John Delach

My neighborhood friends, like me, weren’t very adventurous. This prevented us from doing things that could lead us into serious trouble but it did limit our new experiences. An exception happened during our biking years roughly ten to twelve when we enjoyed a bit of freedom to ride outside our neighborhood. Usually we limited these trips to Hyland and Forest Parks both within reasonable range in fairly safe areas. But one day, a pal related an adventure he made with his older brother when they rode their bikes up to the top of the Kosciuszko Bridge and flew down the bridge and onto the local streets. His excitement was contagious.

The bridge was named after Tadeusz Kosciuszko, a Polish-Lithuanian military engineer and leader who fought for America during the revolution and oversaw construction of fortifications including those at West Point. Back then, we pronounced the general’s name: kos-ke-os-co, but today it is generally pronounced: Kos-Ku-Shoe, and you spit it rather than say it.

The Kosciuszko Bridge was located less than four miles from our homes in Ridgewood. The bridge spanned Newtown Creek connecting Greenpoint, Brooklyn to West Maspeth, Queens. But the difference in those four miles from our home was night and day. Ridgewood was a residential community consisting of multi-family two and three-story houses. Northern Greenpoint and West Maspeth were heavily industrialized at that time. Greenpoint even hosted a working Mobil refinery, gas flare stack and all. A large Phelps Dodge smelter was located in West Maspeth that stretched over a half mile along Newtown Creek. Maspeth was also home to Bohack Square, a large warehouse and distribution point for the Bohack supermarket chain. An annex of the Brooklyn Navy Yard was also located in Maspeth along Newtown Creek where launches, lifeboats, anchors and anchor chains were fabricated for the new ships being built in the main yard. Long Island Railroad yard engines shuttled freight cars to different industries along railroad tracks that radiated in every direction.

Newtown Creek was completely polluted with oil, chemicals, sewage and hazardous waste defying description and the whole area reeked of the pungent odors of heavy, dirty industry.

Our pal continued to re-tell his tale and excitement gradually trumped fear. Five of us decided to accompany him one afternoon as he led us deeper and deeper into this dark and dangerous realm of unfamiliar streets. We dodged dump trucks, cement mixers, box trucks, panel trucks and 40-foot trailers. We didn’t falter and rode next to the creek as the bridge rose above us towering 125-feet above the creek.

The bridge opened in August 1939 and less than one year later, Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia, renamed it after General Kosciuszko. Over 15,000 New Yorkers attended the festivities, mostly Polish residents from their strongholds of Greenpoint and Maspeth. LaGuardia noted in his remarks that Poland and been subjugated by the Nazis and Soviets the previous September, “I am confident that Poland will live again. Any land that breeds such lovers of freedom can never be enslaved. The Polish people may be captive, but the flaming spirit of Polish liberty will never be destroyed.”

We rode alongside the smelter- a scary site indeed. Just when it seemed the bridge would overwhelm us, our leader turned right and we followed peddling hard along a street uphill. This street paralleled the descending bridge and met it at an entrance to a walkway. We rode our bikes up the walkway to the center of the span where we stopped high over Newtown Creek. We could see Ridgewood in the distance. Two landmarks stood out, the rather large sandstone buildings of Grover Cleveland High School and the tall clock towers of St. Aloysius, my neighborhood parish.  The smelter looked just as scary from above as it did from street level.

Fear of an unpleasant encounter with local thugs began to poison the mood reminding us it was time to leave. Re-mounted, we were off increasing speed as we descended. “Don’t brake, don’t brake,” we shouted to each other as we tried hard not to brake. A U-turn at the end of the bridge taking us back on the city street required braking but we quickly regained speed as we rode downhill toward the creek. We were able to negotiate a sweeping left turn at speed and it was wonderful, a true joy. We were flying.

We were hooked on the experience and returned for as long as we biked. Speed increased as we grew more proficient and less fearful. Perhaps it was dumb luck but we never crashed or encountered trouble. We did remain cautious and never rode into Brooklyn and the streets of Greenpoint. That place was alien to us and would have forced us to bike through Williamsburg and Bushwick, both neighborhoods then in transition and not for the better.

