John Delach

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.

After our dinner on Friday night in Greensboro, we stopped at the bar in the Marriott for a night cap before making an early retreat in deference to our 4:30 AM wake-up calls. Lights out for me was shortly past 10. I began drifting off as I entertained thoughts about tomorrow when the sound of what I took to be bongo drums invaded my room. “Bom, ba, ba, bom, ba, bomba, ba, ba; filled my head. For perhaps two or three seconds, they’d cease then start again. No pattern that I could discern; just bom, ba, ba, bom, etc.

Angrily, I threw off the bed sheets, stood up and faced the door only to realize the sound was coming not from the direction of the hall or another room, but from outside my window. I turned, opened the curtains to discover I had a fantastic view from my 11^th floor room of a decent fireworks show. The spectacle was being fired from just beyond the centerfield fence of  New Bridge Bank Park, home of the Greensboro Grasshoppers, a Class A minor league team of the Miami Marlins.

Friday night was obviously fireworks night. The curtains were closed when I arrived and I never noticed a ball park out side my window. Glad I hadn’t made myself a fool by complaining to the front desk, I watched the grand finale before again retiring.

Next morning, on board Coach WATX 539, our hostess, Trudy, introduced herself as a life-long citizen of Roanoke. Of good humor, Trudy told us both her father and brother worked for the Norfolk & Western and she grew up taking complimentary family trips behind the railroad’s J Class locomotives. She explained the rules and tips we needed to know to make our trip safe and enjoyable including what coaches we could visit and which were off limits, the location of commissary car where we could purchase non-alcohol drinks and souvenirs and the locations for the men’s and women’s rest rooms in each coach.

It just so happened that Trudy covered these subjects while she stood in the row directly in front of me. Needless to say, I couldn’t resist the temptation to have some fun so when she finished her spiel about the restrooms I ventured: “Now, Trudy, ordinarily, your information would be sufficient, but we no longer live in such a simple age. I have already explained to my two buddies here who are, shall we say, metrosexuals, that it is illegal for them to consider using the women’s room while we remain in North Carolina and to wait until the train reaches Danville, Virginia before exercising that option.”

“Perhaps you may wish to make a similar announcement to the rest of the passengers?”

Trudy looked back at me with a glint in her eye and said: “I think I’ll pass on that.”

On the way out, the staff distributed a boxed breakfast and on the return trip, a snack box at about 4:30 PM. That box contained two cookies, a bag of potato chips, a bag of mixed nuts, one of freeze dried blueberries and a sealed bag of Biltong USA: Safari Style Gourmet Beef Snacks. The bag was accompanied by a slick, multi-colored brochure extolling the superior qualities of this South African delicacy over plain old American beef jerky. It proclaimed biltong to be the first ever (jerky) to be USDA-approved and that it too is made right here in the USA.

“Bil” means buttocks or ass in Dutch and “ting” means strip. The national headquarters for Biltong USA appears to be Biltong Super Store, Stallings, NC. It can also be acquired at a Shell Carwash, San Diego, CA, Greenville Jerky and Vine in NC, The Jerky Store, Helen, SC, Midtown Gourmet, Owensboro, KY and Newport Jerky Co. Newport, RI.

Excitedly, I turned to Mike Cruise and said, “Mike, if we act right now we will become the biltong kings of the tri-state area. Why we will be selling biltong from Cape May, NJ to Groton, CT – from New York City to Buffalo! Our ship has come in.

Mike hesitated, “Let’s taste it.”

We opened the pouch and each took a strip. “So what do you think?” I asked.

Mike replied, “I believe it’s an acquired taste similar to eating dog poop.”

Mike was right and my dream died there on the train. But I brought my bag of biltong home and, Max, our Golden Retriever loves it. Does the dog snack market beckon?

As I relate my experience from the weekend of April 22 to April 24, 2016, I wouldn’t be surprised if at some point you, dear reader, may think to yourself: You know that’s an awfully quick trip for such a long ride! You’d be right to think so.

In lieu of our usual spring baseball odyssey, Bill Christman, Mike Cruise and I, (rail fans all) decided to travel to Greensboro, NC to ride a train behind the vintage, newly re-built Norfolk & Western (N&W) J-Class steam engine, No. 611. The 611 is argumentatively the most beautiful passenger locomotive ever built. (Space does not permit me to post photographs of 611 so may I suggest that you explore: fireup611.org.)

