John Delach

June of 1996 found me in Chicago at my firm’s local office. As a laugh, one of the Chicago lads presented me with a souvenir tee-shirt remarking, “I thought you’d get a kick out of this. They’re being sold as fund raisers by our local PAL.”

The shirts were a spoof on the 1996 Democratic National Convention (DNC) scheduled to be held that August in the United Center, Chicago’s indoor sports arena. Written across the front of the shirt:

Welcome to Chicago.

We kicked your parents’ asses

in 1968!

And we’ll kick yours too!

A story in the Boston Globe on March 19, 2016 by Tracy Jan resurrected this memory. The headline for Ms. Jan’s piece read:

Cleveland prepares for unrest at GOP convention

Ah, once again, it’s all about The Donald! Usually gatherings of the Grand Old Party are about as exciting as curling tournaments but not this year. No, no, no; thanks to the level of rhetoric, the police who patrol the “Mistake on the Lake” are nervous. Ms Jan noted with a bit of hyperbole that Cleveland will host the Republican National Convention (RNC) in July: “…during one of the most tumultuous presidential elections in decades…”

(Editorial note: Me thinks if other members of the fifth estate start banging out copy with like incendiary language the result will be; if thou write it, it may happen and thou shall be the cause. Be careful what you write.)

Ms Jan continued: “… amid concerns from its police union that the city is not moving fast enough to secure riot gear, train personnel, and ensure there will be enough officers on the streets.”

There is a valid point to be noted here. While Cleveland has secured a grant of $50 million in federal security funds to outfit the department in 2,000 so called riot-control “turtle suits” featuring upper body, shoulder, elbow and forearm protectors, hard knuckle gloves, shin guards and ”26-inch collapsible batons”, they have only asked for bids on these suits with expected delivery by June 1, “a month and a half before the convention.”

Ms Jan interviewed the former police chief of Charlotte, Rodney Monroe, who oversaw security for the DNC in 2012. Discussing the timing in Cleveland, Chief Monroe noted to Ms Jan, “Good luck with that one. In most cases, there was a three-month lag time for ordering. We had to get that one in early. All of our officers were issued their equipment three months prior to the convention.”

The Cleveland cops will have 45 days to prepare if all goes as planned with no delays.

Likewise, standard guidelines call for a security force of between 4,000 and 5,000 officers to be available during an event of this magnitude. But Stephen Loomis, president of the Cleveland Police Patrolmen’s Association told Ms Jan, “…thus far, only 1,800 officers, including Cleveland police and those outside the city, have been committed, a number neither the city nor Secret Service would confirm.”

Most of the 2,200 to 3,200 additional officers will come from out-of-state requiring the city of Cleveland and, perhaps, the state of Ohio, to pass temporary laws and/or ordinances giving these “foreign” officers the same jurisdiction as if they were members of the Cleveland police force. While Ms Jan didn’t address indemnification, it is a safe bet to presume that any police departments that offer the services of their staff will demand a blanket hold harmless for themselves and those officers which the city of Cleveland and/ or its insurers will have to assume.

Granted, it would be a stretch to re-visit the insanity that surrounded the DNC circa Chicago-1968 when all hell broke loose and Mayor Richard Daley went to war with Jerry Rubin, his Yippies; Abbie Hoffman, Tom Hayden, Bobby Seale, Alan Ginsberg, etc. A sea of chaos ensued, headlines read, “Riots Erupt”, “Violence Takes Hold” and “The Battle of Chicago” while for days and nights the endless chant continued; “The whole world is watching.”

It would be a good bet to say that the city fathers never expected the kind of direction the 2016 campaign would take when they proudly made their bid to host the convention! How could they? Nevertheless, they must quickly take stock now that it may no longer be business as usual.

Cleveland may not have the luxury that common sense will prevail so those in charge on the federal, state and city level must be prepared to maintain good order let protesters vent and hope they break even on this event.

Growing up in 1950s and coming of age in the 1960s, I witnessed the end of the golden age of newspapers. The City of New York supported four general morning newspapers and three afternoon papers. (The Wall Street Journal was not one of them then being considered to be a trade publication catering to financial news in the same way The Journal of Commerce catered to shipping, commodities and trade.)

The New York Times and Herald Tribune presented serious news each morning, The Daily News and The New York Mirror’s stock in trade was tabloid gossip, crime, sensationalism and popular sports. Three papers filled the afternoon / evening hours making up for content with yellow journalism, sensationalism and, when all else failed- fiction. The New York Journal-American, New York Post and the World-Telegram and Sun competed for readers’ nickels.

