John Delach

There is nothing that excites or thrills politicians more than the opportunity to puff up and express righteous, unabashed, and nationalistic indignation against evil forces encroaching upon the American way. This opportunity to express indignity is especially satisfying when they can unleash it after discovering the culprit is a big bully, (example: Exxon-Mobil,) caught with their hand in Uncle’s till. Never mind these politicians own soiled reputations for not always doing the right thing; they either forget or down-play their own or fellow colleagues foibles in the pursuit of publicity.

Such political fodder provides representatives and senators with the opportunity to demonstrate displeasure and outrage without consequence allowing them to attack like a pack of mad dogs. Better yet, going off against powerful, rich and arrogant organizations, grabs the ever hungry activist press and a little leak here and there sets off a feeding frenzy; forget the dogs, the sharks have taken control and there is blood in the water.

The latest incident began when a New Jersey newspaper reported last spring that the New York Jets received $377,000 from the New Jersey National Guard for ceremonial events saluting the military during a number of their home games. This led to a Senate investigation chaired by Jeff Flake and John McCain, both of Arizona. The investigation revealed the Department of Defense (D.O.D.) had spent $6.8 million in 2014, “…on questionable marketing contracts with sports teams, including events to honor American soldiers at games…”

The sum of $5,400,000 was paid to the biggest sports bully in the known Universe, the National Football League. Fourteen of the NFL’s 32 teams participated including the aforementioned Jets, the Atlanta Falcons ($877,000), Buffalo Bills ($650,000) and the New England Patriots ($700,000).

Of course the D.O.D. spent the bulk of their money with NFL teams. That’s where every smart advertiser goes to get the most bang for their buck. Even so, the NFL was not the only venue. Various entities within the D.O.D., mostly state National Guard organizations, paid out money to teams for promotional consideration from Major League Baseball, Major League Soccer, the National Hockey League and the National Basketball Association. Teams that profited included the Atlanta Braves ($450,000), Boston Red Sox ($100,000), Arizona Diamondbacks ($40,000) and Minnesota Wild ($500,000).

The Boston Globe reported: “The Boston Celtics received $195,000 in part to spotlight soldiers at home games. The Boston Bruins received $280,000 for national anthem performances, color guards and reenlistment ceremonies.”

Senator McCain opined: “It is hard to understand how a team accepting taxpayer funds to sponsor a military appreciation game, or to recognize wounded warriors or returning troops can be construed as anything other than paid patriotism.”

Senator Flake added: “These tributes are as popular as the kiss cam. But when people assume this is a goodwill gesture and then find out the heart-felt moment is part of a taxpayer-funded marketing campaign, it cheapens the whole thing.”

McCain has introduced a bill to ban such payments in the future and Bloomberg News reported that NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell has pledged to conduct an audit of all contracts between NFL teams and the military. Goodell promised: “Any payments made for activities beyond recruitment or advertising will be refunded in full.”

God knows, Goodell has every incentive to be proactive and corral bad publicity as quickly as possible. Goodell has already been suffering through a personal annus horribilis bumbling through a multitude of NFL issues like domestic abuse, head injuries, and concussions, “deflategate” and the Tom Brady law suit mess; hence his  pledge. Other professional sports have been silent or less forthcoming, so far.

Free publicity for congress, angst for pro-sports; please note, this whole semi-non-story should pass quickly enough unless Trump chooses to run with it.

Two footnotes:

1: The amount involved ($6.8MM) doesn’t exactly impact on the D.O.D. budget of $619 billion as it represents .00001% of this amount.

2: Note, the New York Football Giants, New York Yankees and New York Mets remain clean, so far.

My last piece, “A Bagel Infamnia,” resulted in  more comments than any other I have written. Here are two that the author’s have agreed to let me share with you.

John Delach

Texas

Phil Brown

Your piece reminds me of the smells from the local bakery that wafted out in the early morning…if you had an early paper route, or was up to go duck hunting or perhaps just coming home after a night out the smell was unbelievable. I grew up in a small town, and before bread was brought in each day form Dallas or Fort Worth in semi trucks we had two bakeries on the square. You could go in to the bakery and buy a loaf of the hot, fresh baked bread and with butter slavered on it you were in for a real delight…not as good as my grandmother made but a close second. Then gradually the big bread factories were able to ship in bread, cakes, cookies, and other baked goods and there went the bakeries. Later the local dairy and the ice house went the same way…gone like the buffalo…

White Plains

Geoff Jones

Your piece had me recalling my early days in White Plains. We had an ice man who delivered regularly to those not having electric refrigerators which included a couple of apartments in our building. The way the guy carried two huge blocks slung against his legs in big tongs and with his black heavy apron to keep him warm or dry(never knew which) always interested me.

