John Delach

Christmas, 2010; Mother Nature was not a in a nurturing way for those of us living in the Northeast. Small as our family is, we seldom spend it together but 2010 was the exception. Besides Mary Ann and me, both the Briggs and Delach tribes trekked to Marlow, New Hampshire.

Tom, Beth, Marlowe & Cace Briggs, Michael, Jodie, Drew, Matthew & Samantha Delach, plus the granddame, Bare Delach, the elder Golden Retriever and Max & Ruby Delach, two, eleven-week old Golden puppies, the male belonging to us and the female, a birthday gift to Jodie.

Six adults, five kids and three dogs, all made it in three separate vehicles having to brave through various intensities of a major snow storm old Ma Nature threw at travelers like us navigating the I-91 Corridor. Mike and his family caught the worst of it but, fortunately, the peak of the storm didn’t hit until after we’d all made it safely to that place we call Little House.

Loss of power is issue number one in rural NH. Issue number two is freezing pipes that closely follows issue number one. We do have two wood burning stoves for our primary heat and our wood supply was superb. But, if we lost power, we’d lose water and life gets difficult quickly when that happens.

Cut to the good news: the power didn’t fail: “Thank God Almighty; say halleluiah, say Amen!”

With power, everything is good even though we were snowed in.  We shoveled where we had to with joy. The two pups realized they were in Golden Retriever heaven being able to play with each other in the snow without adult supervision anytime they wanted. Mike and Tom laid out a challenging sledding run on the hill above us that became the major outdoor attraction until the town sanded the hill.

What could have been an ordeal, turned out to be a winter wonderland. The pups left their need for action outside in the cold, kids also exhausted themselves in the snow and the adults had a marvelous time. Each time kids came in they were relived of soaking wet snow clothes; hats and boots that were hung from every available hook, railing or most any other surface that could hold a hanger. The stoves were well-tendered and the clothing dried quickly enough to be available for the next onslaught.

Inside was non-stop action. Food was always being prepared whether it was bagels and eggs, hot chocolate, soup, or great dinners. Good cheer and entertainment of every kind abounded from simple board games to playing electronic games or watching TV or DVDs.

Of course, things still go wrong. At the time, I was driving a Chrysler Aspen that I parked at the bottom of our circular driveway. My plan was to use this SUV as the lead vehicle to open the way out of the 16 inches of snow the storm had gifted to us. Unfortunately, when I made my attempt to open the driveway, I judged the turn too sharply and put the left hand side of my rig into a depression. Mike’s van was behind me. Mike and Tom did most of the clearing around the wheels and dug it out enough to enable me to pull the Aspen out using low gear with the transmission in four-wheel-low. After I cleared out I walked my original route and told Mike, “If you put your left tire in the depression I made with my right tire and you will be okay.” He did so and got out easily.

Another time after the driveway had been plowed by a local fellow from a garage in Gilsum, one town away, I came into the top of the driveway too fast. We were returning from a small local ski slope where my passengers had gone tubing – Beth and Tom, their two and Matt Delach. As I went into the first turn by the house, I realized too late that I was on ice under the snow and I wasn’t going to stop. The house was on the right so that direction was not an alternative. Ahead of me where the driveway curves to the left was Beth and Tom’s Grand Cherokee so that wasn’t a good alternative either.  My only choice was to keep going straight between a bush and a tree; deliberately leave the driveway and drop down into a level snow-covered grass area below it. Not sure how much space this gap afforded, I aimed more toward the bush figuring that would be the path of least resistance. Hot damn, it worked. It all happened so quickly that nobody said anything. Good fortune, part two, I was able to drive through the snow and regain the driveway. Only then did we three adults begin to realize what just happened. It did occur to me what an old friend used to say, “Delach, you just cleaned out your locker!”

This will be my last posting for 2014, I thank all those who enjoy my pieces and the kind remarks you make to me. Happy holidays, Merry Christmas and see you all in January.    

Port Washington, the town in which I live is located on the North Shore of Long Island, a peninsular formed by the last ice age, that juts northward into Long Island Sound. To the east of this land mass is Manhasset Bay and the Great Neck peninsular. To the west, Hempstead Harbor, and a large peninsular occupied by several towns including Glen Cove, Sea Cliff and Oyster Bay.

Manhasset Isle, once an island, is partially separated from the rest of Port Washington by an inlet from Manhasset Bay known as Sheets Creek.  At its mouth is a tiny, odd, man-made island of rocks held together by rotting logs and faith. Its reason for its being cannot be discerned. A rectangle, the dimensions are approximately twenty-five feet long by five feet wide by ten feet high. The tidal range in Manhasset Bay averages about eight feet leaving just the top visible at most high tides. On top of the rectangle a conical tower about four feet tall stands above all high tides. Perhaps its purpose is alert boaters to this obstruction?