The Times, considered the “gray lady,” favored substance and seriousness over personality. The staff included Russell Baker, David Halberstam, James Reston, William Safire, Harrison Salisbury and Gay Talese. Sportswriters included Dave Anderson, Arthur Daley, George Vecsey and William Wallace. Red Smith joined on once the Herald Tribune folded as did theatre critic, Walter Kerr.

The Trib re-invented itself as the Fifties drew to a close jazzing its format, creating a Sunday supplement; New York Magazine, and featuring two bright new columnists: Jimmy Breslin on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays paired with Dick Shaap on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Breslin gave us a plethora of characters like Marvin the Torch and Shaap coined the moniker: “Welcome to Fun City.”  They joined the likes of Art Buchwald, “Sally Rand could use an extra hand,” Red Smith, “The best team that money can buy,” Harold Rosenthal and Tom Wolfe.

The Daily News and The New York Mirror competed with dueling headlines, sports and gossip. Ed Sullivan, Liz Smith and Bob Sylvester dug celebrity dirt at the Daily News while Norm Miller and Dick Young reported sports assisted by cartoonist, Bill Gallo. The lighter weight, Mirror, countered with Walter Winchell, Bill Travers and crime writer, Victor Riesel blinded in an acid attack by the mob. Some classic Daily News headlines (albeit not all from that era) included: Who’s a Bum (Dodgers 1955 Championship), Ford to City: Drop Dead and Arrest Weirdo in Tate Murder (Charles Manson.)

The Mirror countered with gems like: Marilyn Monroe Kills Self – New Year, New Cuban Skyjack and 3,000 Beatniks Riot in Village. When the Mirror folded on October 16, 1963 the Post took up the challenge eventually producing the ultimate gem: Headless Man in Topless Bar!

The New York Post wasn’t always a rag and in that era before Rupert Murdock bought the paper the publisher was Dorothy Schiff who controlled the paper for forty years. The Post reflected Ms Schiff’s liberal views making it into a left-wing tabloid featuring Milton Gross, and muckrakers, Drew Pearson and Jack Anderson. Larry Merchant and Paul Zimmerman did sports with Leonard Lyons and Cindy Adams seeking celebrity gossip.

Countering the Post was the Hearst Corporation’s The New York Journal-American, anti-Democrat in spades. When President Truman fired General Douglas Mac Arthur for insubordination during the Korean War, the Journal-American treated Doug’s homecoming US tour as if he was the conquering hero and Harry as a putz. Westbrook Pegler led the charge. Pegler was a hater. The J-A had a great dean of sports, Jimmy Cannon, a man about town, Bob Considine, and their own gossip guru, Dorothy Kilgallen.

The World-Telegram and Sun brought up the rear although one reporter, Gabe Pressman, went on to have an lengthy television career with WNBC that continues to this day more than 60 years later. The Telegram featured two good sports writers, Joe King and Joe Williams aided by the brilliant sports cartoonist, Willard Mullins. Mullins produced his work in his Long Island studio and delivered it via a cooperative Long Island Railroad conductor at the Plandome Station who commuted his cartoon to the paper’s plant every day.

The Telegram’s enduring claim to fame however, was the headline they chose to run for their late edition on November 22, 1963 after receiving word of JFK’s assassination. It covered almost all of the front page announcing: PRESIDENT SHOT DEAD.

In a desperate attempt to survive, the Trib, Journal and Telegram merged into the ill-fated, New York World, Journal Tribune that lasted just seven months from September of 1966 until May of 1967. The New York Times, New York Post and Daily News survive, barely. The electronic age has pushed printed newspapers to the brink of extinction as electronic editions fail to generate the kind of ad revenue needed to survive.

The over/under on the Daily News’ demise is any body’s guess as they’ve fired anyone worth a paycheck to save a paycheck except Mike Lupica. The Post continues to exist so long as Murdock chooses to use his cable news surpluses to offset its hemorrhaging red ink. As for the Gray Lady, the publishers cut and cut and cut. Today, The Times is a shadow of what it once was. “The Paper of Record?” I think no longer. The Times pretends this remains so since it is unchallenged as there is no other print source left to call them out. Time/Life, Newsweek, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, etc, etc, they are all crippled and/or dying.

A damn shame! Looking forward, I wonder where folks will go to read good journalists reporting in depth about significant events or to simply do a crossword puzzle?

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.

 Here I am stuck in the middle with you.

I tell you brothers and sisters, nothing makes sense any more. Cheap oil is good; yes? The USA being self-sufficient in the production of oil and gas is good; yes? Apparently not, cheap oil and gas is rocking the financial markets, stocks tumble, the word is the dollar is worthless. Shills shout from the radio: “Buy, yes you, buy gold now; buy silver now. Liquidate everything else, sell brother, sell.”

