John Delach

Annabel Shapiro, the youngest daughter of my old London mate, John, recently returned from a vacation in the Canary Islands.

Known to her friends as Bel, she is both founder and operator of an award-winning,  London-based food cart known as The Bell & Brisket. In business for about two years Bel and her associates operate at both scheduled and serendipitous locations throughout greater London. They are engaged in what is known locally as “the kerb life.” While they take their food seriously, not so much themselves. For example dubbing the converted horsebox/food truck: “The Whoresbox.”

For the record, the main ingredient is brisket or as they also call it on the other side of the pond, salt beef. The brisket is hand cured locally and served on traditional boiled Jewish bagels or local rye bread with pickles, relish and cheddar melted by means of a blow torch; a nice touch.

Here is the message Bel sent to her father describing her diving experience in the Canaries:

So I went diving today, brilliant as always, but there’s a kind of etiquette involved that really makes me laugh.

At about 8:30 AM all the local dive schools converge on the same dive spot on the coast. There are standard trips the instructors take you out on so they know it like the back of their hands. What makes me laugh is that there are classic stereotypical behaviors from each school that all have their own branded vans and gear.

There are the Germans who stand there broad chested and Aryan barking orders at their group. Their kit is immaculate, gas tanks all lined up facing the same way, equipment in the sun with flippers and wet suits matching like a row of backing singers in a band. Everything perfect, slick and on time.

There are the Spanish, swarthy, tanned and sinewy like well-whittled wood, with hipster beards, tie die clothes and flip-flops. With sharp, angular faces; they are born to look good in a wet suit. They just rock up and dive on their own time; manana, manana.

Then there are us Brits. The school is run by Dave and Paul who seem to be having a competition to see who can get the biggest gut into a wet suit. Paul is winning but Dave likes a smoke and gets as many fags in as possible before he actually has to go under water. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d cracked open a can of Stella before the dive. Their van is a bit shit. The door handle came off in my hand. But they are salt of the earth and I had a great day with them. Gawd bless the Brits!          

The piece I selected for this edition is one of the last I wrote before I began this blog. Before it begins, I want to thank all of my loyal readers who have offered your wonderful comments and observations. I enjoy your responses.

Secondly, I invite readers who would like to write a guest blog to do so. I will work with you on your submissions and I will never publish a final version until you sign off on it.

Port Washington Pigeons

The Long Island Railroad is engaged in a perpetual conflict with those pigeons that inhabit their Port Washington station. It is a losing fight. Despite each new and more inventive obstacle that the LIRR erects to make the creatures’ lives uncomfortable and drive them away from their nesting spots, these dirty birds either find alternative locations to live and breed or learn to co-exist with these man-made distractions. When the railroad placed netting on the underside of the weather canopies, the pigeons moved to the canopies that cover the platforms. So the LIRR retaliated by adding spikes to the tops of the rafters the flying rats were using for their homes. Having lost this spot, some birds merely shifted their nests to the tops of the message boards and television monitors that dot the platforms while others simply maneuvered between these spikes. It is almost a certainty that they will find new locations once the LIRR blocks these spots.

The pigeons have been residents of the station for so long that they have accommodated themselves to this world finding new ways to feed themselves. They understand the pace of the day avoiding the hordes of “Dashing Dans” and “Dashing Janes” as these commuters hustle through the station during the morning and evening rushes.

But, between 10 am and 4 pm, they take advantage of the relatively slow pace of activity to find their daily fare. When a train arrives from Penn Station and the passengers depart, the doors remain open for New York City bound passengers. The birds confidently approach the open doors and hop on board individual coaches to bob and weave under the seats prowling for any discarded food. Some uninitiated arriving passengers can be startled by their appearance especially when a bobbing head appears as if from nowhere beneath their seat. Others try to drive them from the train by standing up and waving newspapers at them but this foolishness just causes a commotion for everybody by having birds taking flight in these confined quarters. Veteran riders learn to live with this invasion and the pigeons take little notice of them.

The pigeons have developed a sense of when the doors will close and when they should abandon their hunt to exit the train. It may be the announcements that are always made shortly before departure, simply pure timing or even the warning bell that signals imminent departure.