We had a fish truck at least once a week probably on Fridays out of deference to Catholics abiding by the meatless Friday dictum. The truck was basically a pick up with a dog house roof over two sloping pieces of plywood sectioned off to hold the fish on top of ice cubes. Very primitive but functional. There was a cutting board for the fish monger to gut and clean purchases and a typical market scale hung from the roof beam. Beneath the cutting board were compartments with wrapping paper and knives. I don’t recall if he had a bell to announce his presence but somehow the mother’s always knew when fish monger was there. It looked like a social occasion as these women all gathered around waiting their turn. It’s a really fond memory.

On occasion the “scissors grinder” came down the block in an old truck and he did have a bell he loudly rung to announce himself. Out came mothers but in spite of the “scissors” appellation they all seemed to be carrying knives rather than scissors. It was the same sort of gabfest the fish monger created.

Another odd truck was the asphalt truck to repair cracks and potholes in the street. You could hear it coming because the flame heating the asphalt had a distinct roar. The crew had buckets they filled and then poured into holes or if it was a crack they carefully followed it with a slow pour then moved on. The asphalt (we called it tar) cooled pretty quickly but always left a slight bulge over the hole or crack and on hot summer days it became pliable and for kicks we sometimes carved it out. The crew was always filthy as one might imagine and when we engaged in our vandalism we learned why. The stuff was really sticky and hard to remove from hands and jeans. This usually earned us a smack on the butt or harsh words when we returned home to frustrated mothers.

I’m not sure about a produce truck. I seem to remember one but I also suspect I may have created a memory because I recall no details.

An Italian bakery (commercial) opened a block from our apartment. They did have a modest retail counter as well and we kids were often sent there to buy a loaf. We knew when a batch was out of the oven because the aroma wafted over the neighborhood and that’s when we’d run the errand. I remember for reasons unknown that it cost 20 cents, maybe I recall because it was probably the first time I was asked to engage in a commercial transaction. The bread was warm and delicious smelling. Most times we kids couldn’t resist tearing off a small end piece to eat on the way home. My mother, and I suspect others, scolded me for this but it was too hard to resist so we continued to do it. Then one day the baker’s assistant gave me a small chunk of bread the size of a “spaldeen” with the admonition “eat this and not the bread”. Apparently enough mothers’s conveyed their complaint to the baker who found a Solomon like solution.

The coal truck showed up often in cold weather. It parked in the drive and directed a chute into one of the cellar windows. That particular window had a sloped cement sill instead of the flat ones in the other windows. The chute fit perfectly into it keeping it level so the sliding coal didn’t spill out. The pile in the cellar seemed huge to us and after a delivery we opened the cellar door and played in the pile which annoyed everyone. It stirred it up so coal gas rose into the upper floors; it got our clothes making them and is filthy. The “super” got mad as it meant him having to shovel coal back on to the pile from where we’d scattered it. The good news: So far no black lung symptoms.

Growing up Catholic in Ridgewood was the urban equivalent of living in a small town. We didn’t have a single supermarket when I was a child, but we did have specialty stores for everything we needed. A butcher, a pork store, a bakery, delicatessens, candy and newspaper shops, a green grocer, florist and two A&Ps that were no bigger than local delis. We had Penisi, the shoe maker, and Penisi the barber, laundries, a tailor, Doctor Koch and Dr. Bongeorno, the dentist. For bad times we had drug stores, churches and funeral parlors. Finally, when I was nine or ten, a single Bohack supermarket was built on a vacant lot seven blocks away.

The food we ate reflected our isolation. My mother made sandwiches on Tip Top, Wonder, Silvercup or Tasty white bread, each as bland and tasteless as any other. On rare occasions like Dwight David Eisenhower’s election in 1952 or when the Dodgers won the World Series in 1955, she would celebrate buying a loaf of Arnold’s Brick Oven white bread. A grilled cheese sandwich on Arnold’s Bread, “My tongue would throw a party for my mouth.”