Even though such insidious sirens have shouted their false and corrupt warnings time and time again, a demon within, the illusion of shiny minerals, taunts us to follow; beware my friend beware:

Once I built a railroad, made it run, made it race against time. Once I built a railroad, now it’s done; brother can you spare a dime?

I allowed a special on HBO about the worst possible super-mega-ultimate volcanic eruption coming soon to ruin my night. Ground zero is Yellowstone Park. Nightmares filled my head as my mind envisioned the horrors predicted when it erupts. The special proclaimed that, when it happens, not if it happens; 90% of what is left of the continental USA will be covered in ash and millions will perish. A nightmarish scenario indeed!

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know where I’m gonna go when the volcano blows.

I then made the mistake seeking relief by watching the Weather Channel. Oy vey, instead of benign forecasts, a documentary awaited me about an ultimate earthquake just waiting to strike the West Coast. Forecasters give it a one in three chance to happen sometime in the next 20 years and those are lousy odds, if you ask me!

They predict this monster will swallow everything up to Vancouver and what remains will be drowned and washed away by an ultimate Tsunami. (It was interesting to note that a chap from FEMA answer that he thinks we’re prepared! Could it have been, Brownie?)

Day after day, more people come to L.A. Ssh, 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 de boat in Idaho.

Bad as it may be, I’m sorry, I just can’t get my hands around climate change. How is that possible when I can’t decide who to be frightened of the most:  Kim Jong-un constantly reminds me to be afraid, Mullar Omah, of the Afghanistan Taliban, an oldie but still a badie remains on the loose if he’s not yet dead? Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi and his Islamic Caliphate c/o Isis/ Isisl are not to be trifled with; they are bad to the bone and want us wiped out. Then there’s that crazy man in Nigeria, Abubakar Shekav, leader of Boko-haram, or another old favorite, Iran’s Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and his nukes. Even the Fredo of bad guys, Bashar al-Assard, would have no problem killing each and every one of us if only he could. Next to this gang, Putin is a pussycat:

Hope you got your things together. Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we’re in for nasty weather…There’s a bad moon on the rise.

Meanwhile, back in the USA, it appears that all of the rules have been thrown out the window and chaos reigns supreme. Through the dubious magic of twenty-four hour media, countless news, information and talk TV, radio and internet shows, Twitter, Face book, In touch and LinkedIn, the national election process has been reduced to a bad act at a comedy club or a really awful reality show.

No wonder I’m so nervous and still, have I mentioned Donald Trump? It appears the choice may come down to The Donald, or Ted Cruz vs. Hillary or Bernie:

Going to the candidates’ debate, laugh about it, shout about it,

When you got to choose, every way you look at this you lose.

I pride myself on being an optimist believing that even in the worst of times when a most imperfect candidate takes the reigns of our Republic; our Republic will endure and prosper. This time though, your guess is as good as mine:

And you tell me,

over and over and over again my friend.

Ah, you don’t believe,

We’re on the eve of destruction.

This piece was written by a friend of mine, Brian Davidson. I edited it and thought up the title.

George, the owner of the sporting goods store handed me my new annual Alaskan fishing license. “Where are you from?”

“Houston,” I replied. “I got a job with a contractor to settle insurance claims so I’ll be up here for thirty-days at a time for six to nine months. I don’t read much, hate television and I don’t want to spend my free time in bars so I figured I’d try fishing”

“Well you picked a good time to start fishing for pink salmon. They start to run in May and you can fish as late as you like because it doesn’t get dark until about 2 a.m. I’ll help you pick out the kind of equipment and clothing you’re going to need.”

George selected a rod and reel, a net, tackle box, wading boots, thermal socks, and long johns. “Why do I need thermal socks and long underwear in June?”

“The water temperature in Prince William Sound does not get out of the thirties. You’ll be happy to be wearing them when you wade out into the sound. If you don’t have a sweater or light gloves, you should buy them too.”

I figured he knew what he was talking about so I kept quiet as my pile kept rising on his counter. When he finished counting and totaling my purchases, he reached behind the counter and opened a wooden box and placed an odd looking fishing lure in the palm of his hand. A big silver spoon with a big red plastic diamond shaped thingy glued to it, it looked like something that your grandmother used to wear on her chest to church on Sunday.

“This is the best lure for catching pink salmon. It’s called it a pixie. If I were you, I’d guard it with my life. I’m running out of them and I don’t know when I’ll get new ones in stock.”

I asked him how many I could have and he agreed to sell me six for six dollars each. I started asking him about places to fish, but he stopped me and called over an Eskimo guy hanging around the store. “Hey, Billy, come tell this guy where to fish.”