But every now and then a preoccupied pigeon misses “last call” becoming an involuntary westbound passenger. The captive bird takes this in stride, calmly making its way to a door located on the left hand side of the coach. There the bird waits patiently for the doors to open once the train arrives at Plandome, the next station on the line. A quick hop off the train and on to the platform, the bird usually checks the platform to see if a snack is close by before lifting off for its five-minute flight back to Port Washington.

Please understand that I know very little about cars especially macho or muscle varieties. But even I am somewhat familiar with the venerable Porsche 911. The New York Times recently reviewed the 2015 rendition of the 911 GTS. The reporter, Tom Voelk, waxed eloquently about the performance and features of the $142,300 version he was permitted to test. Witness the following: “With the engine singing baritone from behind, 0 to 60 miles an hour is a 3.8-second thrill ride.”

Still Mr. Voelk’s review noted the 911’s aging features: “The 911’s delicious analog nature is a blessing in our digital world.” Or: “Issues? At $142,000, a backup camera would be nice.”

In summary, he compares the 911 to “…a BMW 18 that’s bursting with new technology. One is a Rolex. The other an Apple Watch.”

Which brings me to my 911 story; years ago, my firm arranged for a European colleague to attend a month-long summer course at the Tuck School of Business at Dartmouth University. Designed as an intense mini-version of an M.B.A. program this chap would have little free time except for the middle weekend. Since Dartmouth is about 50 miles from our New Hampshire house, I invited him to spend a relaxing weekend with us.

We shall call him Broker X to protect the innocent. Known as a charming rascal, Broker X readily accepted this invitation and I drove him to Marlow after picking him up from his campus quarters. Tall and thin, he had a way with women and could instantly charm them. This despite suffering from bad skin that one could sum up if being uncharitable: “One day his face caught fire and they put it out with a fork.”

Despite this handicap, a church lady once remarked about Broker X, “I don’t know what it is about that man but I cannot be in the same room alone with him. If I am, I start to feel funny inside.”

The highlight of his visit was a round of golf at the Hooper Golf Club in the town Walpole on the Connecticut River. Hooper is a lovely little course with nine fairways but with 18 tee boxes. Cut into the forest, several fairways look down toward the river and neighboring Vermont.

My then 14-year-old son, Michael, joined Broker X for the round. “Tell me Mister X, what kind of a car do you drive back home?

“A Volvo,” he replied.

“No, no, I am not talking about your company car, what kind of a car do you own back home?

“Ah, a Porsche 911.”

“I’ll tell you what; we have a blue Ford Escort back home. How about I’ll trade you the Escort for your 911?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay then, I’ll throw in my 16-year old sister!”

The New York Times recently published an extensive account of a trip to Indonesia that I sent to my buddy, Geoff Jones. In their salad days, Geoff, and his wife, Judy, traveled to remote and exotic places seeking unconventional adventures and Geoff recalled several of his experiences on their trip back in the mid 90’s:

The only way that we could travel from island to island was by air. They operated like a local bus service and we mostly flew on one of two airlines, Merpati and Simpate, both owned by the Suharto family. They were simply awful. They had a terrible safety record and were infested with roaches. On one flight my seatback collapsed into the next row making it impossible to fasten my seatbelt. That wasn’t all, comically; the airplane featured two ordinary chairs situated near the door. They were moved out of the way for boarding, etc. and were used by the cabin crew for takeoffs and landings.

At one airport, my friend, Randy and I, decided to exchange $100 bills for Rupiah, the local currency. I don’t recall the rate of exchange but the stack they gave us was so large that they also gave us large size super market paper bags to cart the money away. When Randy and I returned to the luggage carousel where Judy and his wife, Toni, were waiting, they looked at the bags with surprise and asked what we had purchased? We replied, “Nothing, but look in here.”

We all nearly collapsed with laughter. The Rupiahs were so worthless that our stash consisted of one inch bundles of filthy colored paper with a rubber banded sample of the denomination around it. To purchase something, we counted out bundles, not the bills,

That airport was also a zoo. The luggage carousel didn’t actually move and the luggage arrived on old pickups. The handlers slid the bags down a ramp going in various directions depending which of the raised slots on the carousel slide they happened to hit. On the ceiling, a mounted fan rotated around in a vain attempt to moderate the intense heat inside the terminal. The fan didn’t have any blades. Between the money exchange, the luggage and the fan, we nearly pissed in our pants.