But other than these world class events, the only normal exception to my bland bread diet came on weekends when I was detailed to go to Eichler’s deli to buy Kaiser rolls or bagels. Both were scrumptious and over time my taste buds came to prefer the bagels produced by authentic kosher bakeries. In retrospect, I am certain that they were a day old when we bought them but these plain gems were all we knew.

This isolation lasted until friends and I gained access to cars that led us to discover a single bagel bakery located in Fresh Meadows on the service road to the Long Island Expressway called, Bagel Oasis. This holy of holies offered fresh, hot, delicious bagels. Not just plain; a universe of salt, onion, garlic, poppy, sesame bagels and (are you ready for it?)…cinnamon raisin. “Strike me down Lord, for I have witnessed the Promised Land!”

Bagel Oasis broke the barrier of our isolation as we realized a whole new world of bagels was out there. Did the number of bagel stores proliferate or was I finally set free? It didn’t matter and, with the exception of high Jewish holidays when the stores and their bakers closed in observance, bagels were plentiful across the Metropolitan area.

But these edible gems never traveled well restricting their production to areas with substantial Jewish populations. Why? The International Bagel Bakers Union founded in New York in 1907 was an exclusive trade organization that actually kept its minutes in Yiddish well into the 1950s. Nor were they eager to have non-union bakers share their craft and were not adverse to employing strong-arm tactics to enforce this.

So you were out of luck in scoring a bagel unless you lived in New York, Miami, Montreal or a few other places. Then along came Daniel Thompson, son of Meyer Thompson, from Hull, England. Daniel was born in Winnipeg, Canada in 1921 and recently passed away in 2015 at the age of 94.

This Canadian inventor, who created the first wheeled, folding Ping-Pong table, successfully engineered a bagel-making machine in 1961 that out-produced what a single baker could hand-fold by 280 bagels an hour. The NY Baker’s Bench observed: “…like the steam drill (versus) John Henry, (it) put hand-rollers of New York’s Local 338 out of business.”

Granted, at first glance made from a distance, the new concoction looked like a bagel, but as The New York Times reported in Mr. Thompson’s obituary, “…idealists deplore (it) as little more than cotton wool…” or as Wonder Bread encased in an edible  plastic shell.

The Times continued: “…even invective-rich Yiddish lacks words critical enough to describe a machine-made bagel, though shande – disgrace – perhaps comes closest.”

I prefer: “Bagel Infamnia.”

Nevertheless, RIP Daniel Thompson

“A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon you’re talking real money.”

Senator Everett McKinley Dirksen, Illinois

The USS Zumwalt, DDG 1000, is the lead vessel of a new class of US Navy guided missile destroyers designed to be, “Multi-mission stealth ships with a focus on land attack.”

If you think that sounds like new-speak, let me put it another way; Zumwalt, named for Admiral Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr. and her two sister-ships, DDG 1001, the USS Michael Monsoon, named for a Navy Seal awarded the Medal of Honor and, DDG 1002, the USS Lyndon B. Johnson will cost the American taxpayers at least $22 billion.

First proposed in 1994, the lead ship will not become operational until 2018 at the earliest. Meanwhile, the cost of building this class of vessels has become so out-of-control that the number of ships was cut from 32 first to 24, then to seven and finally to just these three. Not only that, but during the course of development, the Navy admitted to Congress in 2010 that these 14,000 tonners weren’t going to be up to their design tasks and asked for eight additional Arleigh Burke destroyers, the class the Zumwalts were expected to replace. They even offered to suspend the two already under construction at Bath iron Works in Maine and cancel the third as a trade-off.

But the late Senator Edward M. Kennedy and Senator Susan Collins from Maine would have none of that so the navy got their eight Arleigh Burkes while funding continued for three Zumwalts.

So what are we getting for our tax dollars at work? Three 600 foot long ships at a building cost of $4.3 billion (it was $3.96 billion three years ago) each powered by Rolls-Royce gas turbines driving Curtis-Wright electric generators providing ten times the power available on current destroyers. This is important as almost all the weapon systems are electrically powered including some not yet ready for prime time like the rail gun.

