John Delach

Earlier this month, Mary Ann and I hosted a family vacation for all eleven of the members of our three families at Hilton’s resort in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Being a typical beach vacation, activities included sunning, swimming, exercise, eating, drinking, reading and sleeping; repeated daily. Borrowing a term from my friend, Jim Hagelow, “We broke even. By the end of the week everyone was still speaking to each other.”

The five Connecticut Delaches and the four Brooklyn Briggs drove the 550 to 600 miles each way whereas we two seniors flew on American Airlines. Well, not exactly American Airlines as our outbound flights was on a Canadair CL-65 regional jet  belonging to American Eagle and operated by Air Wisconsin still with US Air markings. It left almost on time, it actually arrived early and our checked luggage appeared with a minimal wait.

We checked into all three rooms early, stocked them with supplies and ordered pizza to be on hand when our families arrived.

Myrtle Beach was under a stationary heat dome that brought hot, humid air to most of the East Coast from Florida north to New York. This included daily afternoon and/or evening thunderstorms. By Friday morning I was concerned enough these storms could disrupt our north bound flight scheduled to depart at 3 PM that I mentioned this to Mary Ann during our walk along the beach that morning. “I did some checking when I woke up today and we could change plans and leave around nine or ten tomorrow morning if we were willing to pay the extra charge and make a stop in Cleveland or Philadelphia. Also we’d arrive at about 2:30 instead of 5 PM.

Mary Ann liked the idea and I changed our flights even though it cost an additional $362 for the two of us. We changed the car pickup service meeting us at LaGuardia (LGA) and arranged for a taxi to take us from the hotel to the airport at 7:30 the next morning. We said goodbye to our families after dinner on Friday night and they hit the road between 5AM and 6 AM.

We arrived at the airport at about 7:45 to discover that our 9:34 flight to Philadelphia had been pushed back to 10:10. That was okay though as we still had plenty of time to make the Philadelphia to (LGA) flight scheduled to leave at 1:40 PM. However when departure time was pushed back again to 10:40, I decided I’d better find an American representative to see what options we had. I found a friendly rep named Sally who began to work with us. At first Sally thought it was a minor problem and we’d still have time to make the connection, but just in case, also re-booked us on our original non-stop afternoon flight. When the time slipped for a third time we made the switch as she couldn’t find open seats on another connecting flight to New York.

It was now only about 9 AM giving us five hours to kill and we did beginning with watching our fellow passengers scramble when the delayed flight was cancelled about 10 minutes after we made our switch. We also watched a parade of Spirit and Delta bound LGA flights load and leave while we sat around and waited. After lunch the weather began to change and cloud formations developed and moved in. I watched one outbound jet make a wide sweeping turn just after takeoff to avoid a formation closing in on the airport’s perimeter. Our plane arrived just before the heavens opened to a cacophony of wind, lightning and thunder.

My mood began to darken until I saw identical American Eagle regional jet push back, head to end of the runway and take off in the storm. Better yet, the storm subsided by the time we boarded allowing for an early departure. As we entered the jet way, Sally said, “It’s about time you two left my airport.” I rejoined over my shoulder, “I’ve been thrown out of better airports than this one.”

The flight was uneventful until we reached the New York area but our descent into LGA included both planned and unplanned descents with several disconcerting drops. We didn’t relax until the wheels were on the ground.

Our earth bound road trip families made it home just about an hour after we did and so it goes.

Glory be; I could not believe my eyes as I opened the Wednesday, July 6^th edition of Newsday! But there it was in black & white, the LIRR had begun to use electronic tickets that very week on the Port Washington branch (my line) and Governor Andrew Cuomo had guaranteed that it would be available on all branches and on Metro North’s systems by the end of the summer.

I quickly went to the app, MTAetix, downloaded it to my IPhone, registered and purchased a round trip senior off peak ticket for my planned lunch planned for the following Thursday with Mike Scott and my son at Foley’s.