Today, all that industry is long gone. Greenpoint, Williamsburg and Bushwick have been gentrified and Newtown Creek is as clean as it ever will be. The 1939 truss bridge wore out and a brand new cable-stayed span replaced it in late April. This is the first of two like spans that will constitute the new Kosciuszko Bridge. Late this summer, the old bridge will be dismantled and hauled away. The second span will rise in its place. When it opens in 2020, it will include a walkway. Unfortunately, I fear today’s safety regulations will probably prohibit flying bikes down the new bridge. But perhaps some boys will be daredevil enough to try their luck as we did so many years ago.

One of these days I will accept that I’m old, out of touch and a victim of this brave new world. Meanwhile, I’ll continue to rant. Today, I have chosen to tackle what has happened to the art and science of photography in the age of selfies, snapchat, etc. But I’ll be damned if we, the last of the breed of amateur photographers, who spent a lifetime dedicated to developing the best photographic skills we could master shall quietly go into the night beaten, devoured and overwhelmed by the tidal wave of cellular, smart phone and tablet produced junk photography without having our say.

Kodachrome

They give us those nice bright colors

They give us the greens of summers

Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day

I got a Nikon camera

I love to take a photograph

So mama don’t take my Kodachrome away

Paul Simon

December of 2013, in the early days of this blog site, I wrote a piece about a photograph taken at a football game in 1962 between the Giants and the Lions. I noted: “The colors are so vivid that the photographer must have used Kodachrome film. A marvelous photograph, the colors…shock the senses, and yet, only a photograph of an ordinary play taken on a sunny afternoon at the big ballpark in The Bronx. Brilliant!”

An observer recently noted: “In 1998, Kodak had 170,000 employees and sold 85% of all photo paper worldwide. Within a few years, their business model disappeared and they went bankrupt.”

Kodachrome was introduced in 1935. It required complex processing and was sold process-paid until 1954 when a legal ruling prohibited this. Subsequent additions like Fujichrome and Kodak’s own, Ektachrome reduced market share but it was the advent of quality digital photography that ended its run. Kodak announced its demise in July of 2010 when only one certified processing facility remained: Dwayne’s Photo in Parsons, Kansas. Ektachrome followed, exiting in 2012 leaving Fujichrome to soldier on alone.

Most semi-serious amateur photographers converted to digital, coming to terms with a loss of quality in favor of the conveniences digital brings. We mothballed our film single lens reflex (SLR) cameras in favor of new Nikon, Canon, Pentax, etc. digital SLRs and continued our quest to imitate great photographers like Ansel Adams, Robert Riger, Arthur Hammond and John Thompson. A friend of mine, Fred Fort, fits this description and noted to me, “Much as I love photography I have come to realize, sadly, that the pleasure I get is from looking at other people’s work and from gear since I’ve hardly ever seen a gadget I didn’t want. I currently own three old 35mm film SLRs that haven’t been used in years, two dust covered 35mm slide projectors, a gadget that prints photos from slides plus an 8mm movie projector. All this in addition to three digital SLR cameras and two digital movie cameras. Pretty ridiculous.”

My own experience is similar to Fred’s although Fred has outdistanced me in the number of SLRs he possesses. But if I include Nikon SLRs that I have purchased for both my daughter and daughter-in-law, the gap narrows.

Digital changed the game but quality remained. The biggest difference; digital allowed for instant review of the selected image offering the photographer the opportunity to re-shoot to his / her content or to fire away a dozen or more shots and sort out the best of the batch at one’s leisure. Photography remained fun and rewarding.

Since I retired in 2000, I have traveled with my wife and friends, here and abroad, enjoyed annual baseball trips and separate football trips following my Football Giants across America. Last fall, I finally made it with my son and his boys to Lambeau Field in Green Bay.

I was a driven photographer, camera ready-anticipating lens changes. Digital let me crop shots, expand them and change the subjects by shifting the vision. Digital gave me abilities once limited to a photo lab – life was good.