Designed and built by the engineers and fabricators at N&W’s Roanoke East End Shops in 1950, 611 was one of the last of 14 Js built to haul the railroad’s named passenger trains like Powhatan Arrow, Cavalier and Pocahontas. The engine was rebuilt in 1956 after suffering a major wreck that fortuitously made this engine the best in class when the Js were retired two years later. Saved from the scrap heap, 611 became a static museum piece until Robert Clayton, then president of the Norfolk Southern (NS) – N&W’s successor, created a heritage steam program in 1981. The 611 wrecked a second time with Clayton at the controls in May, 1986 in Virginia’s Great Dismal Swamp; fortunately with no loss of life and Clayton shaken but blameless.

Repaired, the engine re-entered service making excursions until 1994 when NS canceled the heritage program. Returned to the Virginia Transportation Museum, 611 remained in non-operational condition until “fireup611” gained the funds needed to return the engine to life in 2015.

The 611’s excursions sold out in the blink of an eye. But, as soon as the 2016 schedule was announced, Bill, Mike and I jumped on it like a dog on a bone recognizing that age-wise, all of us were in the top of the 9^th in a nine inning game so we could not pass up this golden opportunity to ride behind this beautifully restored locomotive.

We arrived at the Greensboro Airport late Friday afternoon, Mike and I from LGA and Bill from DFW. We stayed at a pleasant Marriott in town and dined that evening at Liberty Oak, a local family eatery. Bill and I enjoyed southern fried chicken while Mike feasted on grilled shrimp over grits.

The organizers expected us to be present by 6AM so the train could depart promptly at 7. Their concern was understandable as the train would carry over 700 passengers in 19 coaches ranging from private cars, business cars and domes to day coaches and basic coaches. This made us arrange wake-up calls of 4:30 AM to 5 AM depending on our own morning needs prompting the young lady behind the front desk to believe we were insane.

By the time we arrived at the appointed hour we found close to 400 passengers already standing in orderly lines in the station’s waiting room. With rare exceptions, the bulk of our fellow riders were sixty and above, male and white. Several were unembarrassed to appear in costume like scarves, hats and even bib overalls usually associated with engine crews. Many others wore 611 hats and tee shirts. We soon joined the latter buying hats in the commissary car. Several women of a certain age accompanied their husbands most good naturedly but some noticeably demonstrating reluctance.

The schedule called for a five-hour run to Roanoke, a three-hour lay over and a five-hour return. We booked seats in one of the day coaches. These units, so called “heritage cars” dated from the late 1940s through to the mid-50s but didn’t exhibit too much wear and tear having received a good bit of TLC from their private owners. Ours bore the un-sexy designation, WATX 539, instead of an identity like New York or Saint Augustine. Even so, WATX 539 was handsomely appointed with four-across business class reclining seats. Most vital, the a/c and toilets worked without fail.

Alcohol was verboten but lunch in Roanoke provided the occasion to quaff a couple of lagers in Flanary’s Pub and we still had time to visit a museum dedicated to the amazing railroad photography of O. Winston Link.

On both the out and return trip, it seemed every crossing was lined with spectators waving and photographing our procession. The museum had issued an email message alerting folks of the estimated time our train would pass a particular mile-marker and railroad fans responded enthusiastically.

The train made its 8 PM Greensboro ETA letting us enjoy dinner at the hotel about nine.

Another early rise on Sunday, cabs to the airport and flights home. We accomplished our mission, to ride behind a Class 1 authentic passenger steam locomotive: A quick trip for a long ride, but we did check off this must to do from our bucket lists.

…and yet, as I write this, Union Pacific is refurbishing a Big Boy locomotive Number 4014 in their Cheyenne, Wyoming shops. Bill, Mike and I insist that the Big Boys are the biggest and grandest steam engines of all time. Can you imagine riding behind one of those western railroad’s monsters?

Who knows, but everything being equal…?

The SS United States, affectionately called, the Big U, by her fans – once a proud greyhound of the North Atlantic – has been reduced to a semi-homeless derelict since her retirement. This supreme queen of the American merchant marine, the Big U still holds the Blue Riband as the fastest liner ever to cross the North Atlantic.

But that was over sixty-years ago. In 1969, the ship arrived at Newport News shipyard for her annual overhaul, but United States Lines, her operator, chose instead to face reality that the Big U was no longer profitable, could not compete with modern jets and removed her from service. The first move was to neighboring Norfolk where stewardship passed to several companies who removed various artifacts and equipment from the ship.