To explain the momentous occasion of this event please indulge me in a brief history of the LIRR’s ticketing policies. When I first began commuting between Port Washington and New York’s Pennsylvania Station in 1977 passengers had to hand their tickets to the crew member assigned to that car who hand punched a hole in the ticket’s appropriate place to signify it had been seen. Monthly tickets, then the same size as a dollar bill actually had 64 spaces, 32 on each side that the conductor punched every trip. These tickets also identified the commuter by sex as the “M’ or “F” box was also punched at the start of each month. (This would frustrate teenage daughters who used their father’s tickets for weekend jaunts to the city.)

You can imagine how ragged these tickets became near the end of the month. Over time, the process was simplified to eight boxes. Even though you still had to show it twice a day every day, the conductor only punched it once a week on days that were changed randomly. Identification by sex also disappeared after years of protests.

July 7^th was to be the dawn of a new era for me. I practiced at home how to use the app and press the right buttons to display my new ticket but I didn’t activate it as I correctly sensed it had a time element. Being anal, I also carried my old paper ten-trip ticket with one ride remaining just in case. When the conductor entered the car soon after we pulled out of Port Washington, I opened the app, activated the ticket and found the bar code for scanning. As she approached me, punch in hand, I said, “Today I am attempting to enter the electronic age” as I showed my phone to her.

“Oh,” she said, “I can’t scan that. Can you show me the ticket and not the bar code?”

I did and she said thanks. As she went to leave, I asked, “Why can’t you scan it.”

“No scanner.” She replied. “They haven’t given most of us those yet. But I know what to look for and the ticket will expire in a couple of hours.”

The same thing happened on my return ride later that afternoon. So much for technology but I did have fun showing my electronic ticket to three cute Manhasset bound college coeds. They were impressed and one actually said to me, “Wow, you are really tech savvy.”

Needless to say I was relieved that she didn’t complete that sentence with…”for an old fart.” or if she was a bit kinder…”for someone your age.”

Being a long time Linda Ronstadt fan, I added her Dedicated to the One I Love CD to my collection soon after it was released in 1996. Also known by her fans as, “The Lullaby Album,” the eleven songs on the CD were all reinterpreted by Ms Ronstadt into children’s lullabies.

I readily admit that I was moved as I listened to her sing songs like “Be My Baby,” “Devoted to You,” “Angel Baby,” and even Brian May’s classic punk rock kick-ass hit, “We Will Rock You.”  She transformed this attack rant into a quiet soothing melody going so far to replace the drum movements with the sound of a beating human heart. The thought occurred to me; what a delightful gift to give to a woman expecting her first baby?

I’m not certain who the first woman was to whom I presented this gift but it was so well received that over the years I must have performed this right of passage about two dozen times for family members, women in business, friends, neighbors and, in a few instances, as the result of a serendipitous encounter. My plan was to present my gift as soon as I could after a woman publicly revealed she was pregnant for the first time. I never tired of presenting Linda Ronstadt’s CD because of the positive and thankful feedback I received from these women who shared their joy of playing Ms Ronstadt’s songs both before and after the birth of their first child. It lit me up like a Christmas tree.

The only semi-off-response I ever received came from a neighbor. I had left the CD on their doorstep in an envelope with an appropriate note. When next the young woman saw me, she took me aside, thanked me; then added: “You know my husband and I don’t like her politics but I’ll keep it anyway as you did a nice thing.”

My source of supply for several years was the mega-Virgin record store in Times Square my source for restocking Ms Ronstadt’s CD from their inventory. One time, I found they were out of stock so I ordered three copies which arrived in short order. When the Virgin store closed, I ordered new batches on line through Amazon. These CDs came from Rhino Flashback Records who began releasing this CD as a vintage recording in 2009. (You know you are old when they consider your favorite artist to be “vintage”.)

Alas, the electronic music revolution overtook my gift-giving concept leaving me with three un-opened copies with no place to go. Expecting mothers didn’t know from CDs any longer.

Oh well, it was a joy while it lasted especially due to one particular memory thanks to my old friend, Geoff Jones. While residing in Pleasantville, NY in the late 1990s, Geoff found himself shopping at Home Depot one Saturday afternoon.

“I was wearing a Marsh & McLennan baseball cap that you had given to me. A fellow shopper, a bit older than me, stopped to ask if I worked at Marsh?