Enter the cellular phone and the narcissistic selfie. How do you compete with a sea of junk photography? You don’t. In 2008, we sailed through the Panama Canal allowing me a brilliant opportunity to enjoy photographing that experience. Today, I’d leave my camera at home. Selfie-sticks and a mob holding up smart phones and tablets overwhelm photo opportunities.

A photo album, excuse me, just what is a photo album? Exactly, and so it goes. It’s in the cloud or on the internet. The idea of amateur photography being an art is dead and buried. So, if you are like most of us, you gave up, removed the batteries from your SLRs and stored them in closets.

All seems lost but I did read that Kodak Alaris, a U.K. based company that acquired Kodak’s film division plans to resurrect Ektachrome. (Alas, Kodachrome appears lost to the ages. The complex processing technique precludes its resurrection.)

I’m not holding my breath but…but… I have my Nikon N8008S sitting in a box and I’d sure like to fire it up one more time.

This is about Queens, the fourth borough in terms of prestige. Finishing next to last stinks but being the laughing stock is reserved for last place and, at least, Queens’s residents don’t have to endure the abuse and ridicule directed at the residents of Staten Island.

Staten Island will always be the least respected, least understood or cared about borough in New York City. The sophisticated, pretty, moneyed, self-absorbed young elites who populate and socialize the Manhattan night-scene scorn all the outer boroughs and Jersey traffickers. They divisively dismiss them as rabble: “The Bridge &Tunnel (B&T) crowd.” Staten Islanders don’t even qualify to be so distained even though they’ve had their bridge since 1965; pity!

Queens is next to last in prestige on the NYC social food-chain and will also always remain so. It has none of the grit, character, drama or clout of Brooklyn or The Bronx. In fact if not for its two airports, (JFK and LGA,) or the fact that you must drive through Queens or ride the LIRR to reach the promised land of super-wealthy East-End Long Island, few would care if Queens slipped back into the sea.

(The thought occurs: If technology had advanced  just a bit further along in 1925 when Fitzgerald published, “The Great Gatsby,” poor Jay would have avoided his downfall by helicoptering over the hellacious Flushing Meadows ash dumpsite; pity!)

We have the Mets, two world’s fairs – although the 1964-65 Fair was cheapened by the line in, “Men in Black:” Why else did you think we put a world’s fair in Queens?

Mary Ann and I met at the fair on June 6, 1964 and we returned there on out first date. I actually took her to the top of the towers where the alien space ship was cleverly hidden in the movie…who knew?

We also had Jimmy Breslin. His recent demise has awakened the joy we natives treasure for the fourth borough. One that stood out for me came from a letter to the editor about the late, Ed Lowe, a beloved columnist at Newsday. Early in Ed’s career, he received a congratulartory phone call from Breslin.

Bill Mason described the event in his letter: “Ed got up from his desk and walked very slowly over to mine. His eyes were wide open and his mouth was pretty much the same way. He seemed to be in a trance.

‘That was Jimmy Breslin,’ Lowe said. ‘Jimmy Breslin telephoned me.’

“Apparently, Breslin had read an article by Lowe and called him out of the blue. Lowe said Breslin told him, ‘Kid, you just remember to stay out of Queens. That’s my territory.”

Breslin got Queens and his pen gave life to minor characters, small-time hustlers, grifters and wannabees who populated the perpetually darkened streets under the elevated lines along Jamaica Avenue, Roosevelt Avenue, 31^st Street and Liberty Avenue. He understood Glendale, Sunnyside, Cypress Hills, Corona, Maspeth, Flushing and South Ozone Park.

Breslin gave us Fat Thomas, Klein the lawyer, Shelly, the bail bondsman, Marvin, the torch and Un Occhio, the mob boss.