In 1977, the first manifestation of what would become an endless fascination of “what if” ideas for the Big U began with an ill-fated proposal to convert her into a hotel and casino to operate at Atlantic City, NJ. Similar schemes began to appear the following year when the actual owner, the United States Navy declared the ship surplus, unfit for further service and returned the Big U to the Maritime Administration (MARAD) for disposal.

A group led by a chap, Richard Hadley, bought the ship for $5 million hoping to re-vitalize her as a time share cruise ship. MARAD insured the loan but Hadley’s group fell on hard times. In a desperate attempt to raise money they auctioned off the remaining fittings and furniture including her four 60,000-pound propellers. (By good fortune, all four have been preserved.) Despite such deplorable actions, the group’s financing still failed. In 1992, MARAD seized the vessel and put her up for auction. During this period, the Big U wore out her welcome in Norfolk and was towed to Pier 84 in South Philadelphia.

Next up, Fred Mayer and Edward Cantor of Marmara Marine Inc. (a subsidiary of a Turkish shipping family,) purchased the Big U for $2.6 million. This group had the vessel towed first to Turkey and then to the Ukraine once the Turks found a sea of asbestos lining her innards. Even the Turks wouldn’t remove that stuff but the Ukrainians did also removing the steam turbine engines at the Sevastopol Shipyard in 1993-94.

After the Big U returned under tow to Pier 84, Mr. Cantor became sole owner for the grand sum of $6 million. His dream of returning the Big U to Trans-Atlantic service died with his passing in 2003, but Norwegian Cruise Lines then a subsidiary of the Malaysian gambling conglomerate, Genting Group, purchased the ship with plans to operate her in cruise service between the West Coast and Hawaii. The clock kept ticking, technical reviews and surveys were made and nothing happened although ownership was transferred to Star Cruises, another Genting subsidiary in 2009. In March 2010 reports surfaced that they were seeking bids to have the Big U scrapped.

Standing in their way was the SS United States Conservancy, a nonprofit organization, led by a granddaughter of the Big U’s creator, William Francis Gibbs. The Conservancy, that had struggled to preserve the ship for many years, temporarily stopped this action and, in 2010, managed to purchase the hulk thanks to a local philanthropist, H.F. Lenfest. New grand plans were made to create a “multi-purpose waterfront complex” on the Delaware River with the Big U as the centerpiece, but this too failed to materialize and by late last year, the Conservatory seemed to finally exhaust their ability to keep up the $60,000 monthly charge needed to keep the Big U at her Philadelphia berth.

Enter Crystal Cruises (another Genting subsidiary) in January, 2016 with a proposal to transform the Big U from a mid-20^th Century liner that once accommodated 2,000 passengers in three classes into an 800-guest, 400-suite, single class luxury palace. Crystal proposed a total reconstruction that would transform the Big U into the finest 64-year old liner afloat. Crystal commissioned another feasibility study during which Crystal committed to paying the monthly nut.

Genting’s endless fascination with this ship is beyond rational explanation. Olivind Mathisen, a cruise ship expert commented: “Many people have tried this before…They talk about a price of $750 million. For that money they could build a brand new SS United States and not have to deal with all the old stuff. I don’t think it’s very viable from a business point of view.”

Truer words cannot be spoken. An ending for this sad saga is way over-do. It is time to take off the rose-colored glasses and once and for all put down the Big U, a good and loyal friend who has been abused far too long and should be put her out of her misery.

My dear friend, Judy Jones, brilliantly summed up what our septuagenarian perspective should be for dealing with modern problems. Judy wisely noted, “Face it, this crap is hardly worth our concern. After all, we’re in the top of the ninth.”

I chose not to pursue Ms. Judy about the virtual box score of her remark: What’s the score, how many out, players on base, etc. I choose a tie score, none out, nobody on base and a shot at extra innings. That’s my version.

In many ways getting old sucks but Ms. Judy’s perspective provides a unique take on the foibles and follies that we observe as the freak parade passes by. Two relatively new floats have been added to the latest version of this parade: “microaggression” and “safe space.”

Let’s examine microaggression first. This is what Wikepedia says about this phenomenon:

Microaggression is a term coined by psychiatrist and Harvard University professor Chester M. Pierce in 1970 to describe insults and dismissals he regularly witnessed non-black Americans inflict on African Americans. In 1973,MIT economist Mary Rowe extended the term to include similar aggressions directed at women, and those of different abilities, religions, etc. She also used a different term, that of “micro-inequities,” in order to include injurious behavior that did not seem “aggressive,” but possibly stemming from what we now call unconscious bias, and from negligence and even “innocent ignorance.” Eventually, the term came to encompass the casual degradation of any socially marginalized group, such as the poor and the disabled.