This idea of building weapons before all of the systems are operational is an insanity that the military has adopted. The same problems infect F-35 fighter program and the CVN-79, Gerald Ford aircraft carrier class. Back in 2009, the Government Accounting Office (GAO) “…found that four out of 12 of the critical technologies in the Zumwalts’ design were fully mature. Six were ‘approaching maturity’ but five would not be fully mature until after installation. Now that’s one hell of a way to build a ship!

Their physical appearance is nothing to write home about either. The Boston Globe’s Christopher Rowland recently described them: “With sharp angels and sleek surfaces that evoke Hollywood science fiction, the Zumwalts… are the weirdest-looking warships…”

“…Picture an Aztec pyramid welded atop a machete blade.” The bow is inverted giving a similar appearance to battleships and cruisers that fought in the Spanish-American War in 1898. This is all done in the name of stealth to limit the ships’ radar signature. On paper, it is no bigger than a fishing boat. In return the ships stability in hurricane-force weather is being questioned.

But wait, wait…with only three units, the mission remains unclear and the suggestion has been advanced that they be utilized “…as state-of-the-art platforms for experimental weapons such as lasers and electromagnetic rail guns.” I kid you not!

James R. Holmes, a professor of strategy at the Naval War College noted, “I wouldn’t describe fleet experimentation as the ‘best’ use for the Zumwalts, but more as a way to make lemonade out of lemons.”

To which I would reply, “Professor, you can’t shine shit!”

This past Election Day, I received an odd letter in a curious envelope having the appearance of containing junk mail. Preparing to discard it unopened, I hesitated as two distinctions caught my attention. First, it was addressed to an E. Delach and second, the printed postage symbol noted: “Postage paid GB: ROYAL MAIL: £1.00.”

Opened it I did, to find a letter addressed to E. Delach at my address from a certain Mr. A. P. This was curious as E. Delach hasn’t lived here for over 20 years, and changed her surname after marriage in 1997. Still, I pressed on. A.P. described himself as: Head Auditor, Barclays Capital Finance. His purpose was to present E. Delach with the news that a certain Mr. J.B. Delach had opened an account at his firm in 2002, but sadly passed in 2008. Poor, J.B. left no will and evidence of a family could not be established.

A.P. explained: “(Without an heir or will)… I decided to contact you to stand as next of kin since you share the same last name with him.”

A.P. did infer a possible personal profit motive in his proposed partnership explaining that if E. Delach either, “…set(s) up a new account or provide(s) an existing account that will serve the purpose of receiving this fund..,” he will compensate E. Delach with “…40% of the funds after the transaction.”

Forty percent of zero is still zero but A.P. boldly stated that the gross amount of the sum in question is GB£ 12,500,000. To reinforce his point he also spelled it out as Twelve Million Five Hundred Thousands British Pounds. Oh Happy Day!

A.P. explained: “This information I have on this account is confidential as no other person has access to it.”

He warned to urgently proceed with his plan otherwise the window of opportunity will vanish and this money will be converted to company funds for the benefit of the shareholders only. Greedy bastards!

Where is Bernie Sanders or the Weavers when I need them?

Oh the banks are made of marble,

with a guard at every door.

And the vaults are full of silver,

That the farmer never saw.

A.P. provided his private direct phone number, fax and email address. As I pondered, “What to do, what to do,” I continued to sort the mail. I set aside an appeal from The Bowery Mission seeking a Thanksgiving Day’s donation. In the stack were the latest issues of National Review and New York magazines and a gaggle of catalogues. Hold on; as I sorted the catalogues, I discovered trapped between two an identical envelope to the one addressed to E. Delach, but this one was addressed to John J. Delach.
Truly, a serendipitous moment especially as I discovered the contents was identical to E. Delach’s letter. Of course, cynics caution that the receipt of identical solicitations negates A.P.’s statement that the contents were confidential to E. Delach only. I prefer a more pragmatic road that both E. Delach and John J. Delach are each entitled to 40% maximizing our share to 80%. Oh Happy Day!

To be sure, caution will be my calling-card. I plan to wait to see if other household members, past and present also receive like solicitations. Mary Ann, (wife) Michael (son) as starting points but also, Woofie, Harry, Fred, Bubba, Maggie, Buster and Max. Since all of these canine companions except Max are deceased, they will fit very nicely with collecting J.B. Delach’s monetary legacy and wrecking ole A.P. once we exceed 100% of the share.