Billy and I got to talking and he agreed to meet me at a camp-ground located on the shoreline the next night. We seemed to hit it off and became regular fishing buddies. Also, it didn’t take long for me to realize just how valuable Billy was to me. The first thing I noticed that night was that when I cast my pixie out into the water, it kept going down and down and down. I asked Billy what was going on.

“After about ten feet, the bottom drops 500 to 600 feet. If you wander out too far and take the plunge, you’ll have about five minutes left to live.”

I became a good angler catching five to ten fish each night which I cut loose or gave to people staying in the camp-ground who gathered to watch the master fisherman. I usually traded the fish for a cold beer and a relaxing chat with these tourists and retirees in their trailers, campers or RVs. The fishing alleviated my boredom from the seemingly endless task of settling claims. I only regretted losing my pixies which made me feel badly as my supply dwindled.

One night while fishing with Billy, I cast out my next to last pixie. It didn’t hit the water and my rod started to jerk away from me pulling skyward. “What the hell…,” I shouted as I looked up. To my astonishment, I realized that I had hooked a sea gull on its butt. People on the bank shouted at me to cut the line, but all I could think of was my six dollar pixie attached to a bird that was maneuvering like an out of control kite. Up and down it flew screeching like all hell as we continued our struggle. I had to let out line fearing that the tension would break it and the gull would make off with my pixie. Finally, it went straight up then came crashing down onto the bank to the oohs and ahs of the crowd who were watching the show.

I ran out of the water, grabbed onto this pecking and clawing creature who continued to screech for its mother. In desperation, the gull threw up a regurgitated fish onto my boot, but I managed to get a firm grip on its mangy butt to retrieve my pixie. As I stood up, I heard loud and clear, “They’re not very good to eat.”

Rather embarrassed, I yanked my pixie out of its butt, released the gull who flew away and gave each and every one of my admirers a very low bow.

One of New York’s worst kept secrets is that the governor of the Empire State and the mayor of the Big Apple despise each other. They do whatever they believe necessary to go one up on the other or undercut each other whenever opportunities present themselves. In theory, these two liberal Democrats, Andrew Cuomo and Bill DeBlasio, should be simpatico; cooperating for the greater good, but ambition, past slights, condescension, arrogance and just plain nastiness are the rules of their game. They have been reduced to two egos jousting in an endless gotcha contest.

They clash over policies, projects, funding and just about anything they can think of. Cuomo fancies himself as a Twenty-First Century, Robert Moses, proposing grand projects like a new LaGuardia Airport that includes a monorail to nowhere and a rebuilt Penn Station that would be nothing more than shining s***. Regardless, Andy Boy just loves to step on Comrade Mayor DeBlasio’s toes with these grand illusions that he proposes inside the city limits.

Comrade Mayor DeBlasio has had a few victories in these skirmishes including blindsiding the gov into making pre-school funding available across the state. As they joust, they may fantasize that they reflect Moses, the master builder, but they are actually more akin to Bernie Sanders. Moses knew how to fund projects in advance whereas the Gov and Hizzoner advocate free stuff since neither provides concrete funding for their dream works.

Hizzoner’s latest scheme is to add a sleek cross-Queens/Brooklyn trolley line to whisk passengers 17 miles from Astoria to Sunset Park at a thrilling speed of 12 miles-per-hour. So far, Andy hasn’t chimed in on this proposal, perhaps because our comrade mayor may have made an end run circumventing the Gov’s authority?

Did you know, Bob and Ray, that all rail and bus transit and transportation in and around New York City operates under the mantle of the state controlled Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA)! Despite this mandate, Dan Janison recently reported in Newsday: “The city would build this so-called BQX streetcar line independent of Gov. Andrew M. Cuomo’s MTA. That might sidestep the current alienation between the mayor and governor.”

Okay, Hizzoner predicts the proposed trolley line will cost $2.5 billion. That estimate may be illusionary if reports are correct that the right-of-way will require two new draw-bridges to span Newtown Creek and the Gowanas Canal. The final figure must also include the sixty trolley cars needed for the line, the car barns* (where the trolleys will be stored, maintained and repaired) and money to fund operational costs. It is safe to say that the MTA will treat the BQX worse than a rented mule or more like the way The Donald predicts he will treat undocumented workers. Even simple items will be complicated. BQX employees will be separate from all other transit employees and the city will end up fighting its own MTA for federal dollars to repair and replace equipment and infrastructure. (Suggestion: Check out the popular definition of insanity.)