Indonesia is so big that it spans seven time zones. Ethnically diverse, it is heavily Chinese in the West but gradually turns aborigine as we traveled east. On a two-hour plane flight you feel you have crossed into a new world and not that you are still in the same country. A flight from Java to Irian Jaya made about a half dozen stops. On another from Jakarta, we reached our destination, Jojakarta after dark, tired and sweaty. The airport was deserted and we had to change terminals. Finally we found a terminal that listed our flight. I felt so dirty that I bought a shirt to replace my filthy one and changed in a bathroom. It was a neat looking Garuda Airline shirt but later in the trip after washing, it shrunk to the size of doll clothing. It might have fit “Ken.”

We visited with tribes slightly beyond their stone-age head-hunting days. The women were bare-breasted and wore a net cloth around their waists that served as a soft cover up and was also used as a shopping bag. The men split penis gourds and western garb depending on whether they were farmer/hunters or shop keepers. We did see a family mummy. We were treated to tribal meal rituals where pigs were shot with primitive bows and arrows and cooked on hot stones though we declined to dine. On one occasion, they brought out the seated mummy for us to see. It began to rain so one of the tribe produced an umbrella and held it over the old fellow.

We discovered Durians. For the uninitiated, these fruits native to Southeast Asia, are supposedly delicious and can be made into ice cream. However, they are infamous for their fecal odor. Toni tried a cone on a taxi ride smelling up the cab until the driver forced her to toss it out.

Of course much has changed in the last twenty years but this narrative gives you an idea of what a unique adventure this could be. But if you are interested in a beach vacation, limit your adventure to Bali.

I’ve analyzed the newly proposed plan to reconstruct and resurrect LaGuardia Airport from the horrible condition that it has sunk into and I say with absolute candor, “You can’t shine s***!”

The existing facilities are overcrowded, worn down and broken. The main terminal, now known as Terminal B, opened fifty-one years ago in 1964 in a much quieter era before the 727 and the DC-9 revolutionized domestic air transportation. Terminal B was designed to have flights arrive and depart from four separate wings that connected to various areas in the main building. Security was minimal back in the day and each wing had its own security check-point. I always understood that if you had to transfer from one to another, you had to exit the secure section and be screened all over again. Today, in our post-September 11, 2001 atmosphere, this enhanced process is a logistical nightmare. That was my understanding but it turned out not to be the case.

My cousin, Bill, recently made two trips from Texas to LaGuardia. His first round trip was on American. On the return leg the airline changed his gate from C-4 to A-12 after the TSA had cleared him and he arrived at the original designated gate. He told me, “I did not want to go through that barbaric process again so I asked a Port Authority cop if there was a way to avoid it?”

“Yes,” the cop replied and directed me to a non-descript door. “Go down the stairs and a van will take you to Wing A.”

“He must have called ahead because no alarm went off when he opened the door and when I reached the bottom there was a driver waiting for me. After driving me to the correct wing, he watched me very carefully to be sure I entered the right stairwell. I climbed the stairs and out another unalarmed door although there may have been a guard nearby.”

Just one example of how broken this airport is. But the overwhelming issue is LaGuardia cannot be fixed. I remember a flight from DFW to LGA years ago. I was sitting next to a young man, a new flyer on his first flight. Understandably excited and scared, he asked me what the takeoff will be like. “Oh that will be as easy as can be. The runways at this airport are about 12,000 feet long. There are separate runways for take-off and landings that are widely spaced and the pilots have all the room they need.”

He looked too relieved for his own good so I continued, “The problem will be landing at LaGuardia; that will be like trying to put the airplane down on to a postage stamp.”

To make sure he understood, I pointed the field out to him as we banked over Flushing Meadows Park. My reward was watching his eyes grow to the size of silver dollars.

The site for LaGuardia Airport was originally picked to be convenient to Manhattan and be accessible to both land and sea planes. At the time Imperial (British Airways) and Pan American Airways were the primary trans-Atlantic carriers and both operated multiple engine flying boats on their overseas routes.

Hence LaGuardia sits on a peninsula with water on three sides, the East River, Bowery Bay and Flushing Bay. Over time the airport has been expanded and been manipulated as much as humanly possible. The land side is locked in behind the Grand Central Parkway along its entire length and three residential communities, East Elmhurst, Corona and Jackson Heights. About half the airport was originally built on top of semi-stable fill requiring a dike and pumps to keep it from flooding during high tides.