At low tide, this island can be reached on foot across a mud flat.

A non-descript oddity until, in the weeks following the attack on the World Trade Center on that horrific Tuesday in 2001, a standard three by five American Flag was planted into the conical cone. The first attempts to create a make-shift memorial were met with degrees of failure. Wind, tide and weather played havoc with these early tries tearing flags apart, shifting the poles forcing the flags into a pronounced list that eventually carrying them away at high tides. But the unknown memorial custodian returned to his altar over and over again to replace his lost or damaged charges. During the course of this period of education he learned the art of his craft and developed methods to securely mount his flags enabling them to better weather the rigors of the bay. Perhaps he also purchased flags of stouter material that stood nature’s test longer?

The stars and stripes flew true and unbending but even the best material can last only so long in that environment and whenever a flag suffered noticeable damage, it was replaced in short order.

One day, while I was driving north along Shore Road, a street adjacent to the creek, I saw a man walking across the mud flats toward the little island to retrieve a beaten up flag. The next day when I again passed this monument, a brand new version of Old Glory flew gracefully with the wind. I don’t remember if I smiled or suppressed a tear, but I do recall being proud and grateful.

For thirteen years the caretaker continued his self-imposed duty of tending to this sacred symbol. Was he a simple patriot, a friend or family of someone lost in the Towers, or just someone who wanted to show that he cares? I would be a fool to coop the reasons for his action. I just knew that what he was doing was the right thing and God bless him whatever his reasons were.

About two months ago I noticed that the latest version of the Stars and Stripes had developed a tear running across from the staff to the opposite border. Several days later, the wounded flag had been removed but not replaced.

I didn’t think how sad. I thought instead the unknown man who carried his burden for so long had completed his journey. I hope the end of his service came under the best of circumstances but no matter the reason, I know that he remained true to his task, he ran the good race and he kept the faith.

Well done stranger, well done!

A recent article in the “paper of record” noted that a research study recently published in the Journal of Science concluded that most United States Presidents have a relevant shelf-life of 40 years from the time they leave office. On paper, this means that President Lyndon Johnson’s relevance could expire before Robert Caro gets around to concluding his endless biography of LBJ (now up to three volumes and counting.) Can you imagine Caro reaching around Page 335 of Volume 4 writing about that fateful Sunday night in 1968 when Lyndon took to the airwaves to inform the country that he would not seek re-election. The light bulb will go off in Caro’s head, he will stop writing, shake his head, realize nobody cares and simply write, “Never mind.”

Benedict Carey, the author of this piece noted that the professors who conducted these tests from 1974 to 2014 saw that students remembered the men who served during times of crises. So Caro’s efforts may yet be saved as LBJ could remain relevant by being attached to JFK’s coattails and that damn Vietnam War. (Good bet; the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Act alone would not sustain him.) Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush 41, Clinton and Bush 43 will be less than blips on a radar screen to future test-takers. Perhaps 43 will deserve an asterisk as being on the scene on September 11, 2001? President Obama, for the obvious reasons, should have a long shelf-life.

If you find this disturbing, try to name two or three of the presidents between Andy Jackson and old Abe? (1) Or between Abe and FDR save Teddy and Thomas W. Wilson better known as Woodrow? (2)

Sure, I admit feeling a deep sense of my own mortality when I realize that the majority of current college-age students don’t have a clue who Harry or Ike were.

And so it goes. I’ve developed my own test to see if we have enough memory left to recall political events that once were important if not vital to our beliefs.  I believe that the ages people are most passionate about politics are from 18 to 24 roughly college-age. They can be passionate as they want to be without having to worry about a job, paying off college, buying a house, supporting a family, a mortgage, car loans; etc…that thing we call life,

So I ask you to remember the election closest to your 21^st birthday. Name the man who won, his running mate; the loser and his running mate? (3)

I was twenty in 1964. Lyndon Johnson defeated Barry Goldwater. Johnson ran with Hubert Humphrey and Goldwater, with William E. Miller. I was a one of the Goldwater supporters who had to endure the rout our man suffered that election night. But the defeat seared the event into my memory giving me an advantage in this challenge. The main reason that I have this advantage is that Bill Miller’s fame came not from his run with Barry or his term in Congress as a representative from upstate New York. Nope, it was from the commercial he did for the American Express Card produced in 1975.