So how does Comrade Mayor DeBlasio plan to pay for this grand plan? The New York Times reported the following, “Administration officials believe the system’s cost can be offset by tax revenue siphoned from expected rise in property values along the route.”

The key words in that statement are siphoned and expected. If revenue is expected, that means that you’ve already anticipated that it will be there and that siphoning it infers that you are diverting it from an already intended use.

Neat, indeed! Something like: “If you build it, it will be okay because all will be good.” I wonder just who the administration officials plan to screw by siphoning away their intended funds?  Welcome to Fun City as Dick Shaap once put it.

The good news Andy is already in his second term as governor and even if comrade mayor is re-elected, he will be out of office by 2021. Both will be long gone before 2024 when the BQX is scheduled to be up and running which, if consistent with other NYC transit projects, should be more like 2030.

• I’m sure there is modern alternative to “car barn” but I just like the way it sounds.

On The Outside Looking In, will be off next week and will resume on March 9^th.

The New York Times recently published a piece about an 800-page US Air Force document once labeled “Top Secret” that assigned identification numbers to various targets in Communist controlled countries. Titled, “SAC (Strategic Air Command) American Weapons Requirement Study, 1959,” it listed specific targets for SAC’s B-47 medium bombers and B-52 heavy bombers. The study was conceived in 1956 before effective intermediate and intercontinental missiles were available, when both nations nuclear strike forces were totally composed of long-range manned bombers.

Even though the SAC list is semi-public, it remains shrouded in double-speak. We do know our top priority for destruction was Soviet airpower to minimize retaliatory abilities. The next priority included government and military control centers. After that, we’d hit essential industries, transportation and communications. Major cities were prime targets as many of these facilities and operations were located in places like Berlin, Warsaw, Moscow and Leningrad. A very serious subject indeed!

Still, when I read this piece, I immediately thought of two things, the classic black humor movie, Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, and a parody of the New York Post featuring a front page headline that commanded:

NUCLEAR WAR

 ISSUE

Michael Jackson

And

90 Million Others

DEAD

This parody of the Post was one of several done by a group of creative chaps during a lengthy New York newspaper strike in the 1980s. My personal favorite part of this parody was a side-line story on the second page that went something like this:

City Nuked 2^nd Time

During yesterday’s nuclear

War, the air force admitted

they bombed Nagasaki for

the second time.

When reached for comment,

red faced Pentagon officials

admitted, “It was a mistake,

we forgot to take it off our

target list.”

Doctor Strangelove starred Peter Sellers in three roles, President Merkin Muffley, Dr. Strangelove and RAF Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake. Mandrake was special assistant to Brig. General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) who unleashed a wing of B-52s against the Soviet Union. George C. Scott played Ripper’s boss, General Buck Turdgison, Air Force Chief of Staff, loosely based on the real General Curtis Lemay. Slim Pickens had a significant role as Major T.J. (King) Kong, the Texan aircraft commander who met his demise as he rode a descending hydrogen bomb while swinging his ten gallon hat rodeo style. Keenan Wynn, played an army major named Bat Guano.  Unseen was the drunken Russian Premier with the delightful name of, Dimitri Kissov, who Preident Muffley was forced to calm and charm as the US bombers entered Soviet airspace.

The movie opened with an aerial re-fueling scene between a B-52 and a KC-135 tanker while the song, Try A Little Tenderness, plays in the back ground and ended with a parade of nuclear bombs detonating to the refrain of the old English music hall tune of, We’ll Meet Again Don’t Know Where Don’t Know When.

Stanley Kubrick produced this 1964 dark comedy with many great lines. The best is the last words spoken in the movie. They belong to the crippled, quasi ex- Nazi genius, and President Muffley’s chief advisor, Dr. Stangelove (think of a mad Henry Kissinger.) As the movie nears its end the doctor stops referring to Muffley as, “my president” in favor of, “mine fuehrer” and in a fit of excitement rises up out of his wheelchair, takes a step and shouts, “Mine fuehrer, I can walk!”

My father was a navigator / bombardier in B-47s. This aircraft was the air force’s first all-jet bomber and as he and the B-47 aged, SAC didn’t want to train him for new aircraft. He became somewhat of a vagabond moving from Homestead Air Force Base (AFB) just south of Miami in 1960 to March AFB in Riverside, CA until 1963 and finally to Pease AFB, Portsmouth, NH before he retired in 1966.

He noted to me over drinks one night that if the real thing happened, it would be a one way trip. It didn’t bother him though. If orders came, that is what he was trained to do. However, he did take a particular delight in the way his job was portrayed by a young James Earl Jones who played the navigator in Dr. Strangelove.