Confused? Alright, let’s see an example. The following letter appeared in “The Ethicist” feature of The New York Times Magazine on Easter Sunday, March 27, 2016:

I am a transgender man who is regularly mistaken for a woman

in public places. When my partner and I go out to eat, the waiter

will often refer to us as “ladies.”…I wonder if I have an obligation

to my fellow transgender and gender nonconforming citizens to

prevent future microaggression by educating the people I

encounter on gender neutral language.

The writer is certain the waiter’s solicitations were microaggressions. Using this logic so would be, “Did you lose weight?”, “You look nice today.” and even, “Have a nice day.”

Next up; “safe space,” and the violation thereof. Joseph R. Reisert, a columnist with Central Maine provided an interesting explanation being…Not simply the idea of being free from fear of physical harm, safe spaces promise a further dimension of safety – an environment in which one need never fear being insulted, demeaned or made to feel unwelcome, an environment in which one is perfectly at home.

This concept is not only real and considered legitimate, it is actively promulgated on college campuses. Exhibit A: Emory University.

Jim Wagner, the president of this school is actively investigating who had the utter nerve and intent to deliberately chalk on steps, walls and sidewalks at various locations across the campus the following disturbing message: Trump 2016.

His investigation follows demonstrations by students who claim their “safe space” was violated by these awful messages. President Wagner noted, “…students viewed the messages as intimidation and they voiced ‘genuine concern and pain’ as a result.”

The horror; oh my God, the horror!

This insanity is not unique to Emory. Yale students claimed a similar violation over a controversy surrounding Halloween costumes and Northwestern students condemned the fourth annual Burlesque show being held this month as part of the school sanctioned “sex week.” They objected that the casting decisions were not diverse enough, that they marginalized experiences and destroyed some performer’s safe space.

Thankfully, other events scheduled for sex week like “Reclaiming Pornography One Orgasm at a Time” and “Bad Ass MCs and Big Booty Beauties: A Panel on Women, Sexuality and Hip Hop,” did not raised such concerns and went forward.

Perhaps rising sea levels will eventually put an end to all of this nonsense. In any event, I’m kind of glad not to be back in the 4^th or 5^th Inning being forced to deal with these head shakers while all the time just trying to make a buck and keep above the rising tide.

Never underestimate the power of The New York Times! The lead story, left-hand column – above the fold for April 6^th edition began with this accusatory headline:

De Blasio Postpones Work on Crucial Water Tunnel

Jim Dwyer, a senior reporter and columnist came out swinging noting right off the bat, “…de Blasio has postponed work to finish New York’s third water tunnel…regarded as essential to the survival of the city if either of two existing, and now aged, tunnels should fail.”

Dwyer noted that while most of this monumental tunnel had been completed under Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg; two deep shafts must still be dug to provide water to five million people living in Brooklyn and Queens. Before leaving office, Bloomberg included $336 million in the city’s 2013 capital budget to complete this work by 2021. Sometime after taking office on January 1, 2014, the de Blasio administration quietly erased this item from the budget. This action remained under the radar until noted in a 2015 report written by William Pfang, “a consulting engineer with the city’s water finance authority.”

“Asked at a City Council hearing last month (March, 2016) when the tunnel would be working, Emily Lloyd, the commissioner of the Department of Environmental Protection, said, ‘My guess is that we’re talking mid-20s.”

De Blasio’s crowd first tried to blame Bloomberg for the delay only to withdraw that accusation in favor of this rather odd explanation, “…it had been a matter of setting its own priorities and addressing the cost of state and federal mandates.”

Another spokesman, James Roberts, added more mumbo – jumbo about keeping water rates affordable: “You’ve got real people who need to pay real bills and we try to be conscious of that. Certainly, the mayor’s office has been very conscious of that.”

Uh oh, fast forward one day to April 7^th to Dwyer’s follow-up piece:

Mayor Adding $305 Million to Speed Work on Critical Water Tunnel

As if by magic, within hours of The Times reporting de Blasio’s removal of the money needed to finish the tunnel, the money was back! Gee whiz, it turns out the mayor was misunderstood. He explained, “There are times when my team does not do a good job of explaining something.”