‘No, no, I don’t, this hat was given to me by a friend of mine who works there.’

‘Well,’ he replied, ‘My daughter, Jana, worked there for many years before she had her daughter. When Jana announced it to her friends, her boss found out and you know what he did? He left the office and went to a record store to buy her some album of lullabies, came back and gave it to her. I have never heard of a boss doing something like that.’

‘Was his name John Delach?’

‘Yes, but how do you know that?’

He’s the guy who gave me the hat.”

(I will be traveling next week and I will resume my blog on Wednesday July 20.)

Our daughter, Beth, takes pleasure in assigning nick-names and years ago deemed me to be Juanito and Mary Ann; Minnie. In 2004, when we took delivery of a Jeep Liberty, I asked my wife if she’d like a vanity plate. “Of course I would and I know what I want it to say: MADMINNIE.” (MAD for her initials and MINNIE for her nick-name.) However New York’s Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) limits vanity plates to eight characters with no spaces so Mary Ann instead accepted the tag, MADMINNI.

In 2013, we transferred MADMINNI to a new Liberty on a 39 month lease and when the spring of 2016 rolled around, we invited our family to join a rather intricate dance where we would buy the leased 2013 Liberty so we could give it to the Brooklyn family who, in turn, would give their 2004 Liberty to Drew, our oldest grandson, who at 16, would gain a junior driver’s license. Mary Ann would lease a new Jeep Renegade that she christened, “Stubby.”

First we had to buy our current Liberty from the leasing company and obtain a title from NYS clear of liens.  Once the new title arrived by mail, I made my visit to the DMV armed with enough reading matter to make it through the 50 minutes I had to wait before I was able to leave after successfully registering the Jeep and paying the sales tax for the purchase.

Meanwhile, I discovered when we leased the new Renegade in Mary Ann’s name that she could not use MADMINNI for its plates because, as the money guy at the dealer explained: “Those plates are in your name and the DMV doesn’t recognize marriages.”

He instructed me to return to DMV, surrender the plates for storage then contact their office in Albany to ask what material I had to submit to transfer the plates to Mary Ann; I kid you not, back to DMV and, after another 45 minutes wait, they took the plates and issued us a receipt. A curious event transpired while Mary Ann and I waited our turn. A woman sitting next to us on the bench who, overhearing our conversation, said “Do you know that you can now make a reservation on line for a specific appointment?”

We looked at her in surprise. She had a reservation and was soon called but before she left, she gave Mary Ann the DMV’s internet address.

Calling Albany wasn’t too awful, a couple of holds then a woman who instructed me how to transfer the plates; send them a letter, copies of the current registration, my driver’s license, the surrender receipt and a check for $30 to cover the transfer.

Next Tom and Beth brought their 2004 Liberty to Port Washington. I gave Tom the title and registration for 2013 Liberty. He put his existing plates on it while I put a spare rogue NYS plate on the 2004 Jeep for Michael to use when he drove it home to Connecticut.

Early the following week, Michael brought the 2004 Liberty to his ecstatic 16-year-old son.

When the new registration for the Renegade arrived, Mary Ann made a reservation at DMV for 1 PM for the following Wednesday. She downloaded the barcode on her IPhone and we printed it as a backup. We arrived at the DMV at 12:35 PM and, of course, couldn’t find the code on the phone so we used the printed version. A clerk, whose job was to check us in, saw the code, asked for the piece of paper and scanned it. Mary Ann asked as he did this, “How long do you think the wait will be?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes.”

He handed us a ticket with our number. We drew W027. As we started to step into the usually crowded waiting room, a mechanical voice announced: “W027; Window Number 15.”

We didn’t even sit down! Let me state that again, “We didn’t even sit down.”

Game, set and match!

Curley Johnson passed away on June 12, 2016 at his home in Granbury, Texas. He was 80. This Lone Star state native is best known as being the punter on the world champion Jets who upset the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III despite being 18-point underdogs.

Curley was born in Anna, TX, attended Woodrow Wilson high school and the University of Houston before being taken by the Pittsburgh Steelers as the 77^th selection in the 1957 NFL draft. In addition to punting, he was also an offensive end and a kick returner but he never caught on with the Steelers or any other NFL team.