He got The Pastrami King and the Queens Boulevard Courthouse scene. He got ex-borough president, Donald Manes, who ran unopposed across party lines multiple times before committing suicide following a municipal scandal that Breslin first broke. He christened Queens’ D/A, Brown, “Duck-down Brown,” for hiding behind his desk when then a judge during a shoot-out in his court room. Breslin said this about the blood feud between union boss, Mike Quill and mayor John Lindsay: “John Lindsay looks at Quill and sees the past and Mike Quill looks at Lindsay and sees the Church of England.”

Breslin understood the mentality of holding functions in halls. Church halls, VFW halls, Knights of Columbus, Masons and American Legion halls. If it were a social event, we called it a racket. Local married couples dressed in their best, took tables for ten or twelve, brought their own bottle of Seagram’s or Canadian Club for their tables and bought set-ups from the sponsor to cover the nut.

He covered endless events held in halls, political and social, triumphs and tragedy, weddings, funerals celebrations and protests. If you knew Queens, you knew halls; folding chairs and portable tables that the organizing committee set-up and dismantled.

Jimmy Breslin got it. He ended his run at Newsday with this sign off in his final column:

“Thanks for the use of the hall.”

Three jets revolutionized air travel and unlocked the wonders of flight for the average person.  They introduced casual travel and brought down the curtain on the formal, expensive and restrictive practices the piston era and early jet commercial aviation. Prior to these jets entering service in the mid-1960s, regular, reliable and affordable flights were only available in medium and large-size cities. Flight was such a rarity to ordinary people that it was considered an event. Friends and family members accompanied the traveler(s) to witness this odd, mysterious and dangerous event.

Even growing up in New York City, I remember that time. When I was about six or seven, I joined my mother and her friends for a trip to LaGuardia Airport to see off one of her best friend’s sister on a flight to Los Angeles. An old black and white photo shows our group standing in front of the old main terminal. Her father and mother stand there proudly. So too do her sisters’ husbands and their offspring. All of the men wear sport jackets, ties and hats and the women; Sunday church dresses. I have on what must have been an Easter outfit, sports jacket and even a fedora.

I first flew in 1957 on an Eastern Air Lines DC-6 to Miami courtesy of my father who arranged a visit to see his second family. John, Sr. was then a major in the USAF, assigned to Homestead Air Force base home of B-47 bombers as part of the Strategic Air Command, (SAC) as a navigator / bombardier; the person who actually would drop the bomb.

An entourage drove me to, Idewild, more formally, New York International Airport, (today, John F. Kennedy) to see me off.

Back then, Idewild was half-cooked. Permanent terminals didn’t exist and the airlines were forced to use a collection of Quonset Huts, Butler Shacks and a maze of plywood structures that the Port Authority had thrown together. It was bad. My one disconcerting memory of that send-off was observing my mother going over to a kiosk to buy flight life insurance on me!

Think about it: Your own mother goes to the airport casino and puts her money down that, if you lose, she wins. Yeah, that’s the bottom line: If you lose, she wins; brilliant and then I boarded the airplane…

Sure, sure, I know; in 1957, that was the done thing. Flight was mysterious and potentially dangerous. People were uncomfortable at best so it was the accepted and almost universal thing to do. Few had real life insurance back then so the accepted wisdom was to make that bet just in case. Believe me though, at 13, it didn’t sit well with me at all.

The domestic age of the jet began when American Airlines introduced the Boeing 707 for domestic service between New York City and Los Angeles in January of 1959. But those first four-engine beasts, the 707, Douglas’ DC-8 and the Convair-440 required long runways for take-offs and landings limiting service to routes between major cities.

That all changed on February 1, 1964 when Eastern Airlines inaugurated “Whisper jet” service between  Miami and Philadelphia with the first commercial flight of Boeing’s 727.  This radical looking tri-engine jet and Douglas’ twin-engine DC-9 that Delta introduced on December 8, 1965 began to open the skies to new domestic travelers. Both jets were designed for frequent and short flights to airports with shorter runways. The final entry, Boeing’s 737, joined these two in February of 1968.