As for Max, I am certain if he receives his own letter and is included in my reverse scam that he will sell out for treats regardless of the amount I collect.

Oh Happy Day!      

The executives and chief engineers at Volkswagen (VW) face a self-imposed crisis of  that may permanently cripple the world’s second largest auto maker if not destroy it. If that happens, it will catapult VW into a new category of ruined businesses completely surpassing other monumental failures like Arthur Andersen, Lehman Brothers and Enron. Herr doctor Martin Winterkorn, who was CEO from the time that the dastardly deed began in 2009 until he was forced to resign on September 23, 2015 would become the butt of semi-apolitically correct jokes joining the Fuhrer with ridicule like this:

Did you know the German people actually hated Hitler for all of the stupid things he did? Like losing the war!

I will try to recap what this crisis is all about for those of you who have been too busy playing fantasy football, tuning in to the latest Kim, Kourtney or Khloe Kardashian dilemma, exploit or scandal or crying in your beer after the Mets lost a brutal World Series in five games.

Jack Ewing reporting for The New York Times wrote:

After he became chief executive in 2007, Mr. Winterkorn declared his determination to make Volkswagen the world’s largest carmaker overtaking Toyota. He was known for his intense attention to the technical fine points of the vehicles the company produced.

“A lot of things were subordinated to the desire to be faster, higher, larger,” (the successor CEO, Matthias Muller) said in a conference call with analysts and reporters…”

Mr. Winterkorn’s management style, coupled with a relentless drive for growth, is cited by some critics…as a contributing factor to the scandal by impeding open communication and perhaps causing subordinates to cheat rather than admit failure.

And cheat they did on an unprecedented scale. One of VW’s goals was to develop clean, green diesels that …were environmentally responsible while delivering excellent fuel economy.

This turned out to be a fool’s errand; such a diesel being as mythical as “clean coal.” Instead of addressing the problem head-on, certain company executives and engineers chose to develop software that would cheat on control tests by lowering oxide emissions to acceptable levels making full use of pollution controls. Once the engines passed, the software shut down providing excellent fuel economy but producing as much as 40 times the allowable limits for nitrogen oxide.

The possibility of fraud was discovered by the Environmental Protection Agency (E.P.A.) which road tests vehicles instead of using European static laboratory tests. In May 2014, diesels in a 2012 Jetta and a 2013 Passat repeatedly emitted high levels of nitrogen oxide. Finally, in August of 2015, the E.P.A. stated that it would not certify VW’s 2015 diesels until the discrepancies were explained. On August 18^th a VW executive finally came clean.

The German Government is forcing VW to recall 8.5 million vehicles in Europe and 500,000 in the United States. VW is estimating the cost at €6.7 billion not including fines, penalties and legal fees. The fine imposed by the Federal Government will likely be greater than that imposed on BP for the spill in the Gulf of Mexico as this event was deliberate and not accidental.

Further and even more devastating than the monetary cost, the Justice Department’s investigation could conceivably lead to criminal charges against both individuals and against VW as a corporate entity if culpability reaches that high. If that transpires, people will likely go to prison and VW as now constituted, would cease to exist.

Be assured that intense anxiety has descended upon company headquarters in Wolfsburg, Germany that will not be lifted any time soon. Is Gotterdammerung at hand in Wolfs- burg?

I’d first like to get something off of my chest: What really upsets me about the flock of GOP wannabees running for President is how timid and flaccid they appear in the face of Trump, the here-to-fore front-runner and his belligerent rhetoric. For God’s sake, stop referring to him as Mr. Trump! Call him Trump or Don. Piss him off for a change. When was the last time he called you Mr. Bush or Ms Fiorina or Dr. Carson? And you don’t have to get down in the mud with him either. Think back to the Reagan – Carter debate when Jimmy rattled on and on milking a point to demonstrate his superior knowledge and intellect. How did Ronnie handle it: “Oh, there you go again.”

Thank you. Now please be patient while I climb down from this soap box. I have to be careful with this fake hip.