Curley’s delayed pro football career began three years later when he signed on with the 1960 Dallas Texans of the newly formed American Football League. He was traded to New York the following year playing for Harry Wismer’s rag-tag Titans. Poorly financed, ridiculously mismanaged, Wismer didn’t have much to compete with the rival New York Football Giants who played before sell-out crowds across the river in Yankee Stadium. The Titans enjoyed far less fan participation at their dilapidated quarters in the Polo Grounds. Wismer fantasized the Titans attendance once noting a game day crowd that numbered 10,000 fans. This prompted New York Daily News scribe, Dick Young to note: “Ten Thousand, huh? If there were 10,000 fans at the game yesterday, 5,000 were disguised as empty seats.”

By the 1962 season the Titans were on verge of collapse unable to make payrolls, pay travel expenses or even laundry bills. The AFL stepped in to save the team and their league and the following year, entertainment impresario, David “Sonny” Werblin led a well financed syndicate who purchased the wreck re-naming them the New York Jets.

Only four Titans survived long enough to be part of that 1968 team; end, Don Maynard, line backer, Larry Graham, running back, Bill Mathis and Curley Johnson. Along the way, Curley established himself as a big-time punter still considered today the best the Jets ever had.

Still, time marches on and the summer after the championship run, the Jets cut Curley Johnson in favor of a new punter, Steve O’Neal.

Meanwhile, the now down-on-their-luck Giants had fired their long-time coach Allie Sherman prior to the start of the 1969 season. Their new coach, Alex Webster, some how managed a 3 and 3 record despite persistent problems with the kicking game. The owner and defacto general manager, Wellington Mara, offered the Giants job to Curley.

Curley début came on Sunday, November 2 against the Eagles at Yankee Stadium. Here is how I described what next happened in my 2009 book, 17 Lost Seasons:

“Mara signed Johnson. This may have seemed to Curley like a good way to have a few more paydays, but the old punter didn’t appreciate that he wasn’t playing for the Jets any longer and those ragged lineman ‘protecting’ him were not his old front line. On his very first punt attempt, he received the snap a bit off line, so patiently he corrected his line and proceeded to move his leg to kick the ball. Meanwhile a sea of green came roaring over, around and through his blockers allowing the Eagles Ike Kelly to block the punt.

“Curley either didn’t learn or couldn’t learn because the next time he tried to punt, the Eagles buried him into the grass before he could even get his foot on the ball.”

Final score, Eagles 23 – Giants 20.

RIP John Curley Johnson

In November of 2014, I published a piece; TSA Giveth and TSA Taketh Away, about my introduction to TSA PreCheck.  Frequent travelers encouraged me to sign on. Inertia, laziness, etc. prevailed so instead I chose to rely on the TSA’s serendipitious  issuance of pre check approved boarding passes that seemingly Mary Ann and I almost always received whenever we flew.

In April, when I printed my pass for the flight to Greensboro, NC for my vintge steam engine train trip, like magic my luck worked again, this time like a charm. Armed with my pre check designated boarding pass, I joined that exclusive line at LaGuardia only to realize that the screening device was a standard X-ray machine and not one of the image body scanners. All I carried was a gym bag, enough for this short trip. I explained to a young TSA Agent that my artificial hip would light up the X-ray machine like a slot machine in Vegas.

He snapped to attention, ordered me to put my bag through the X-ray, called for his replacement and proceeded to navigate me across the screening area to the only image scanner. We cut a line of two dozen people waiting for their turn and he personally escorted me up to the machine and waited while another agent manning the machine checked my suspenders. That accomplished, he returned me to the conveyor belt containing my gym bag. To say the least, I was impressed as to how powerful pre check boarding passes can be.

Following that experience, I was disappointed on I printing out my return boarding pass at the hotel in Greensboro that the TSA had failed to assign me the same designation for my return flight to LaGuardia. Fortunately, I had a morning flight out of that sleepy, semi-bypassed airport making me TSA’s only customer when I reached security so all went as well as I could hope.