When de-regulation followed, a revolution began that continues to this day as airlines try to cope and get it right. Along the way, well-known giants of aviation failed: Pan Am, TWA and Eastern being the biggest losers. Regional carriers disappeared or were gobbled up: Braniff, Southern, Western, National and Piedmont to name a few. Finally, surviving majors merged to stay alive: American and US Air, United and Continental and Northwest and Delta. The new kids on the block, particularly Southwest and JetBlue also soldier on.

The 727 had the shortest production lifespan of the trio, 1962 to 1984. During that time frame, 1,832 were produced. Today, only UPS still operates a domestic fleet of 727s in cargo service. Nine hundred seventy six DC-9s were produced from 1965 to 1982. Kick in its near-siblings, (MD-80) adds another 1,463; a grand total of 2,439 produced over 41 years ending in 2006. American, Delta and several other carriers continue to fly these slender birds. The winner became the 737. To date 9,365 of these jets have been placed into service and Boeing now produces the 737-800 and 737-900ER.

In my time, I flew extensively across the United States mostly on these three jets. That era favored the business passenger like never before with a wide choice of alternative flights, frequent upgrades, mileage credits and flexibility to change flights or airlines at any time. In return, we paid a premium but, from a service perspective, this was a golden age for business travel.

That age came to a sudden, dreadful and permanent end in the aftermath of the disaster of September 11, 2001. Commercial aviation was almost shattered and barely survived. Airlines re-invented themselves to reflect a new world-order. They commoditized operations, forgot why they fly and lost their soul.

Part 1: It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn

Most often when we bolt upright in the middle of the night a horrible thought has invaded an otherwise restful sleep cycle. The cause is part mental, part emotional, a psychological imperative that usually includes a physical element. It is the night-cycle manifestation of a festering emotional, personal, economic, health, work, or family problem. An erupting volcano. Something we thought we were managing and believed we had under control when we drifted off to sleep. Yet it intensified and finally metastasized into a fully-formed crisis of immense and unsolvable proportions. Sleep is ended, welcome to panic city, like it or not.

The so-called “shit” just hit the fan! First; we take inventory. Is the bed wet? Did I have night sweats? Did anything worse happen? All the while, try not to disturb your mate. Breathe, breathe, deep, deep; calm the heart. Sit up: “Where’s the dog, don’t trip over the dog.” Okay, quietly, safely walk to the bathroom. Close the door, put on the light, sit down, breathe…breathe…deep breaths, calm down, relax, calm down…

All the time, an internal alarm keeps repeating; “Oh my God, Oh my God; what have I done? How did this happen? What can I do, and on and on and on…

Slowly, catch our breath, calm down…grasp the actual problem, begin to understand; the early stages of panic control.

The thing about these episodes is that they really do happen in the night and recur time after time. Nobody is immune but I do believe as we work our way through the actual damage assessment and gain control, we realize it’s not as bad as our panic imagined and we can take comfort that it is always darkest before the dawn.

Part 2: Hooray for Hollywood

I wonder what erupting volcano causes the “big brains” to panic in the night. Those world leaders who hold the fate of civilization in their hands; what brings on their “oh shit” moments?

I know if it were me, North Korea and their Looney Tune leader, Kim Jong-On, would be my recurrent nightmare and my principal source of panic attacks. If I were unlucky enough to be president, I would be physically ill trying to figure out how I could make a deal with China to take him out, rub him out, make him go bye bye, cease to exist, make him disappear, not come around anymore or swim with the fishes. Jong-On is the most dangerous man on the planet and only the Chinese can remove him without the threat of Armageddon.

Trump has a big brain working for him who should be devoted to making this deal come about. Rex Tillerson, now our secretary of state, ran the biggest non-government mother f***** on the planet; Exxon-Mobil. He has both the big brain, horse trading experience and the chutzpah needed to pull it off.

But, at what price? The Chinese will not go easy into the night and sign off to do this on the cheap.