It began with Miller facing the camera and stating: “Do you know who I am? I ran for the office of vice president of the United States. That’s why I carry the American Express Card.” (The commercial then shifted to a scene of an AMEX Card, name blank where an unseen printer produces: “William E. Miller” and his year of membership.)

Cut back to Miller, “Don’t leave home without it.”

1. Presidents between Jackson and Lincoln: Martin Van Buren, William Henry Harrison, John Tyler, James Polk, Zachary Taylor, Millard Fillmore, Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan.

1. Presidents between Lincoln and FDR: Andrew Johnson, Ulysses Simpson Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes, James Garfield, Chester Arthur, Grover Cleveland (two interrupted times), Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley, (Theodore Roosevelt), William Howard Taft, (Woodrow Wilson), Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover.

3. 3. The Answers to the Quiz

.                        Winner          VP                       Loser                        Losing VP

1932                  F.D.R.      John Garner                Hoover                  Charles Curtis

1936                  F.D.R.          Garner                 Alf Landon                Frank Knox

1940                  F.D.R.     Henry Wallace         Wendell Wilkie          Charles Mc Nary

1944                  F.D.R.      Harry Truman         Tom Dewey               John Bricker

1948              Harry Truman    Barkley                Dewey                       Earl Warren

1952                   Ike          Dick Nixon             Adlai Stevenson            John Sparkman

1956                   Ike              Nixon                     Stevenson                   Estes Kefauver

1960                  J.F.K           LBJ                        Nixon                Henry Cabot Lodge

1964                  L.B.J       Humphrey             Barry Goldwater                Bill Miller

1968                Nixon     Spiro Agnew                 Humphrey               Edmund Muskie

1972                Nixon           Agnew               George Mc Govern        Sergent Shriver*

1976             Jimmy Carter    Mondale             Jerry Ford                      Bob Dole

1980             Ronald Reagan   Bush                      Carter                    Walter Mondale

1984                Reagan             Bush                 Mondale                    Geraldine Ferraro

1988          George H. W. Bush   Quayle           Michael Dukakis           Lloyd Bentsen

1990               Bill Clinton     Al Gore                 Bush (41)                        Dan Quayle

1996                 Clinton             Gore                  Bob Dole                           Jack Kemp

2000            George W. Bush   Chaney             Al Gore                          Joe Lieberman

2004                 Bush (43)        Chaney             John Kerry                       John Edwards

2008            Barack Obama     Biden              John Mc Cain                    Sarah Palin

2012                 Obama            Biden                Mitt Romney                      Paul Ryan

* Thomas Eagleton would also be a correct answer

Rock & Rye was unknown to me until I came across a piece in the Dining & Wine section of The New York Times titled: Rock and Rye Returns to the Mix. As the Times is want to do, the piece was unique, quite informative, but it brought my blood to a boil as only the NY Times can do. (But more about that later.)

That same day, I shared this discovery with my son at lunch in a typical NYC Irish Pub, The Perfect Pint. Mike’s reaction surprised me as he noted, “Yeah, Dad, I have heard that before. It came from a show or movie where one of the actors asks a bartender, “Give me a double rock & rye.”

Mike was bang on. A simple search revealed it’s a line from the movie, Animal House. The boys from Delta Tau Chi fraternity were on the loose with girls from Dickinson. They’d taken these girls to see Otis Day and the Knights perform at Dexter Lake Club and sing, Shout. When they arrive at the club, Donald “Boone” Schoenstein asked the barkeeper for: “A double Rock & Rye and seven Carlings.”

What is Rock & Rye and what is the fuss all about? I found several explanations. For example, “Not a straight rye, but a bar room relic. Historically, rock candy (and occasionally fruit) was added to take away some of the dryness associated with rye whiskey.” Seems polite, no?

Here’s another explanation more to the point, “Rock & Rye emerged when saloons added rock candy to young rye to make it more approachable.” Translation…how do you make cheap whiskey drinkable!

Rock & Rye became popular in the mid-19^th Century which grew as a wonderful myth developed that it was a medicinal cure for whatever ailed you. Men who wanted to make a stop at the bar for a relaxing libation on the way home from work, on the way to work to ease their pain, to avoid the Mrs. and the kids or going to church on Sunday, etc; embraced this concoction and defiantly proclaimed: “Doctors orders!”

They may have convinced themselves that their logic was unimpeachable, but their behavior may have been a noticeable factor in drys forcing the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead Act that brought prohibition across the land of US.