My experience at LaGuardia and of not being selected in Greensboro gave me pause for thought about the value of TSA PreCheck. My conversion was heightened by recent TV reports hyping stories of horror at security check-ins due to new rules and shortages of TSA agents. The message was clear especially as I had booked three additional trips for 2016, Myrtle Beach in July, Green Bay in October and Fort Myers in December.

TSA’s on line site gave Long Islanders four choices where we could apply for pre check; Terminal C at LaGuardia, Terminal 4 at JFK, 781 Broadway in Brooklyn or Quality Plaza, 958, S Broadway, Hicksville, NY.

I chose Hicksville and entered the address into my GPS for a dry run. I saw the sign for “Quality Plaza” as the GPS announced that I reached my destination. A lousy strip mall, I thought to myself as I parked and doubtfully surveyed the scene: A workout center, a store for beading artists, a billiard supply store, a liquor store and a lingerie retailer. I searched for TSA but all I found at No. 958 was a place that specialized in verifying identification. To this day, I am not sure who they are but my credit card identifies them as: IdentoGo.

About half of the two dozen chairs were occupied as I entered. I took my turn to explain to the young woman behind the counter that I wanted to make an appointment. She gave me a number to call. I thanked her, walked out and made the call.

The following Monday, Mary Ann and I arrived at our appointed time to find a crowded office waiting for their turn. We both chose not to comment and wait and see. Despite the semi-mob scene, we were called by a young man in relatively short order. I asked him why he took us so soon and he replied, “You had a reservation.”

We used our passports as ID, answered all questions, submitted to electronic finger printing and paid $85 each for the search and a five year license, then left to wait for our approval.

Two days later the TSA confirmed to us by e mail that they…”reviewed your TSA PreCheck® application and determined you are eligible for TSA PreCheck® expedited screening.” The notice identified the site to use to retrieve the Known Traveler Number (KTN) and is short order I had both my and Mary Ann’s KTN.

What could have been a bureaucratic nightmare ended remarkably well! Now it was time to visit the DMV and please stay tuned.

A recent profile of Joe Allen in The New York Times gave me pause for thought about the many West Side Manhattan eateries most now gone that once upon a time were part of my business life and essential to client entertainment. Several were Italian, some American, a few mixed Continental and, the most memorable, the French bistros.

Mr. Allen proprietor of the American restaurant featuring his name has been in business since 1965. Now 83, he also owns Orso and Bar Centrale located in attached brownstones. He owns the buildings and, in the old tradition, resides above his joints. Long live Joe Allen one of the few left standing.

Barbetta, also located along New York’s Restaurant Row on Forty-Sixth Street, has carried on since 1906 under the same family ownership. Laura Maioglio, the present grand dame continues the traditions that define Barbetta as one of New York City’s treasures. I have a soft spot for this overly formal establishment because it was there that my wife and I were first invited by my then boss, Charlie Robbins, and his wife, Paula, to join them for dinner and the theatre with visiting Lloyds brokers in the spring of 1974. In so doing, Charlie promoted us from the kid’s table.

Other famous Restaurant Row eateries still in existence include Broadway Joe’s, Becco, Café Athenee, Don’t Tell Mama, FireBird, Lattanzi, Le Rivage, and Ocha. Another old-school standard bearer, Maria’s Mont Blanc, continued to reside on West Forty-Eighth Street despite demolition of her original location and awful disputes with the current landlord. The indefatigable, Ms. Maria fought on, providing excellent yet eclectic Swiss-German-French cuisine before finally succumbing on May 31, 2016.

Regrettably, this closing wasn’t a one-off fate. Many of the traditional French bistros that blanketed the West Side of the Theatre District have succumbed to changing tastes, old age, loss of will by the founder’s off spring, mega-inflation in amount of their leases or the sale of the building for demolition and development.

These lost treasures include Chez Cardinale, Les Pyrenees, Du Midi, Rene Pujol and Pierre au Tunnel. Most opened in the late 40s or early 50s when French chefs and their families chose to leave their native country following the end of World War II. Having suffered through invasion and occupation; the end of the war offered continued post-war shortages, rationing and lack of opportunity. America beckoned.