They want a serious payback in return. Tillerson must make the Chinese an offer they cannot refuse. It won’t be easy. Rex shouldn’t be surprised if they ask for us to relinquish Boeing or Lockheed in return; something that we simply cannot afford to do. Negotiations will be tricky, very tricky. Tillerson will need to have hidden cards waiting to play, but not playable until darkness sets in and the impasse becomes overpowering. He will need an overnight time-out. An aide to the Secretary makes the motion: “Ladies and gentleman, it is late and this has been a difficult day. We’re all tired, exasperated; please, let’s call it a day. I propose we re-convene tomorrow to see this through.”

The majority so moves.

The next day, negotiators return exhausted, still exasperated and frustrated; tired of the same old arguments and positions. They just want it to end. Timing will be perfect for the Secretary of State to play his hand. This is how I expect the inde documentary later filmed at low-budget studio in Astoria, Queens will capture this break-through agreement:

(Scene: A modern, wood-paneled conference room overlooking Beijing. An American contingent sits on one side of the table facing off against a Chinese contingent. The room is quiet. Secretary of State, Rex Tillerson speaks to those assembled:)

This has been a long and difficult road for all of us. I too am running on empty so I realize just how frustrated you are. I keep saying to myself, “Ole Rex, there’s got to be something special we can do for our Chinese friends to repay them for this difficult task.”

Goodness knows I’ve thought and thought about this and you know what? Maybe, just maybe we have something to give you that you’d love to have, something that will put you on the map as a world player and, at the same time, light up the lives and bring joy to all of your people.

Please understand this will not be easy for us. Mercy no, many Americans will be saddened and depressed over our loss but, if it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be a fair trade.

I asked myself, what is the one thing you desperately need? What are the Chinese people desperate to call their own? And the answer is, of course, a first-rate motion picture industry. China is the world’s biggest box office and you deserve a top-notch film industry of your own.

And so, my friends, we are prepared to offer you Hollywood! That’s right, Hollywood! All of it, I’m talking about the studios, theme parks, actors, directors, producers, movie makers, key grips, best boys, their homes, their friends and families; the whole lock, stock and barrel. You have shipped entire steel plants from America to China, whole automobile assembly lines; this will be simple. You can create a  new Hollywood. If you build it, they will come. Bel Aires, Beverly Hills, Malibu, why even the Hollywood sign in your own image and likeness.

I know this will work. Let’s face facts, I am not loved by the people of Hollywood and neither is the president. They hate us and will be thrilled to move to New Hollywood. They will feel empowered and emboldened to escape our clumsy regime.

By golly, why it’s a win-win.

(Sounds of approval fill the screen as heroic music intensifies. The screen fades to black and five seconds later, the following statement appears on the black screen:)

Dateline: DEN NORSKE NOBELKOMITE. Oslo, Norway: September 30, 2017 –The Norwegian Nobel Committee has decided to award the Nobel Peace Prize for 2017 to the President of the People’s Republic of China, Hu Jintao for his monumental effort that successfully returned the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea into the family of nations.

(The music stops. Ten seconds later we hear the sound of a telephone ring and Tillerson’s voice:)

Good morning Mr. President.

Good morning Rex. You know that prize rightfully belongs to you.

Mr. President, It’s good it went to ole Hu. Heck, I’m just a lit’le old Texas boy who doesn’t need some kind of a prize.

Well, thank you Rex.

Mr. President, just doing my job but you’re welcome.

I have a stock answer to anyone who asks: “What would you do if you won an obscene amount of cash in the Powerball or Mega Millions lotteries?”

I reply, “Don’t ask me what I would do, ask me what I would never do again.”

My answer: “I would never fly commercial again!”

Our flight on March 11 to Las Vegas on Jet Blue Airlines was scheduled for a 4:55 PM departure from JFK with an arrival at 7:52 PM Pacific Standard Time, (10:52 PM EST.) Before we even left our home for a 2 PM pick-up, Jet Blue informed us that departure had been delayed until 6:23. Naturally, we’d already booked our car service so off to JFK we went. Making the best of it, we sat down for an early dinner during which a new Jet Blue alert pushed departure to 6:48. That subsequently became 6:58 and finally 7:30.