The two runways are perpendicular to each other and can only be used one at a time. They were extended to 7,500 feet in length in the mid-1960s to meet the minimum distances needed by medium size jets for takeoff and landing. These extensions were erected on two massive concrete piers strong enough to take the shocks of countless aircraft touching down.

Scary enough but there is more. Only one end of one runway has overshoot protection; i.e. an area to stop an airplane in an emergency. On two others, the water is the only choice and the last, the parkway.

In closing, the most modern terminals, transportation hubs, air control systems or travel amenities can do nothing to alleviate what ills LGA.

My suggestion, have pilots change their announcements to: “Ladies and gentlemen we are cleared for landing / takeoff and now, let us pray.”

Once upon a time, Keene, the little city in southwestern New Hampshire, was known as a transportation center. Three railroads met in this city providing service throughout New England. The Boston & Maine Railroad even had engine shops there. But railroad traffic waned after World War II and by 1970 almost all of the tracks had been torn up. As the railways disappeared, the city maintained itself with light manufacturing but it also became known as a college town. Institutions domiciled there include River Valley Community College and Antioch University of New England but the crown jewel is Keene State College.

From 1991 to 2013, Keene also hosted an annual pumpkin festival that attracted growing attention. The first year produced a modest count of 600 pumpkins. Then organizers and supporters went to work and claimed their first Guinness World Record the following year with only 1,628. Over the next eight years, the festival set six additional world records taking the count up to 23,727. The ninth and most current record was set in 2013 in an all-out effort to break the existing record held by Boston of 30,128 pumpkins which Beantown stole from Keene in 2006. Keene efforts succeeded as businesses, fraternal organizations, schools and individuals contributed 30,581 jack-o’-lanterns on October 19, 2013.

But the good times came to a sudden and dramatic end the following October 20^th when word went out over social media that the 2014 festival was a cause to party and party hard. The great Keene Pumpkin Riot began simply enough when a house party in one of the off-campus buildings near Keene State’s campus on Winchester Street out grew its space with party goers pouring onto the street.

The Boston Globe reported, “Outmatched officers struggled to contain the disruption as it spilled onto nearby streets. Showing little respect for New Hampshire state fruit or a community event meant to honor it, the rioters smashed windows, slashed tires and overturned dumpsters.”

Graphic scenes filled the national news airways of shirtless teenagers and young adults launching filled and empty 1.75 liter liquor bottles at police and anyone or anything else deemed a target. They started fires, tore up street signs, flipped cars and created “…a general atmosphere of mayhem.”

Keene’s finest retaliated by donning riot gear and attacking the mob with mace, pepper spray and tear gas. As things escalated aggrieved students chanted, “Bring out the BearCat,” referring to a military surplus armored vehicle owned by the Keene police. Reinforcements arrived in the form of New Hampshire State Troopers and other law enforcement members, some from as far away as Massachusetts. “At one point a helicopter flew over the off-campus neighborhoods of Keene telling partiers to go inside.

No records were kept to determine how many of the 21,912 pumpkins from the festival were destroyed by these mostly young men who believed “…they were just fighting for their right to party.” Eighty arrests were made and Keene State ultimately disciplined 170 of its students for their actions. It seemed that the same social media sites that attracted the raucous party goers also identified them to authorities.

The festival sponsors paid the ultimate price. On April 2, 2015, the Keene City Council by a vote of 13-1 refused to renew their permit. Sadness gripped the Granite State until just twenty-two days later, plucky Laconia in the Lakes Region stepped up to the plate and announced that they would host the 2015 festival.

Was this an act of insanity? You be the judge. There is a possibility that the same mob will migrate to Laconia although its institutions of higher education are either community colleges or on-line schools. Also, Laconia is currently most famous for its annual late spring, annual motorcycle week.

One would think that if this city has been able to host a bikers’ week for 92 years with crowds that can reach over 430,000 people and survive, a one-day pumpkin festival should be a day at the beach.

August invites us to sit back, relax and muse about some of the improbables that life offers.

Item One: After 35 Years, Stolen Stradivarius Is Home. In 1980, the Ames Stradivarius, made by the master craftsman, Antonio Stradivari in 1734, was lifted from the office of violin virtuoso, Roman Totenberg, at Longy School of Music in Cambridge, Mass. Mr. Totenberg had his own deep suspicions of the thief’s identity, a certain student by the name of Philip S. Johnson. Mr. Totenberg’ daughter, Nina, explained the basis to a reporter from The New York Times, “He (Johnson) was loitering around the place where it was taken and later his ex-girlfriend would tell my father that she was quite sure that he had taken it.”