New York’s Hells Kitchen became enriched as these war-torn immigrants made their way to this urban wasteland. When I wanted to have fun with an unsuspecting Brit or an out-of-town customer, I’d ask them: “Have you noticed how many really good French restaurants we have here in the Forties and just west of Eighth Avenue?”

When they replied, “Yes,” I’d say, “Well, if you walk west on Forty-Seventh Street or Forty-Eighth Street and go as far as you can without getting wet you will look up to behold you are in front of the French Line Pier.”

I’d give them a moment to think about before continuing, “Forsaking the old country and with family help, those frustrated chefs sailed to America on the SS Liberte and the Ile De France. After clearing immigration and customs, they’d walk east. By the time they crossed Ninth Avenue; enough was enough, so they’d say to the family members traveling with them; ‘This is where we open the restaurant.”

My colleague, Steve, introduced me to Chez Cardinale, my first bistro lunch home. The proprietors and staff were swell, the food good and the price reasonable so that I wasn’t abusing my expense account. My lasting memory of this restaurant came the day I turned over my fork for no particular reason only to see the following engraved on its stem, “Horn and Hardart.” I liberated the fork and have it to this day.

Pierre au Tunnel meant “fine dining” to me and several of my colleagues. Opened in 1950, Jacqueline and Jean-Claude Lincy ran a great restaurant. Women I worked with also loved the ambience and service. Michelle recalls with fondness: “Their onion soup introduced me to Gruyere cheeses that remains a favorite.” Louise adored their omelets and Lisa often said, “When I go there I feel like I’m on a date.”

My favorite dish was Chicken Cordon Bleu except in the early spring when Chad spawned in the Hudson and au Tunnel featured Chad and Chad row.

Somewhere in time and emotion the Pujol family split apart and Rene opened what became my all time favorite New York City bistro: Rene Pujol. Great food, great service, a wonderful setting, Rene was also a New York Giants football fan and if that wasn’t enough, he offered without surcharge, a private dining room and lounge above the restaurant where I hosted clients, celebrations and retirement dinners.

What a wonderful era. We all benefitted with these restaurateurs’ success: Only in America.

Are you familiar with the expression, “six, two and even” or as it is also stated, “6 – 2, & even?” It’s cloaked in mystery and the key to solving it is missing.

Many people who know it trace first hearing it back to “Walpole” Joe Morgan, the life-long Red Sox organization manager, scout and coach. From 1988 to 1991, Morgan managed the Boston Red Sox and brought with him a down-to-earth; tell it like it is personality. When fired by Haywood Sullivan and other Sox executives, he left them with these parting words: “Your team is not as good as you think it is.”

How unique was Morgan? For about ten-years while he was in the Red Sox organization, he worked for the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority driving a plow each winter earning him a second moniker: “Turnpike Joe.”

Shaun Clancy, the Manhattan saloon keeper and primo baseball aficionado shared this about Morgan: “Joe used it as code for any questions he didn’t want to answer or felt the asker didn’t need to know. It started at his first news conference when some of the writers were asking questions to try to make Joe look stupid so he used the phrase. No one called him out so he continued to use it.”

Rory Costello wrote about Morgan for the Society for Baseball Research:

Almost 20 years after he left the Red Sox, people still remember a Morgan catchphrase, “Six, two and even.” Many fans were baffled by what this meant – even Joe himself didn’t really know. Humphrey Bogart said it in The Maltese Falcon, but Morgan picked it up from his old minor-league manager, Joe Schultz (who was also full of little sayings).

Morgan told Costello: “(Schultz) used to say, ‘six, two and even’ all the time and when I asked him what it meant, he’d just shake his head. It wasn’t until I was out of baseball about 15 years that I met this old guy, he was 94, who was a bookmaker in the 1920s.” It refers to betting odds on horse races.

A number of horse racing folks will agree that it refers to the odds on a pony in a given race: Six to one to win, two to one to place (finish second) and even money to show (finish third.)

But others believe it has a more sinister nature describing when the odds on a horse to win a race drop from six to one down to two to one and finally to even just before post time signifying that the so called “smart money” has jumped on that nag and the fix is in.