Okay, with that out of my system, New York, New York. Thinking about the Big Apple made me think of Trump who is in many ways a consummate fighting New Yorker. He wears the same cloak as Rudy Giuliani or my friend, Peter King. They epitomize the spirit of the following “light bulb joke:”

How many New Yorkers does it take to change a light bulb?

None of your f**king business.

Being a life-long New Yorker, I admit how full of ourselves we can be but like loud-mouth bullies everywhere, the right combination of attitude and vocabulary can quickly deflate us. Our arch-rivals who best us more times than not are London based Brits. They master the understatement with their stiff upper lips as they muddle through while waiting stoically in seemingly endless queues. I once watched as a matronly British Airway’s flight attendant stop my evil, loud-mouthed twin right in his tracks with her censure: “Must you constantly be this bombastic?”

The one card that knowledgeable Brits can play on us any time they wish is to compare London taxis to New York cabs. Usually, they are so subtle that they let us walk right into their trap permitting visiting New Yorkers to gush on and on about how great London taxis are and how terrific the drivers are:

“Your taxis are so clean, so roomy, so great!”

“Your drivers are so knowledgeable, so English, so terrific!”

The Brits actually preen as we walk into the trap and lock the cage behind us. Some of us only dig the hole deeper observing: “You know, once we had decent taxis, the Checker.”

Balderdash, sure the Checker was roomy but it moved like a tank, stiffly jarring passengers’ bones with every pothole the driver hit. This ice box in winter could sit five if two unfortunate souls were willing to sit on minuscule metal jump seats that unfolded from the metal floor. The worst cabs were around in the bad days of the 1970s, the Dodge Coronet. No leg room, no ass room, three in the back made it feel like a clown car. Awful, awful.

While no one in authority can improve our army of immigrant drivers, the city recently introduced a new specialty Nissan mini-van taxi. It is supposed to be the cure-all for all of our taxi woes as it replaces the current assortment of cars, SUVs and regular mini vans now in the fleet. Time, weather and the awful pounding received in New York’s infamous streets will eventually tell the tail of their suitability.

As a mechanic once asked my wife, Mary Ann, who drove a Buick daily to P.S. 121 in South Ozone Park, Queens: “Where do you drive this car, East Beirut?”

Monday, October 12, 2015 was Columbus Day, an official federal holiday since 1934. Curiously, Franklin D. Roosevelt declared the second Monday in October to be Columbus Day in the same year that Benito Mussolini also deemed it to be a national holiday in his Fascist controlled nation. This immediately led to bloody confrontations in New York City pitting Il Duce followers against anti-Fascists.

World War II ended those confrontations and Columbus Day evolved into a source of Italian- American pride. This became especially true in New York City where the annual parade up Fifth Avenue empowers our Italian-American brothers and sisters to gather, march and participate with the same spirit (albeit with less alcohol) as Irish do on St. Patrick’s Day, the Germans on Steuben Day, the Poles on Kosciusko Day, Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, Jews, etc, etc on their days.

This annual affair attracts every politician wanting to make a statement or show his or her face. The 2015 edition attracted both Gov. Andrew Cuomo and Comrade Mayor Bill Deblasio who marched separately, of course, because they hate each other.

Granted though, over the years with cultural changes and flex days at work Columbus’ significance has diminished. Many New Yorkers treat it as another day; you’re either off, or not off. In the Northeast, if you’re off, you may consider it as a long weekend to travel up into New England to see the fall foliage.

But still, it’s a national holiday. Growing up in 1950’s America, I remember, when Columbus was important enough that the Dominican nuns at St. Aloysius elementary school taught us to memorize (in part):

In fourteen hundred in ninety two,

Columbus sailed the ocean blue…

Have you heard though that Columbus has an infamous record? Oh dear, in South Dakota, they have replaced the explorer and have been celebrating “Native American Day” on the second Monday in October since 1990.

This year, in Alaska, Gov. Bill Walker’s executive proclamation re-named Chris’ day as “Indigenous Peoples Day.”  In so doing, Alaska joined at least nine US cities celebrating this new man-made holiday. These cities include Albuquerque, NM, Anadarko, OK, Portland, OR, St. Paul MN and two cities in Washington; Olympia and Seattle.

Oklahoma City is next up ready to make the same decision. Sarah Adams-Cornell, a local OK City activist made this plea to rid her city of Columbus: “This is something that I’ve struggled with for a long time. The fact that our country, our state and our city celebrate this holiday around this man who murdered and enslaved and raped indigenous people and decimated an entire population.”