But, once the land of the free and the home of the brave retuned again to being wet, Rock & Rye disappeared from of the mainstream although a few brands re-surfaced. Odd brands became available like Mr. Boston’s Rock & Rye, Hochstadters, Slow and Low Rock & Rye, Jacquins Rock & Rye with choice fruits liqueur and Leroux Kosher Rock & Rye. Their proof ranged from the low 80s to the mid-90s and they were priced from the mid-teens to the $60 range.

Robert Simonson’s piece in the Times noted Allen Katz of the New York Distilling Company is leading a new renaissance in Brooklyn. Mr. Katz has just released his, “long-in-development Mister Katz Rock & Rye.”

The formula includes citrus and cinnamon. “Mr. Katz uses a youthful rye, no older than one year, as his base and sets his alcohol level at a relatively low 32.5 percent in hopes that it will be considered as a cocktail mixer.”

My anger with Mr. Simonson was not with the content of his piece, it was the ingredients listed for a cocktail called, Cave Creek, that he adopted from a recipe from a Brooklyn bar called, The Shanty, (Mr. Katz’s home base):

1¼ oz. Mister Katz’s Rock & Rye

1 ounce Glenlivet 12-Year Scotch whiskey

¾ oz fresh lime juice

½ oz high quality grenadine

¼ oz Compari

Orange twist, for garnish

Have you spotted what pissed me off? Ah, the pretentiousness of the paper of record. What you see above is a glass of crap save one ingredient; the Glenlivet. Now I ask, “Who in their right mind would pour a ‘top-shelf’ single malt, aged, fine Scotch into the above concoction?”

Whoever did should be drawn and quartered. Only the elitist, self-important Times would even consider such a sacrilege. It would appear that Clan MacGregor does not exist in their rarified universe: “A pox on them.”

If someone had asked me late last summer, “What does the code, ‘TSA PRECHK’ printed on a boarding pass mean,” I would have shrugged and said, “Does it have something to do with VIPs or frequent flyers?”

That’s about as close as I’d come to a realistic meaning. My first experience with TSA PRECHK took place on Monday, October 20 at DFW Airport when my son and I went to clear security for our flight home to LaGuardia. The first security area we approached only had a traditional x-ray machine to scan passengers. Experience had taught me to avoid these devices because my artificial hip lights up x-ray machines like a slot machine’s jackpot. It doesn’t matter if I tell the agents in advance or produce a card noting I had my hip replaced. If I go through the x-ray, I will be subjected to a body search that even under the best of circumstances is both physically and psychologically invasive.

Not knowing that the alternative devices are called “Advanced Imaging Technology,” (AIT) machines, I asked the first TSA agent I saw, “Where can I find those other machines,” demonstrating what I meant by putting my arms above my head, bending my elbows so my hands almost touch. My pantomime worked and he directed Mike and me to the gate where the AIT was located.

Upon reaching the gate, a TSA agent who checked our boarding passes noted that I was on the wrong line because I had been pre-checked. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what that means?” I asked.

“You can go through this line but he (Mike) can’t as he is not pre-checked.”

“Okay,” I replied, what does it mean?”

“You don’t have to take your shoes off, if you are wearing a light jacket or a sweater, you could keep them on and, if you had a laptop computer, you wouldn’t have to open it and turn it on.”

After we cleared security, I told Mike, “I don’t have a clue about what just happened.”

Almost two weeks later, I printed the boarding passes for my wife’s and my flight to Fort Myers (RSW) for a week’s stay on Marco Island. Both passes had the same notation, we were TSA PRECHK. More confused than ever, I Googled the TSA’s site where I discovered that precheck is designed to expedite travelers the TSA deems secure. These include folks they’ve registered, frequent flyers that participating airlines have nominated or regular passengers who sign up for this service and pass a TSA security check. None of these applied to us, but I did notice that the TSA suggests passengers could be randomly selected.

The next morning at Jet Blues’ JFK Terminal, we were directed to a special line that whisked us through to a special screening area where we didn’t have to remove our shoes and jackets and I didn’t have to turn on my laptop: “Life is good!”

Fast forward a week. I printed out the boarding passes for our return flight only to discover that Mary Ann was pre-checked and I was not. Back at RSW, a friendly TSA agent allowed me to join Mary Ann in her select status. She explained, “To join the program costs $85 for four years. What the computer is doing is randomly putting passengers on the list for one or two flights to wet their appetites to buy into it.”

On the other side of security, Mary Ann noted, “You know, John, we spend $170 on less important things. I think we should do this.”