Late last year, I found myself driving home from Sunset Park, Brooklyn on a mild Sunday afternoon. The unseasonable weather stirred local residents of Bay Ridge to abandon TV images of NFL football games in favor of enjoying an afternoon of walking, jogging, bicycling or just relaxing on a park’s promenade overlooking Gravesend Bay. Driving on the Belt Parkway, on the opposite side of this park, I took in the scene then caught sight of the old Parachute Jump in the distance towering over Coney Island. I began to think about this now decommissioned landmark as the Belt Parkway steered me closer to this distinctive tower.

The Parachute Jump was designed to be the centerpiece for the amusement area at the 1939-1940 New York’s World Fair. Conceived by a retired navy commander, James H. Strong, he received a concession from the Fair Committee to build, assemble and operate the tower. The 1939 Fair guidebook described the ride:

Eleven gaily-colored parachutes operated from the top of a 250-foot tower enable visitors to experience all the thrills of “bailing out” without the hazard or discomfort.

Each parachute has a double seat suspended from it. When two passengers have taken their place beneath the chute, A cable pulls it to the summit of the tower. An automatic release starts the drop, and the passengers float gently to the ground. Vertical guide wires prevent swaying, a metal ring keeps the ‘chute open at all times, and shock-absorbers eliminate the impact of the landing. One of the most spectacular features of the

Amusement Area, this is also a type of parachute jump similar to that which armies of the world use in the early stages of actual parachute jumping.

Admission was 40 cents for adults and a quarter for children and the drop down took between 10 and 20 seconds. It was the delight of the fair and my mother and father, then an engaged couple, took delight in riding this phenomenon multiple times. Growing up, mom would regale me with stories about the fair and especially tales of this ride that both frightened and excited me. After the fair ended, the Tilyou family, who owned Steeplechase Amusement Park purchased the structure and re-assembled it at the  boardwalk entrance to their Coney Island grounds christening it: Brooklyn’s Eiffel Tower.

By the mid-1950s I began to travel to Coney Island with other local neighborhood kids. We’d venture by subway to swim at the beach or to explore the amusement areas behind the boardwalk. We rode the three roller coasters, the famous and still operational, Cyclone, and the Thunderbolt and Tornado. We rode the Bob-Sled, a short-thrill ride that performed just as its name implied, the Wonder Wheel, a gigantic Ferris wheel and a peculiar ride called the Virginia Reel. The Reel featured round cars where about six people sat in a circle facing each other. The car rode a chain to the top of a slope, then spun down a zigzag incline bruising as many parts of bodies as possible.

We visited Steeplechase Park but never got up enough nerve or the price of 75 cents to ride the Parachute Jump. Back then 75 cents was an exorbitant price especially when the Cyclone only cost a quarter. But in my head I thought, “Someday, I’m going to do it.”

Then one windy day, I looked up to see a couple trapped aloft beneath a parachute entangled in the wires. All they could do was sit there and wait until a hook and ladder arrived and the firemen could raise the main extension ladder high enough to rescue them. I was mesmerized by this spectacle and I don’t know what scared me more; watching them being trapped or their 200 feet climb down the ladder!

After experiencing the horror of that evacuation, it was beyond my nerve to consider a ride on the jump ever again.

Ironically, Steeplechase and its Parachute Jump closed in 1964, the same year that the successor to the 1939 World’s Fair opened in Flushing Meadows Park. A popular swell of enthusiasm wanted to bring the jump back to the new fair, but Robert Moses, the Tsar of the 1964-1965 Fair, wanted no part of it or an amusement zone.

To this day it remains derelict yet a stately, well-maintained and freshly painted landmark; Brooklyn’s Eiffel Tower.

Back in the mid- 1980s, when my firm’s profits were excellent and electronic communications were rudimentary, the extravagant business trips to London remained the order of the day. Since my wife had her own career, she didn’t travel with me often, but other men, both colleagues and customers often brought their wives. We’d be invited to elaborate dinners where the wives of our senior London hosts would also attend.

An hour long cocktail reception prior to dinner elevated the mood of gaiety by means of generous offerings of champagne, wine and spirits. A multi-course dinner followed accompanied by different wines for the appropriate course. After dessert coffee was served together with liqueurs or brandy, or selected cheeses and vintage port if not both. Conversation flowed freely including many socially acceptable attempts at humor.

One such occasion found me at a slightly smaller gathering than those usual “dog and pony shows.” In place of a private room, we gathered in the main dining room of the Savoy Hotel. It was a grand evening and when it was my turn to add to the entertainment, I selected a story from my repertoire that I knew would amuse the ladies and gentlemen, be acceptable in mixed company, and didn’t telegraph its slap-shoe ending until I reached the punch line. I began:

The Pope died and as is their duty, the College of Cardinals met in Vatican City to select the new pope. Days passed but each time smoke rose from the chimney atop the Sistine Chapel, the color was always black: no new Pope today!