Mr. Totenberg who acquired the instrument in 1943 told CBS a year after the violin was purloined:

“…that it had taken two decades of playing the instrument before it reached its potential. ‘It took some time to wake it up,’ he said, ‘to work it out, find all of the things that it needed the right kind of strings and so on and so on.”

Mr. Totenberg passed away in 2012 at the age of 101. He did collect $250,000 in insurance proceeds following the theft. Mr. Johnson died in 2011 and his wife, Thanh Tran, discovered the violin when she forced open a locked case given to her by Johnson before he died. Recently, she brought it from her home in California to New York for appraisal supposedly “innocent” of the circumstances surrounding it. When confronted with the details, Ms. Tran wisely “voluntarily relinquished” the violin.

The family has returned the insurance money for a simple reason as The Times reported, “…these days, the finest Stradivarius violins sell for millions of dollars.” They also noted that Mr. Totenberg’s wife became so frustrated with the lack of effort by the police in gaining entry to Mr. Johnson’s abode that she frequently asked friends if they knew someone from the mob. Too bad she couldn’t find someone like Ray Donovan to do her bidding.

Item Two: Semi-Happy Ending, Seaside, For Long Island Ponzi Scheme. The usual fraud story with a twist, a pair of brothers-in-law, Brian R. Callahan and Adam Manson, bilked 45 investors out of $96 million by creating a semi-mythical hedge fund beginning in 2007. Instead, they invested the bulk of the money in the Panoramic View, a Montauk, N.Y. resort of villas and cottages first opened in 1954. Their plan was to renovate the aging property, sell some of the units as co-ops and operate the remaining cottages as a hotel. Whether or not they intended to share the profits with their investors is unknown, but timing, as usual, is everything. Their original timing was lousy and their entrepreneurial scheme collapsed in the face of the great recession that hit late in the summer of 2008.

Of course, not all of the money went into the Panoramic View although Mr. Callahan did buy his own co-op there – Unit Salt Sea No. 4 for $450,000. Investors’ money also helped pay for “…(he) and his wife’s Old Westbury, N.Y. mortgage, credit-card bills, golf-club dues and payments on a range Rover and a BMW.”

As the recession waned, the Montauk real estate market heated up and in 2012, they were offered $50 million for the Panoramic View that had cost them $38 million. Mr. Manson rejected this offer as too low but the following year the Law caught up to the two crooks. Both men plead guilty and will be sentenced this October. Now it is the government’s job to secure the best offer possible so to return as much of the lost investments as possible.  They were ready to sell the property said to be worth as much as $75 million for $54 million in 2013 but Federal District Judge Arthur D. Spatt nixed it as t.f.l. (too f***ing low.)

New bid packages were sent to interested parties in June…stay tuned.

Max is our sixth Golden Retriever. He traveled from a breeder in Missouri by truck with the comical name: PetEx Express. He and his sister, Ruby, arrived on November 11, 2010. Ruby was a birthday gift for our daughter-in-law, Jodie and her three kids named the two pups after the story-book and TV cartoon brother and sister rabbits. Max succeeded Maggie who we lost the previous summer.

Our first Golden was Harry. Then came Fred, Bubba, Jumbo and Maggie. Harry was our first and a grand dog. Knowing what I now know about Max, his disposition, attitude, temperament, etc. Harry would have been a great name for this Missouri dog. Failing that, I would have pushed for Truman because he is a “show-me-dog.”

Max was our first pup in a long time. We acquired Maggie in 1999 when she was ten-months old and already a certified Looney Tune. Anyone who knows us and knew Maggie will certify that she was f—ing nuts.

Folks we know looked at Mary Ann and me in a way that clearly showed their thoughts: “The two of you are either dumb or crazy.” I too had real doubts about what we had done. A puppy with all that it brings. The biting, destruction, housebreaking, sleepless nights and other unpleasant happenings and events. WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

Admittedly, we had some bad moments, but this new pup was special. He gave us a pass on one of the fundamental problems, crying through the night. Not Max. He took to his crate (cage) for naps during the day and to sleep without fuss and remained quiet and dry until we woke him up. And those are magical words: “Until we woke him.” He remained contented until he heard action. Then he’d whine, but when we opened the door, he usually reacted by first looking at us, stretched, got up, stretched again and exited the crate to begin his day.