Of course she was right, or so I thought. Back home I continued my investigation. The upside is easy, as I explained above. Downside issues: The $85 is non-refundable if we are rejected. (Okay.) We need to submit valid passports and arrange an appointment at a center to be fingerprinted. The closest center is in Hicksville, less than 10 miles from our home. (Also okay.)

But even if we pass muster and are accepted into the pre-check program, the rules stipulate that to adhere to the TSA’s rigid code that no group shall be profiled because of this and that, on occasion, when we check in, we will be randomly removed from precheck status and forced to endure ordinary security clearance. W.T.F!

A policy like this only makes sense if you take on the mind set of a government bureaucrat and replace common sense with a warped vision of absolute political correctness. Insanity personified.

I’m not saying I won’t apply, but the thought occurs that after publishing this essay, just exactly what TSA list I will wind up on?

The invasion that the citizens of Ridgewood, Queens had been dreading for over 60 years has finally come to pass albeit not the one they expected. So Ben Detrick reported in the NY Times on November 5, 2014:

The trajectory is familiar, and the players have slid into familiar position: broke millennials, underemployed artists, craven property speculators, fearful natives and first-time homeowners priced out of other markets.

“When I first moved there, I never saw people that were my age,” said Caitlin White, 26, an editor of MTV News who moved to Ridgewood last year from Red Hook, Brooklyn. “Creative people love to be the ones that explore new territory.”

This was not what was supposed to be Ridgewood’s fate. White flight had long been predicted to be its doom. The neighborhood was patterned to follow the same exodus as those from Bed-Sty, Williamsburg and Bushwick to Nassau County particularly, Levittown and Suffolk County, towns like Smithtown and Commack.

For whatever reasons, probably the town’s continued ability to provide affordable housing coupled with somewhat convenient public transportation to Manhattan, the wave of white flight stopped at the Bushwick – Ridgewood borderline. Instead of white flight, many of the older German and Italian residents remained in their homes and apartments allowing Ridgewood’s demographics to gradually diversify and remain a vibrant blue collar community.

The neighborhood ducked that bullet but the fires of the 1970s brought a new crisis. Not only was The Bronx burning; so was Bed-Sty and Bushwick. And Bushwick burned badly. Ridgewood historically shared the same postal codes with Bushwick, 27 and 37 that became zip codes, 11227 and 11237. For whatever reason the USPS never chose to assign Ridgewood a Queens code. With the wave of arson came red-lining where insurance companies would not cover the peril of fire in the affected postal codes and Ridgewood landlords suffered. Finally, in 1979, the community was assigned a Queens zip code, 11385.

Be careful what you wish for. The myth of a Brooklyn Ridgewood ceased to exist, but the hipsters and their ilk are mortified to be moving into un-trendy Queens. Fine, Astoria works, but that’s because it’s off on its own. So too Long Island City. But Ridgewood, God forbid. It’s merely a geographic extension of Bushwick. These invaders despise having crossed this line and have floated alternative monikers like, “Quooklyn” and “Ridgewick” both of which reek of the lack of manners and sense of history by these barbarians.

Still, the rabble seems unstoppable. Mr. Detrick noted: “Cafes with vegan muffins, yoga studios and destination pizzerias have (naturally) sprouted. Bars with names like Milo’s Yard and Bierleichen are slated to open. Guitar cases, tote bags and shearling coats are increasingly frequent accessories on pedestrians.”

It gets worse; “…a hipster crowd in a warehouse on Decatur Street, a crowd that included Bruce Willis’ daughter, Scout.” “A performance in front of a crowd of 20-somethings with stonewashed jeans and cans of Genesee beer.” Worse yet: “the younger crowd in the bar up front (at Gottscheer Hall), where artsy types in their 20s and 30s, wearing hoodies and black-frame glasses, huddled over mugs of Spaten.”

Gottscheer Hall where rumor has it that they continued to celebrate You Know Who’s birthday! Alles verloren, all is lost!

But Mr. Detrick’s most telling point came in the following observation: “Crystal River Williams, a co-founder of  Norma’s, a café on Catalpa Avenue that serves baked goods and bread pudding to freelancers on Mac Books, chess-playing Europeans and customers from the Muslim barber next door…compared Ridgewood to Park Slope, ‘a sleepy Brooklyn neighborhood of families and baby strollers.”

Das neighborhood es kaput!

John Clancy worked as a waiter at both the Rainbow Room and the Rainbow Grill during the 1960s. Here is how I composed a few of his memories of the time when he served those two grand slices of paradise when the Rainbow Room and Grill still represented the elite in New York dining and entertainment. From his memoir, “Never Say: I Can’t:”

It was called the Rainbow Room because it had a circular floor that slowly revolved around as an organ played and all of the lights in the ceiling would change colors just like a rainbow.