There is much to observe in an airline terminal when you have seemingly endless time on your hands. To begin with, security could have been a nightmare. It was jammed with passengers snaking their way through multiple switchbacks that led to inspection stations. Fortunately, we have TSA pre-check so we breezed through. But 95% of the passengers checking in that day did not. Mary Ann pointed out, “Of course they don’t. Look at them; they’re college kids on spring break.”

Being a punctual person, it amazed me how casual late arriving passengers can be. The attendants managing the gate adjacent to our waiting area almost begged passengers by name that “last call” had been announced and that they had to board now. Still, about five minutes later, all four of these passengers chose to make their seemingly relaxed appearance, presented their boarding passes and boarded as if this was the natural way to act. Had that been me, I’d be in the heart center or the psyche ward!

As the afternoon began to darken into evening, a man quietly joined me and sat down in a remote corner off to the side. I didn’t notice him until he placed paper towels on the rug, removed his shoes and placed his stocking feet on the tissues. He quietly recited his evening prayers without any drama or fuss. I afforded him his privacy and he cleaned up and left when he finished.

A short while later, a woman sat down in the boarding area. She was totally absorbed in a loud conversation via her mobile phone until at one point she noticed her surroundings.  She abruptly ended the call and asked an attendant what time her flight would leave from that gate. Looking perplexed, he answered, “It has already departed from a different gate.”

Faced with the realization that she had talked her way into missing her flight, her only response was: “When is the next flight?”

Our flight, (would you believe #711,) left shortly after 7:30 and finally arrived in Vegas about 10:15 PST, (1:15 EST.) We collected our three bags; rode the bus to McCarran Airport’s consolidated car rental facility, selected an auto and made it to Hilton’s Elara Hotel by 11:30 PST.

Nearly dead on our feet, we arrived at the hotel only to enter a different world filled with a multitude of young, nubile women on their way out to participate in Vegas’ Saturday night scenes. Heavy make-up and eye liner set the tone as did their platforms and stilettos. They wore competing, revealing and incredibly tight miniscule dresses or micro skirts that screamed, “Look at me.” They quickly yet delicately crammed their bodies into waiting stretch- limos and SUVs that whisked them away into the night. Welcome to Vegas; what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Our stay was considerably less lively, a stay that included two visits to Lake Mead for a cruise a visit to Hoover Dam and a hike along the old rail trail that included walking through five tunnels..

As an aside, on Thursday, I received a notice from American Airlines that a non-stop flight I had reserved for June 10 from Tucson, AZ to JFK had been cancelled and I was being re-routed via Phoenix. My five-hour flight would now take eight hours!

I thought about my new dilemma with American when we returned to McCarran for our flight home. No need to guess, our New York flight was a repeat of 711. Jet Blue #748’s take-off time of 2:10 PM was delayed in increments until 3:35.

I used part of Jet Blue’s problem to work on my American problem and managed to arrange better flights that hopefully will shorten that trip to six hours. I noted to Mary Ann: “You have to admit that things are really screwed up when you spend one airline’s snafu taking care of another airline’s snafu.”

Our fellow passengers were understandably subdued coming off Vegas stays.

As we began to board at 3:25, we received a new electronic notice delaying it until 4:10. This notice was too late to stop the process. Since the staff had commenced boarding, the crew was officially on–the-clock and Jet Blue had no choice but to complete the boarding, clear the gate and park in a penalty box until Air Traffic Control (ATC) released us. The pilot was as frustrated as we passengers and actually announced over the PA: “I’m not kidding, if any of you know someone who is an ATC, call them and see if they can get us out of this mess.”

Flight 748 finally reached JFK at 11:55 PM EDST. As passengers stood and prepared to exit the airplane, the captain had one more surprise: “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears there is a problem with the Jetway. They can’t get it to make contact with the airplane and a repair crew is on its way.”

Twenty-minutes later the hatch finally opened freeing us to go to baggage claim to find our luggage. Thankfully, our driver was waiting but we didn’t reach home until about 1:15.

No mas, por favor, no mas.

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?