Also importantly, almost from the beginning, the floor of the crate would be dry even after eight hours. Max was clean even for Goldens who by nature house break themselves quickly. Max also proved to be very trainable. He’d cooperate for love but we quickly realized that he did and he’ll do almost anything for food.

The biting lasted more than a year, never vicious, he just had the need to use those teeth. Unfortunately, this meant that play sessions deteriorated into bloody sessions especially for Mary Ann whose thin-skinned arms and hands soon made her look like a serial knife fighter. Mary Ann’s ultimate defense was to cut the toes off of athletic socks and fashion them into shields to minimize the damage to her skin.

Max grew rapidly almost before our eyes and quickly became known in the neighborhood as the dog who carried sticks around in his mouth the size of small trees. A fine looking dog, one gal remarked to me one day: “Wow, is that dog good looking. Why he’s the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers.”

He grew and grew rapidly. One problem with this is he thought flapping children wearing oversized jackets, sweaters or hoodies were great sport who should be brought to the ground by grabbing on to the back of their garments. Needless to say this activity led to some difficult crises until we learned to anticipate when this was going to occur. Fortunately, he outgrew this impulse.

Now an adult about to turn five he would be a total pleasure if not for his need to steal. And steal he does, clothes, shoes, towels, throw rugs, mats, pillows and even blankets and bed spreads. The only good news about his stealing regimen is he considers it to be retrieving and he brings the items to us with his plume tail high in the air proud of his prowess.

On the whole, this adventure has gone well and he’s a love. But if sometime in the future, hopefully way down the road, we even consider a puppy again; please, I beg of you,  shoot us.

Slip slidin’ away, slip slidin’ away, you know the nearer your destination the more you’re slip slidin’ away.

Paul Simon

I cannot recall even approximately when I began to feel naked, alone and afraid whenever I discover that I am beyond walking distance from my cell phone. This awful realization hit me like a ton of bricks the other day when I called my carrier, Verizon, to accept a discount in return for electronic billing. The helpful young lady pleasantly thanked me for my loyal service. I murmured, “Whatever.” But then I realized she was saying in amazement, “Why you have been a wireless customer since 1992.”

Nineteen ninety-two, “Damn,” I said to myself after I had hung up, “Chances are she wasn’t alive in 1992.” Not only that, Verizon wasn’t alive in 1992. Neither were its predecessors, Bell Atlantic or NYNEX. Heck, when I first signed up it was with New York Telephone then an orphan of the broken-up AT&T, Bell System.

My first phone was a Nokia brick (small size), not as big as those Motorola walkie-talkies. I’ve gone through L.G.’s, Samsung, the Motorola Razor and one made by Qualcomm, whoever the hell they are / were. (Incidentally that relic is still in my garage and bears the name, Bell Atlantic Mobile.”)

Now I am blessed / cursed with an IPhone 5C that does everything except offer sex, at least I think it doesn’t, as I probably utilize less than 15% of its capability. My friend, Mike calls it the work of the devil. (Mike swore allegiance to his flip-phone until dragged into the dark side at a family intervention where his flip-phone was forcibly removed, replaced by a hand-me-down IPhone 4 from his teenage son.)

Worse, a mobile device doesn’t even scratch the surface of my skitsofrantic relationship with technology. In fact, if it weren’t for Google, it would be impossible for me to spell skitsofrantic!

Just last night, I miss-hit some button on my key board sending my tool bar into never, never land. The cold sweat of fear descended upon me, my hands became clammy and my heart raced as I contemplated being unable to make next Wednesday’s blog deadline.

This blog is another thing. Every Wednesday morning I sit down at this computer with absolute dread and certainty that today will be the day that I will not be able to access WordPress or that it won’t work.

Computers, IPhones, IPAds, Kindle, all those devices frighten me. So too in my vehicle- OnStar, Blue Tooth, GPS and XM – each of these things are traps waiting to turn on me when I least suspect it.