Dwyer noted, finding the money in less than 24 hours was the easy part. “Far more awkward was the struggle by him and his aides to argue that they had never flagged in their support for the tunnel project…”

As proof of his commitment, de Blasio emphasized $52 million had been added to the budget this year to design and acquire property for the shafts. This amount plus the $305 million that reappeared raises the total amount available to $357 million.

Rather than admit error or worse, that they deliberately removed the money in the first place for one of their own pet progressive projects, they mumbled, they bumbled and they fumbled excuses and explanations contradicting themselves. De Blasio noted that he would accelerate Bloomberg’s’ schedule by beginning work in 2020.

Isn’t that just special!  I wonder what comrade mayor is currently smoking? Remember that Bloomberg estimated the project would be completed in 2021. By starting work in 2020 it would seem that Ms. Lloyd’s prediction of a mid-20s completion is more realistic than the mayor’s.

Sarcastically, Dwyer summed up this circus noting: “The real reason the $336 million was pulled, Mr. de Blasio said was that ‘we didn’t think that the estimate was accurate.’

“Now the $336 million has been replaced – with $357 million.”

Not bad, but as the late Mike Quill once remarked about another mayor: Comrade Mayor Bill de Blasio is a man who can speak out of both sides of his mouth and whistle at that same time.

Item one: As you know, following the mass shooting by Syed Rizwan Farook and his wife in San Bernardino, Apple refused to crack the code that prevented the FBI from gaining access to the contents of his 5C iPhone. The FBI filed suit in Federal District Court to order Apple’s compliance with this action. Simultaneously, the FBI sought an outside party who had the ability to help the agency gain access to the device. In fact, such a third party did come forward and once they successfully demonstrated the ability to override this smart phones encryption feature the FBI returned to court to withdraw the suit.

Subsequently, The New York Times reported Apple is scrambling to determine how the unnamed third party overrode their safeguards. Normally, when faced with a similar challenge, Apple’s security engineers would use the hacked device to reverse engineer the problem to re-create what the hackers did to break through its security. Unfortunately for Apple, the FBI has no interest in ever turning over Farook’s iPhone.

As this story continued to develop, it’s been reported that shares in Sun Corp., a Japanese maker of pinball-style games have been soaring after reports leaked that one of its subsidiaries, Cellebrite Mobile Synchronization, cracked the code. Reports state that the FBI was already a client of this Israeli based mobile forensic firm prior to this event.

The FBI isn’t the only law enforcement group frustrated by Apple’s iPhone security. William Bratton, commissioner of the New York Police Department has stated that his department has many iPhones in custody that can’t be opened. The FBI has decided not to be shy in helping fellow police forces. In a statement issued on April 1, they stated: “The FBI will of course consider any tool that might be helpful to our partners.”

April’s fool Apple. Funny how things went upside down on this modern problem and this is only the beginning of this story.

This second item is from Geoff Jones: The US Public Health Service, (USPHS) failed to get a good start on the Zikka disease. A lab made it known to the USPHS that they found a way to reset the offending species the of male mosquito’s genetics so that all of its offspring inherit the same damaged genetic code leading to the extinction of the species in short order. However, the FDA and the Dept of Agriculture both have reason to believe that it is their exclusive domains to diddle with such things.

Whichever one has grabbed the brass ring operates under some regulation that they cannot engage in any activity that hurts animals. That means they can only hurt insects that bite and the male mosquito doesn’t bite. Therefore the USPHS cannot follow through on this approach making this another government, “Catch 22.” S.N.A.F.U. seems to be the appropriate label for this one.

Lastly, Boundary Dam Power Station, a newly built $1.1 billion Canadian clean coal electrical plant is not performing as expected, has suffered multiple shut downs, faces unresolved problems with core technologies, faces tens of millions in repairs and faces soaring costs. The plant uses a complicated process that first removes soot and ash then chemically removes carbon dioxide from the exhaust. This process seemed to work well enough on small demonstration projects but this major plant is facing complications not previously encountered that allows too great a percentage of carbon dioxide to escape.

Further, this process is such a voracious consumer of electricity that 20 % of the plant’s 150 megawatt capacity is gobbled up by this process and another 10% or more is needed to compress the carbon dioxide making the cost to produce power excessive. So far the power plant is unable to create the claim as advertised of a clean environment at a reasonable cost.

Bonsoir mon ami with this mess, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. Perhaps now you’ll begin to understand why Barack Obama’s hair turned gray.