That would explain why Humphrey Bogart’s used the term in the 1941 version of The Maltese Falcon? I read that Bogart changed what was written in the script and I was able to locate a Warner Brothers’ document with the notation:  “FINAL VERSION (2nd re-make)” of that script. The term, 2^nd re-make, referred to the fact that the Bogart film was the third version of the film. The first version opened in 1931, a the second in 1936.

In the 1941 film, Bogart played detective, Sam Spade. In a confrontational scene with Joel Cairo, (Peter Lorre) and Kasper Gutman, (Sydney Greenstreet), Spade turned to an un-named character simply referred to as “the boy” and, according to the script I perused, he was supposed to say: “Two to one they’re selling you out, son.”

Instead, Bogart changed the line and said: “Six, two and even, they’re selling you out, kid.” Perhaps Bogart believed this more forceful term revealed that the kid was being set up and trumped the more mundane of two to one odds?

There is also a Dick Tracy connection to this expression. For two years in 1961 and 1962, the same Chester Gould, who created the comic strip in 1937, produced an animated show for television. On the show whenever Tracy or one of his assistants finished their wristwatch telephone conversation, they signed off with: “Six, two and even, over and out.”

Perhaps, like Joe Morgan, Gould liked the rhythm of the expression? Curiously, Gould used it to describe a more level playing field where circumstances are as they should be, the planets and stars are in alignment and Mother Nature is at peace. “Six, two and even, over and out” in Gould’s use translates to “all is well.”

The mystery of its origin remains unsolved. If you have a theory, I can direct you where to express it.

Shaun Clancy adopted this expression to invite people to come and enjoy life at his saloon; Foley’s NY Pub & Restaurant where he states that, Foley’s is: An Irish Bar with a Baseball Attitude Where Everything is 6 – 2 & Even.    

This is not a political piece. Rather, it is a lesson meant to give pause to arbitrary decisions made by those in power whose aim is to articulate their own agenda without understanding unintended consequences.

President Barack Obama seems to have set a course for the remainder of his time in office to right as many social injustices that he perceives by executive order.  Injustices like transgender rights, minimum wages and workers access to overtime. Last week he increased the salary threshold when overtime for workers should kick in. Maximum salary to collect overtime was $23,000. After that, employees were considered “exempt” meaning they had no rights for overtime. To correct this situation, the president and his economic team have boosted the cut-off threshold to $47,000.

Uncle being Uncle, our bureaucracy never sees the forest for the trees so they tend to treat all workers alike. Be the worker a welder in Bath Iron Works, a person who stacks the shelves in Costco, pumps gas at a Marathon station, or a cashier at Stop and Shop; the same rules apply to everyone.

This one size fits all goes off the rails when applied to “white collar” jobs. According to a recent survey, 64% of 2015 college graduates expected to make less than $45,000 in their first year after finishing school. College graduates who accept starting positions in the fields of insurance, banking, real estate, etc. are not taking jobs, they are accepting entry points for possible careers. President Obama and co. simply don’t get it. The concept of doing business, especially big business is completely alien to their life vision. I can’t imagine a junior non-lawyer trainee at a prestigious law firm like Willkie, Farr & Gallagher seeking payment for overtime. The same holds true for a new hire at Exxon-Mobil’s HQ in Las Calinas, TX, or Boeing’s in Chicago, Met Life or my old firm, Marsh & McLennan.

Allow me to share what I experienced back in the mid-1980s when I was a manager of a unit in our marine department. This may have been Federal or NYS mandated but a decree came down from our personnel people that effective immediately, any employee making less than $15,000 (more or less) must be put on a time sheet so they could sign in and sign out to be able to collect time and a half for any hours worked over 40 hours. (The time concept is consistent with Obama’s new executive order.)

My boss, H, had just retired from his other job; he was a Sergeant Major in the army reserve. If that doesn’t tell you anything else, it should explain why he did everything by the book. When he addressed me and my fellow managers, I told him that I expected that all hell was about to break loose with our younger brokers who worked their asses off doing the difficult tasks that included staying into the night to assist in completing proposals for the renewal of existing clients’ programs and bids on new programs. These clients and prospects were the essence of big business, firms like DuPont, Chevron, Chiquita Brands, US Steel and National Bulk Carriers. To work on such prestigious accounts or even more exciting, go after new business was sort after, an honor and a privilege and what our firm was known for. We solved big insurance problems for big business.