The house in New Hampshire has gone from a bucolic place for peace and quiet into the nut house. When we took ownership in 1984, the only devices were a radio, telephone land-line and a roof-mounted antenna that picked up a single television station out of Burlington, VT. We replaced the antenna with one of those old monster dishes that combed the sky for C and K-band satellites. In all we could access two or three dozen satellites each with 15 to 24 stations both domestic and foreign. That was fun especially during football season as we could access the raw feed of every NFL game for free. But like modern pizza discs that replaced it about ten years ago, we quickly discovered that most of the content consisted of, sex, obscure religions and shop-at-home. (Back in the day, late one night after a few pops I bought two Bill Clinton backward-watches because the price was right!)

Now we have semi-adequate cell-phone service (unless you have AT&T) and a Router that works well except when our offsprings and their families overwhelm it with their war chest of devices or when the not infrequent blackouts play havoc with it.

Windows 10 is knocking at the door and what future shock will next strike? I avoid all social media and clouds though I hear this voice inside that repeats, “Soon, sucker, soon.”

Late in May, the One World Trade Center (WTC) observatory opened to the public, 1,250 feet above West Street. For $32 an adult can whiz up to the 100^th Floor in 47 seconds while looking at a virtual presentation of how the view from the top changed during the last 500 years. One WTC joins the Empire State Building (also $32) and the Top of the Rock ($30) observatories as the highest in New York.

But these towers are for common people, you and me, Aunt Sally from Indiana, tourists from Birmingham, Alabama or Birmingham, England – Paris, France or Paris, Texas and  any other place on the planet considered to be friendly to our nation. Their special views are open to anyone who can afford to buy a ticket.

These towers though, high as they may be are not the truly exclusive top of the Big Apple. That distinction belongs to the new “supertalls,” new mega-tower residential buildings that cater to the incredibly rich who already occupy the very top of the food chain. These insanely wealthy domestic and international messieurs and madams have demonstrated an insatiable appetite to fork over millions of dollars as investments in absurd structures that boggle the mind with their heights, views and the cost of admission.

One57, a 1,094-foot tower completed last year on West 57^th Street was the first of the supertalls . It set an all-time ceiling for the cost of single residence this past January, “…when a duplex penthouse there closed for $100.4 million.”

As scandalous as One57 may seem, for now the reigning king of the supertalls is 432 Park Avenue. Naturally, located between 56^th and 57^th streets, It stands 1,396 feet tall, has 104 units with more than half under contract, “…for roughly $1 billion in potential sales, including a $95 million penthouse.” Those still available range from $16.95 to $82.5 million.

But wait, as the carnival barker would call out to hustle the crowd, “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

The developer of One57, Extell Development Company, has plans to build “the tallest residential structure in the Western Hemisphere between 57^th and 58^th Street east of Broadway rising to at least 1,500 feet if not higher.”

How much higher? According to The New York Times, “A spokeswoman for the developer denied reports speculating that the building might top the 1,776-foot pinnacle of One WTC!” The projection is that the building will “generate some $4.4 billion in total sales proceeds.” That’s $4,400,000,000 in cash money.

Across the street construction on a 950-footer containing 118 units has reached street level. Designated as 220 Central Park South reports are “…buyers have already snapped up about a third of the units representing $1.1 billion in commitment.”

“The least expensive apartment, a 2,394-square-foot two-bedroom apartment on the 22^nd floor, is listing at $12.25 million.” The 9,500-foot penthouse can be gained for $100 million.

Foundation work has started on a third tower at 111 West 57^th Street scheduled to reach 1,421 feet. Designed for 46 apartments in the tower and 14 in an adjoining building, prices begin at $14 million.

Insanity personified, simply mind-numbing just to contemplate these figures. How can it be that there is so much disposable wealth available to fuel such expansive uber-luxury development in mid-Manhattan?

Come the revolution, ground zero will definitely be 57^th Street. Forget the Wall Street “One Percenters” with their $343,000 in annual income. No, no, we’re talking here about 1/4 or even 1/8 Percenters. When the time comes to put these interlopers up against the wall; at least we’ll know where to find them. That is, if they are home. Since much of this development is driven by Russian, Chinese, Indian, etc. investors seeking a safe haven to part their ill gotten gain, they will not be in residence often. Timing is vital.

Autumn in New York, why does it feel so inviting…

Pass the word; the revolution begins in the October after the last of these towers is finished. Start collecting cobblestones and Belgian blocks and prepare to man the barricades; to arms, to arms.