Unbeknownst to the waiting faithful, the cardinals could not choose among three Polish prelates, Cardinal Smykowski, Cardinal Katkavage and Cardinal Komorowski. Ballot after ballot, the results were the same, one third, one third and one third.

At this point I knew that I had the table hanging on my every word. The joke was working perfectly and they were all intrigued.

In desperation the cardinals agreed to take an unorthodox approach to end this papal dilemma. A committee of the 12 most senior cardinals would question each of the candidates to determine who was the holiest and then recommend that man to the college to be elected Pope.

First up was Cardinal Smykoski: Question: “Cardinal, what is the holiest day in the Christian Calendar?”

“Oh that’s easy; it’s the Fourth of July, you know that great day when we bar-b-que, clam bakes, drink beer and watch the fireworks at night.”

It was at this point after I used that reference to our Independence Day that I realized to my horror that my audience was overwhelmingly British and while they got the Fourth of July, most of them knew nothing about Ground Hog Day. Still I pressed on:

Smykowski was quickly dismissed. Cardinal Katkavage entered next – asked the same question, he replied: “Thanksgiving, of course, when families gather from far and wide to give thanks, eat turkey and watch football on television.

I could see they understood the Thanksgiving reference too. Damn, no choice but to keep going.

Finally, Cardinal Komorowski is summoned: “What is the holiest day in the Christian Calendar?”

Komorowski pondered his answer as tension filled the room. Finally he spoke, “Why Easter, of course. That is the day that Christ rises from the dead, leaves his tomb and…” Komorowski was suddenly interrupted as the room erupted in relief and joy at the realization that finally the cardinals had a holy man their presence.

At last the excitement abated and the room quieted. Komorowski cleared his throat and continued “…It is the day when he leaves his tomb and if he sees his shadow, we have two more weeks of lent.”

I inherited a polite noise that mimicked laughter and a sea of blank faces. No time for explanations, that will only be digging my hole deeper. Instead, I smiled back, took a large sip of my drink and pretended what just happened did not happen. I quietly waited for the next idiot to tell his story.

Often, politicians voluntarily dig themselves into deep holes when they try to force through their own pre-deposed positions regardless of how unpopular they are to the general public. This happens when this position is the kind that the politico has carried around in his heart and head long before gaining power or is forced upon him as a quid pro quo for favors rended during the campaign. In other words, some of these positions come from the demons within while others are the end product of dealing with the devil.

This is where we find Comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio in a hole, up to his shoulders with shovel in hand preparing to dig himself deeper. The problem for the comrade mayor is his arrogance and height deprives him from seeing how deep the hole is already.

The issue is the fate of Central Park’s horse-drawn carriages that we used to wrongly call, Hansom Cabs. (Those cabs were two wheel carriages with the driver mounted on a sprung seat behind the vehicle designed by a Joseph Hansom in Leicestershire, England in 1834. These cabs gave way to more traditional four-wheel carriages years ago.)

Our comrade mayor vowed to rid New York City of these wonderful anachronisms immediately upon taking office. I cannot say with any certainty whether or not the good comrade is an animal lover or has had some long standing grudge against these teamsters,  but it is public knowledge that his primary campaign greatly benefitted from a million dollar PAC that helped to de-rail the Democratic frontrunner, City Council Speaker, Christine Quinn. The organization that produced the bulk of these funds was New Yorkers for Clean, Livable and Safe Streets and the driving force behind this organization are two wealthy animal activists, Steve Nislick and Wendi Neu. “You can look it up.”

Our comrade mayor expected to make short shrift of the carriage owners, teamsters and nags replacing the whole lot with electric replicas of vintage automobiles. The skids in the city council chambers were waxed by strategic donations (by you know who) to key members who introduced the desired the bill…Oops, not so fast…The fondness that most New Yorkers hold for this Gotham tradition exploded in a backlash that hit DeBlasio like stampeding horses. Already reeling from a horrible start with the NYPD, his numbers in the gutter, temporary discretion in the face of humiliation became his revised battle cry.

Still beholding to his rabid benefactors, one can only imagine the shit storm he faced via phone, fax, tweets and texts! Subsequently, Plans B, C, D, etc. were floated and to subsequently sink until early this year when the latest version was unveiled. Our good comrade mayor boldly announced that he had, “an agreement in concept” with the owners and the teamsters to reduce the number of horses to 95 from 170 by 2018 and move them all to a new stable to be built with taxpayer money inside the protected grounds of Central Park.  No mention has been made of how much the stables will cost or how much the carriage owners will pay to use it.