Now that’s one hell of an indictment to throw against this mythic explorer. I wonder how much bail would have been set if he was still around?

And yet, the renowned historian, Samuel Eliot Morison, thought otherwise and described Columbus in his epic biography published in 1955, Admiral of the Ocean Sea:

“He had his faults and his defects, but they were largely the defects of the qualities that made him great–indomitable will, his superb faith in God and his own mission as the Christ-bearer to lands beyond the seas, his stubborn persistence despite neglect, poverty and discouragement. But there was no flaw, no dark side to the most outstanding…of all his qualities—his seamanship.”

It would appear, this perception no longer persists. Few rise to praise Columbus much less defend him. It seems he has been marginalized and made responsible for every bad thing done to Native-Americans from the Pilgrims landing through Little Big Horn and Wounded Knee. In my opinion, wrongly so, since the record demonstrates, he never landed in mainland America.

Still, if Columbus must get the old heave-ho, should those of Italian descent be deprived of their day of rightful acclaim? I think not, but then who?

How about Gugielmo Marconi, inventor of the wireless telegraph, or Giovanni da Verazzano, the explorer whose name graces the grand suspension bridge that spans the entrance to New York Harbor, or Americus Vespucius, another renown explorer whose name the entire western World has adopted to describe themselves: North and South America.

While you think about that in your spare time, ponder this; if the person or persons who decided to name two continents after this explorer had done it correctly, the land we live in would not be America, we would live in the United States of Vespucia…frightening, but have a nice day.

Woe to the railroads operating in and out of New York’s Pennsylvania Station. The six 105-year-old tunnels, four under the East River connecting to Long Island and the two Hudson River tubes connecting to New Jersey, are in sorry shape. Two of the four East River tubes flooded during Superstorm Sandy as did both of their Hudson River cousins. Almost three years later, the track beds, wiring, signals and the concrete itself continue to deteriorate thanks to the millions of gallons of salt water that filled them for several days.

What exacerbates the problem is all of these tunnels are part of Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor and Amtrak is perpetually broke. This ugly step-child of Uncle Sam must grovel before congress for every cent of its inadequate annual budget. Unlike Amtrak, Uncle and his politicians love their two healthy offspring, those pretty twins, the airlines and the automobile / trucking industry showering them with generous gifts like highways, airports and an elaborate air traffic control system. Passenger trains remain unwanted and unloved whose early death would be a Godsend to Congress.

Like it or not, 340,000 riders move through Penn Station each and every weekday on 1,200 trains. The Long Island Railroad (LIRR) carries more than 230,000, New Jersey Transit (NJT), 80,000 and 30,000 travel on Amtrak. Eventually, a fair chunk of those LIRR riders will shift to the new East Side Access Terminal now being constructed deep under Grand Central Terminal but that traffic could be offset by proposals to bring commuters from Connecticut, Westchester and The Bronx into Penn Station on Metro North via the Hell Gate Bridge.

NJT is also clamoring for additional tracks in Penn Station as currently only 332 of their 697 daily trains can fit into their primary morning destination. Those two Hudson River tubes are barely adequate to carry their existing load and the failure of one train already leads to extensive delays. Unfortunately, an expansion of NJT service into Penn Station cannot be addressed until well past the mid-point of the Twenty-First Century.

Before it can even be considered, two new tubes must be dug under the Hudson and up until recently neither money nor sufficient political will existed to undertake this massive project. It will take at least ten years from first shovel and will cost a minimum of $14 billion. (Twenty billion dollars if an addition to Penn Station is included.) But service disruptions in these tunnels this summer have convinced Governorers Andrew Cuomo and Chris Christie to cooperate with each other and the Feds to get the ball rolling. Even when finished, congestion will not be quickly ended as the existing tunnels must then be closed for two years for a thorough refurbishment.

Meanwhile, the two damaged East River tubes will likewise be rebuilt one at a time. Strangely enough, Amtrak actually carries real commercial insurance covering loss or damage to these tunnels. But like standard property insurance it has a sub-limit for damage caused by floods. Amtrak sued for $1.1 billion on the grounds that the damage was due to a wind-driven storm surge but U.S. District Judge Jed Rakoff ruled a flood is a flood and limited liability to $125 million. Senator Chuck Schumer has proposed that the Feds allocate a grant using the Sandy storm recovery funds which Amtrak could offset by any additional money they may be awarded when they appeal Judge Rakoff’s ruling.