The grill was a nightclub starring performers like Ella Fitzgerald, Count Bassie, Flip Wilson, Liberace and many others. It was not uncommon to have more than one of these stars perform on the same night.

When Richard Harris starred in Camelot, he did a performance for guests that included Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden. Even Burton’s first wife, Sybil, was at the performance. That night, I couldn’t believe Harris put his cigarette out in a saucer on Princess Margaret’s table.

The Rainbow Room and Grill closed in 2009, victims of the failed economy and irreconcilable differences between Tishman Speyer, the owner, and the Cipriani Family, the operator. In this 2014 guise, the Rainbow Room will be able to seat 300 mostly for private parties but, as The New York Times reported: “…it will be open to the public on Monday evenings and most holidays when there will be live music and entertainment. It will serve an elaborate, globally inspired Sunday brunch buffet.”

Not to be outdone, The Wall Street Journal noted: “The original chandeliers and sconces remain…The mechanics of the revolving dance floor 30 feet in diameter have been upgraded as has the sound system.” And “The blinds on the 15-foot windows…were removed to make way for three-stranded crystal curtains, each featuring 1,200 crystals.”

The three-course dinner is prix fixed with nine appetizer choices that includes Maine diver scallops baked in its shell, oysters Rockefeller and hot and cold Hudson Valley foie gras. There are ten entrees such as Dover sole, Maine lobster pot pie with black truffle and beef Wellington. Desserts include baked Alaska.

The Rainbow Room was never the destination for a “cheap date,” this new prix fixed dinner starts at $175 per person that will vary based on entertainment. Needless to say, it doesn’t include alcohol, tax or gratuity. Neither does Sunday brunch which costs $95.

The New York Post gave the brunch mixed reviews. On the positive side they note, “…It’s already worth $95 a head not including liquor. (…at the Waldorf Astoria’s Peacock Alley, Sunday brunch is $98 and the view is not of tower tops, but luggage stacked on the lobby floor.)” They liked “…well-turned out breakfast favorites” pot pies. beef ribs, chicken and the raw bar, but pass on the apple cider donuts, sushi, popovers and preheated dessert crepes.

The Rainbow Grill has been reincarnated as the Sixty-Five Club, named after its location on the 65^th Floor of 30 Rockefeller Center… “with a silvery, faceted Gehry-like ceiling and a wraparound outdoor terrace, and the Gallery, a bar just outside the Rainbow Room.” Sixty-Five will be open nights from 5 until midnight offering views up to 30 miles to the north, west and south.

This divine cocktail lounge and bar will offer two drink menus, the classics and contemporary drinks. Classics include the 1915 Gin & Tonic featuring Dorothy Parker Gin ($22), Negroni ($26) and a Manhattan with Wild Turkey 101 Rye ($25). Contemporary cocktails include a Gotham mule with apple infused vodka and ginger beer. Wine by the glass ranges from $15 for a 2013 Pinot Gris rose to $32 for Billecart-Salmon Brut Reserve Champagne NV.

One critic dubbed the dinner menu as having been designed for “Old School Millionaires.” I hope to report later when the food critics report their verdicts. Meanwhile, we can only hope that those lucky enough to re-gain this paradise never have the misfortune to suffer a similar fate as the one John Clancy described to me:

Then there was the blackout of 1965 when all the lights in Manhattan went out. We had a full house and since we were on the 65^th Floor of the RCA Building, everybody had to stay there all night. They had to sleep on chairs and the next morning, many who were scheduled to leave on a cruise had to watch helplessly as the ship left Pier-95 at Fifty-Seventh Street without them.              

Though I am a serial newspaper reader, even I was overwhelmed by the hate, violence and fear that appeared in the Saturday, October 25, 2014 editions of my New York newspapers.

Witness: Cuomo and Christie Order Strict Ebola Quarantines,

Ottawa Gunman’s Radicalism Deepened as Life Crumbled

2 Offices Killed in Rampage (in Sacramento)

Korean Nuclear Advance (probably fit small weapon atop a missile)

Tears After School Shooting (in Marysville, Wash. three dead – three wounded)

Egyptian Soldiers Attacked (31 killed by insurgents in the Sinai)

Attacker With Hatchet Called Self-Radicalized (attacks two NYPD  – one

critical)

And those are just some of the headlines. It was enough to make me pick up every section of all the newspapers and fling them into the recycle bin while screaming, no mas, no mas. But as I was imploding I turned the page of the New York Times to the National News Section and my eyes fell on a color photograph of a man suspended by a hookup connected to his back from the bottom of a balloon filled with 35,000 cubic feet of helium. The headline read: Parachutist’s Record Fall: Over 25 Miles In 15 Minutes.