I admit the world was different then and part of the privilege was the opportunity to be invited to join in lavish client entertainment in the New York scene and, more precious, to accompany the senior people on out-of-town trips.

H stood by the letter of the law. It was my task to inform two brilliant and dedicated junior young women that their salaries were below exempt (the legal term for not being eligible for overtime) and explain that they must use a sign-in, sign-out sheet for their own protection.

I spoke to DV first and it did not go well. She burst into tears and walked out. VB was next; in the middle of my explanation, she rose from the chair, slapped both hands, palms down onto my desk, looked me straight in the eye and said, “This sucks, you suck, Marsh sucks and what the f*** are you going to do about it!”

“Got it,” I replied.

Apparently, H’s other managers received like reactions for he retreated from it over time but I knew I had already lost the spirit of these talented women who both resigned in short order.

Good luck to businesses out there…and: ”Be careful.”

This story happened at the Greenbrier Hotel in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia a world class golfing resort and spa set in the Allegheny Mountains. After a rough spell in the early 80s, my company’s fortunes took off with senior managers being invited to attend annual conferences at this resort. I recall one colleague’s reaction to this news: “It has always been one of my goals in life to stay at the Greenbrier on someone else’s dime!”

From 1987 until 1995 we attended nine conferences at this swell facility. Most years, the event began on Monday morning and ended on Friday. Our firm was enlightened enough to make Thursday afternoons free time allowing the great majority to golf on one of The Greenbrier’s three exquisite 18-hole courses.

Being an absolutely miserable duffer, I didn’t need to suffer the embarrassment that would surely accompany any attempt to challenge these links so I tried tennis the first few years unenthusiastically but I always made an appointment for the spa even if that meant cutting tennis short. Without question my favorite part of the treatment was the massage that concluded the spa experience. The sulphur baths were the low point as they were just plain smelly and did nothing to enhance my mood or physical well-being.

Naturally, different masseuses brought their own talents and approaches to their craft and over the years I received superb treatment by both men and women that left me loose, relaxed and at as much peace as was humanly possible.

Then there was 1993. Fortune introduced me to a short fellow with powerful arms and hands who introduced himself as Chet. We made small talk as Chet went to work. I learned he was a Mountaineer, a native-born West Virginian and true to his size and rough appearance, had once been a coal miner. I mentioned that I was from New York; the conversation went on – then from out of nowhere – he noted, “I worked on the Giants’ coach last year. That’s right, he was at the hotel and I worked on him.”

“Really,” I replied. “Do you remember his name? Was it Ray Hanley? – The Giants previous the head coach.

“No, I don’t think so.” He paused, thought about it then floored me as he continued. “No, he just said he was the coach but that’s not his name. I remember him though because he stiffed me. I paid him back though. I’m part Cherokee and I put a curse on him and the team. They will not have success as long as the curse is on them.”

My head spun with what I just heard. Chet couldn’t know how long I had been a season ticket holder, that the Giants had finished with a 6-10 record in 1992 and that Hanley and his staff had all been fired.

Instinctively, I wanted to ask him how much he’d want to lift the curse but I sensed that this would only make the situation worse. I had to be more nimble.

The massage ended and after I dressed, Chet returned with his personal log hand-written in a copy book. He pointed to a name revealing the culprit to be Rod Rust. Rod Rust, I thought to myself, not only did his “read and react” defense suck, he screwed all of us by being a cheapskate.

I put a good tip on the spa bill, standard practice at The Greenbrier, hustled to an ATM and withdrew a like amount in cash. I sealed it in an envelope and returned to the spa, asked for Chet and waited for him.

When he reached reception, I walked over, gave him the envelope, looked him in the eye and said, “Chet, this is to make up for the shabby treatment you received.” I shook his hand and walked away.

It took awhile but the Giants went on to three more Super Bowls winning two.