At last plans and concepts seem to be coalescing. Now all we need is money so if you have some spare change…brother can you spare a dime?

Foley’s NY, a Midtown pub located on the south side of East Thirty-Third Street opposite the Empire State Building courageously identifies itself as: “An Irish Pub with a Baseball Attitude.” This sports stronghold forcefully projects this message without apology or hesitation shouting it out from the saloon’s fire engine red façade, the curious bicycle mounted above it, the flags of US and the Republic of Ireland, baseball bats  substituting for door handles and a sign proclaiming: “The Bar that Banned DANNY BOY.”

All of these features reflect the attitude of its proprietor, Shaun Clancy, to set Foley’s apart from the other eateries occupying the same territory. Shaun, a bear of a man and a born saloon keeper; quick with the wit, quick with the challenge, quick with the charm and the humor. He embodies all that make the Irish special.

When Shaun set out to establish his own saloon, his goal was to combine his two greatest loves, the hospitality industry and baseball. “I wanted an Irish name that had a baseball connection. I thought about different names before I finally realized that Red Foley, (the sports writer for the New York Daily News for 34 years,) was right under my nose. I had known Red for a few years and when I proposed naming it in his honor, he replied, ‘Why me, I don’t even drink?”

Shaun replied, “All the better, now I can feed you whenever you like but I don’t have to worry about your bar bill.” Red agreed and Foley’s NY was born in 2004.

I discovered Foley’s as I was working my way toward Penn Station one afternoon returning from a Mid-town lunch. The red façade stopped me cold, the bats beckoned, I stepped inside, ordered a Guinness and the rest was history.

In the years since that day, my friend, Mike Scott and I have made it our exclusive Manhattan watering hole establishing a rapport with Shaun, his dad: Papa John, his son, Ryan, and daughter, Emma, and the bevy of mostly Irish waitresses who charm the patrons with their wit, personality and smiles.

Foley’s is a museum of sports memorabilia, both ordinary and rare ranging from bobble head figurines to uniforms with everything in between. The signature items though are Shaun’s collection of autographed baseballs numbering in the thousands. Most of the signatures concern baseball, being players, managers and coaches, scouts, front office people, writers and broadcasters. Shaun’s collection also includes famous people from other sports, actors, politicians, business and clerical VIPs. Included in the latter are baseballs tagged by Cardinals Edward Egan and Timothy Dolan.

So it wasn’t surprising that Shaun issued a challenge to all who knew him that if some one could score Pope Francis’ signature on a baseball during his visit to New York in September, Shaun would donate 1,000 meals to St. Francis Church’s out reach program. (St. Francis is a local Manhattan church two blocks from Foley’s.)

I chose to take a low path and a high path. My low path became a prank. I bought a new baseball on which I wrote:  “To Mister Clancyman: Vaya con Dios.” I signed it, “Pappa Frankie 1.”

I presented this to Shaun who accepted it without becoming overly upset.

My high road was to take a shot at seeing if the real thing could be obtained despite insane odds against it. My secret weapon was a VIP from the World Trade Center whom I know from a football tailgate group. I knew absolutely that he would see the pope when Francis traveled to the WTC Museum for an inter-faith gathering and there was a chance that this chap might meet Francis and perhaps have a private chat with him during the visit. He readily accepted this challenge calculating how to create a scenario to pull this off.

Alas, this was not to be. Every photo taken of Francis at that visit shows him being closely escorted by former mayor, Mike Bloomberg, Cardinal Dolan and his own omni-present security detail.

As my buddy reported back after the visit, “It was literally impossible to get his autograph.”

And so it went. Shaun had four or five other sources who also tried unsuccessfully to obtain Pope Francis’ moniker. Security was just too tight, extreme and with no sense of humor or of the absurd. At least we tried. Shaun, however, chose to fulfill his promise to St. Francis despite this collective inability to succeed.

God bless you, Shaun Clancy, in addition to being a great saloon proprietor, you are, my friend, a stand-up citizen.