That man is Alan Eustace, 57, an engineer and a senior vice president at Google. The photograph showed him during his two-hour ascent to an altitude of 135,908 feet where he started his descent breaking the world altitude record of 128,100 feet set by Felix Baumgartner on October 14, 2012.

But Mr. Eustace made his ascent “without the aid of the sophisticated capsule used by Mr. Baumgartner or millions of dollars in sponsorship money.” Eustace instead, gathered together a technical team with the brilliance to design his “spacesuit with an elaborate life-support system.” They had to solve many hurdles in life support systems, parachute and balloon technology to pull off this extraordinary feat. He had to breathe pure oxygen, his suit did not have a cooling system, so elaborate modifications were made to keep dry air in his helmet so the visor didn’t fog up. The entire event was recorded using a GoPro camera mounted to his helmet.

The ascent began from an abandoned airfield in Roswell, N.M. and it took a little over two hours for Eustace to reach the desired altitude. There, he set off a small explosive device which released him from the balloon beginning his return to earth where he reached a peak speed of 822 miles per hour, breaking the sound barrier and causing a small sonic boom.

“His technical team had designed a carbon-fiber attachment that kept him from becoming entangled in the main parachute before it opened. About four and-a-half minutes into his flight, he opened the main parachute and glided to a landing 70 miles from the launch site.”

“It was amazing,” he said. “It was beautiful. You could see the darkness of space and you could see the layers of atmosphere which I had never seen before.”

Thank you, Alan Eustace, for doing this without corporate or government sponsorship. Thank you, Alan, for demonstrating what we are capable of accomplishing.

Thank you for casting a warm bright light where there was darkness.

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew

And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

From: High Flight

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

…And aside from that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

Let’s get the bad news out of the way before cutting to the chase; the Dallas Cowboys won the game on Sunday, October 19, defeating the Football Giants 31 to 21.

My son, Mike, joined me for our annual Giants road game this time to visit America’s team in AT&T Stadium, (a.k.a. Cowboy Stadium and a.k.a. Jerry’s World) in Arlington, Texas. We were part of a crew of a hundred faithful traveling with the Giants Road Crew travel service. We chose their venue because they were staying in Fort Worth and not Dallas. Arlington is closer to Fort Worth and I’ve stayed many times in Big D, but never before in Cowtown.

Our first priority on arrival at the Fort Worth Hilton early Friday afternoon was to secure libations, beer for Mike and vodka for me. Beer, we discovered, was less of a challenge to find, but the Hilton’s “Journey Ambassdor” (sic) Mike Goldberg, a.k.a. Papa Mike, explained that Fort Worth was a dry town when it came to retail sales of spirits.

Papa Mike looked like an unmade bed and we learned that his advice was not always the best. After some jabbering, he managed to get us directions to a package store with the disturbing name of “Liquor-rama.”  Located in a wet town several miles east of the hotel, we found it located in a seedy strip mall also featuring a pawn shop and a bail bondsman. The 1.75 liter bottle of Russian Standard Vodka turned out to be the most expensive bottle I ever bought. No, they didn’t rip me off. Nope, they only charged $26 for the vodka, it was the $35 round-trip cab ride that broke the bank.

We had a great dinner at the original Del Frisco’s that night and an early bedtime partially due to not having pay-per-view movies in the room. No porno in Cowtown!

Saturday morning, I discovered something curious about the hotel that reflected the pride that this city holds and openly presents about events related to the day JFK was assassinated. Here is how a Hilton brochure described it:

Opened in 1921, the Hilton Forth Worth is the former Hotel Texas where President John F. Kennedy and the First Lady stayed on November 21, 1963.The next morning, after a speech in the Hotel’s Crystal Ballroom, the President’s motorcade departed, taking with it the final moments of a more innocent America.

Located directly across from the main entrance of the historic Hilton Forth Worth you will find the all-new JFK Tribute Park. Opened in the fall of 2012, the park recaptures the energy and vision brought to Fort Worth 50 years ago during John F. Kennedy’s visit to our city. The tribute park provides visitors with an interactive experience, highlighted by a 9’ bronze statue (of the president.)

I understand their intentions, but, having lived through that day, it remains a shock to my system.