Jim Dwyer noted in his recent column in The New York Times, Solving a Problem That Doesn’t Exist: “The notion that a new stable – which as yet has no design and has not undergone any review by the five community boards with jurisdiction over Central Park, the Landmarks Preservation Commission or the Public Design Commission – will be built within two years belongs to an alternate universe.”

The agreement in concept has already begun to unravel. The carriage association and teamsters have hired the activist lawyer, Ron Kube, a disciple of the firebrand, William Kunstler, who seems prepared to lead his minions to the man the barricades to stop this plan. Actually, this is my hyperbole for as Dwyer also pointed out: “A thick stack of judicial opinions shows that mayors ignore precedents in this area at their peril. The Bloomberg administration tried to give parkland in Queens to the Wilpon family for a shopping mall; the Giulani administration tried to turn over land in the Bronx for a water filtration plant. Both proposals were shot down in court.”

Kube will make his case in the court house. As for the nags, they’re unanimous: NAYYY!

Part 4: Conclusion of the Great Hoverboard Saga

To recap: the sources for hoverboards No. 2, 3, 4 and 5 had been solved. No. 2, 3 and 4 originated through Amazon Prime. We returned No. 2 and 3 and Amazon Prime credited the cost of No. 4 to our account leaving us to do with the unit as we pleased. We were satisfied that No. 5 was UL approved and that went to Matt Delach as his Christmas gift. We still possessed No. 1 one not knowing its origin and, of course, No. 4.

Working with the credit card company, we tracked down a telephone number for the company where board No. 1 had originated. Shockingly, a person answered the phone on my first try. She identified her company as, Hoverboards 360. I explained that I wanted to return the unit and she gave me their service department’s email address and instructions to send them photographs of the box and the unit which I sent from my IPhone.

Several days later they emailed a form to me. It advised me to return this form together with the unit but it didn’t give a mailing address. I filled out the form and put in the comments section: “Please send me a return label,” and emailed the form back to the service department. Several days later, I followed up with a second email. Then I began to call the original number I used but, now, when I called, a recording periodically advised me “how important my call was” and “that it would be answered shortly” for about the first ten minutes of the call. Then it somehow flipped and I heard this message: “The mailbox you called is full. Try your call again later.”  At the end of the message my call was disconnected.

Not a good sign especially as we are without an advocate like Amazon and the same sequence occurred every time I called that number.

Christmas was now closing in. Mary Ann and I talked over the status of the Board No. 4, the grateful AM unit with Beth and Tom and we agreed to bring it up to our place in New Hampshire on Christmas morning where their family was celebrating.

They had explained to Marlowe and Cace that we couldn’t receive hoverboards as they were illegal in Brooklyn where they lived. Our idea was No. 4 would live in NH and we’d store in a separate shed located a decent distance from the house.

When we arrived Christmas morning, Tom brought it into the living room. He casually mentioned that the box in a plastic bag was a gift for me. When the opening was about finished I asked the kids to open that big box as I didn’t want to get up. Once Marlowe removed the wrapping paper, she looked up at me with a puzzled look and asked, “You got a hoverboard?”

“A hoverboard; what in God’s name would I do with a hoverboard? If I got on it I’d break my good hip for sure. No thank you. Hey, would you kids want it?”

You know that millisecond of complete silence as the realization creped into their heads. And then all hell broke loose as reality hit home. Fortunately, the weather was warm and we have a flat paved area used for basketball, badminton and other games making it ideal for mastering elementary maneuvers on the board. Ultimately the time came for the Briggs family to go home and not unsurprisingly, the board accompanied them back to Brooklyn.

As for the Hoverboard 360 unit, it now lives in a rain and snow proof plastic container on our back patio, a spare for when one of the other two breaks (unless 16-year-old drew liberates it.) I will continue trying to get satisfaction from the distributor but I’m not holding my breath waiting. My last attempt on Monday, January 18, 2016 duplicated my other experiences.

Soon after Christmas ended Mary Ann sent everyone the following text: “To all, I just heard on the radio that 12 children were admitted to Valley Hospital in New Jersey on Christmas Day having suffered wrist injuries form hoverboard falls. Please make sure your kids wear wrist pads in addition to wearing helmets. I also heard Police Commissioner Bratten say, ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not hoverboards are legal in NYC, any parent or grandparent who buys one is a moron.”

I penned this addendum: “Don’t charge them at night and make sure an adult is close by and so is a chemical extinguisher.”

I think next year we may consider drones…NOT!