard that I felt dopey. Just completing thoughts was difficult and I took to my bed except for emergency action. By the middle of the day Max decided to join me so I accepted this new bedmate feeling too weak to tackle this 80 pound horse of a dog. My recovery began Friday morning when I decided to shave.

Blindsided indeed! It didn’t end with me as Beth succumbed on Sunday, Jan. 8. I truly hope that none of you suffer this fate but should you, all I can say is this too shall pass.