We spent Saturday morning walking through parts of this compact city where we encountered a fair number of Texas Christian and Oklahoma State football fans on their way to the game wearing purple (TCU) or orange (OSU) gear with banners and flags flying, horns blaring accompanying their joyous cheers. The TCU Horn Toads’ prevailed 42-9 over the OSU Cowboy faithful.

Then on to the Stockyards, the old cattle holding and shipping area now a grand tourist mecca of shops, bars and restaurants featuring rodeos, a tourist railroad, entertainment and gunfights. We attended the daily “stampede” featuring cowboys on horseback escorting a small herd of Longhorn steers as they moseyed down the main drag in slow motion. The day’s highlight happened when a diminutive woman from Connecticut gleefully found my son. Maurya Keating was an old friend from the Nutmeg State and she spotted Mike crossing a street. We continued the reunion at the White Elephant Saloon with her Dallas friends.

Mike and I were amazed at the number of folks who wished us luck after seeing Giants logos on our shirts. Some were transplanted from the Northeast, but others were Fort Worth inhabitants who just hated Dallas. It seems the Dallasens look down on the Fort Worthians in the same manner that NYC’s East Siders treat Staten Islanders, like dirt.

Billy Bob’s was crazy, huge with 10 or so bars, performers on stage, endless HD TVs and the mechanical bull (which we avoided.) And the crowd: Texas gals with big hair, big boobs covered by sequined cowgirl shirts, tight jeans with big buckles and high-heeled boots escorted by slim guys sporting authentic cowboy hats, mustaches, checkered shirts, jeans, big buckles and boots; each looking like a Texas Ranger: One riot, one Ranger!

My son came up with two extra tickets to the game so we invited his two cousins, Bill and Tom, displaced New Yorkers who remain true to Big Blue. Rose did another fabulous job with the location of our stadium tailgate, the food and drink.

AT&T Stadium is the best venue on earth for American football and Jerry Jones has enlisted Texas size entertainment. Cops on motorcycles, babes on horses, an American flag shaped like the continental USA, a half-time led with bagpipes  and featuring every type of uniformed peace officer in Texas, and, of course, the Dallas Cheerleaders.

Two of us sat in Row 7 of the 100 seat level, just above the playing field behind the end zone.  Several times during breaks, these lovelies performed their routine on an elevated platform stretching from sideline to sideline. The view during breaks was spectacular.

How bout dem Cowboys!                              

Railroads for 20 points: The most traveled stretch of passenger railroads in America:

What is Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor?

Correct, for 30 points: The most densely trafficked part of the Northeast Corridor:

What is New York’s Penn Station?

Correct and finally: The least funded, least cared for and most neglected transportation operator in the US of A.

What is Amtrak?

Correct!

West of Manhattan across the Hudson River, twin, hundred-year-old tunnel portals mark the point where Amtrak and New Jersey Transit trains transition to and from daylight. Just beyond the Jersey swamps (a.k.a. Meadowlands) these tunnels flow under the Hudson River and into Pennsylvania Station. These tunnels are very sick. They are obsolete and overworked trafficked by more trains daily than the builders could have envisioned. As if that wasn’t enough, super storm Sandy’s aftermath is coming due creating high-anxiety for the engineers responsible for the safe movement of passengers and crews.

When Sandy hit New York City, it flooded the West Side causing the Hudson to cascade into the tracks leading to Penn Station. Those engineers faced a Hobson’s choice, let Penn Station flood causing an irreparable catastrophe, or open the flood gates into the tubes flooding them but sparing the station. Wisely, they sacrificed the tubes.

Massive pumps drained these tubes and in a few days, trains began to run again. One month shy of the second anniversary of this massive storm, Amtrak issued a report that the inundation by salt water has had a continuing and lasting effect on the inner workings of the tubes, roadbeds, tracks, signals, and even the very concrete linings. They are failing and the only alternative will be to close the tubes, gut them, re-waterproof, re-line with new concrete and install entire new roadbeds, tracks and electrical equipment. To do this work would mean closing each tube for at least a year.

Amtrak says insurance will pay for this to the tune of $350 million more or less. As a retired insurance broker, I caution, “Don’t bet the ranch on it.”

It gets worse. The New York Times reports: “But shutting one of the two tracks in the tunnel under the Hudson River would cut service by about 75 percent because trains headed into New York would have to share the remaining track with trains headed west from the city…an unacceptable effect on travel in the metropolitan area.”

Amtrak’s solution, delay this apocalypse until a new tunnel can be laid under the Hudson River. Why this grand idea already has a name, “the Gateway project.”  Anthony R. Coscia, Amtrak’s chairman told reporters: “…having the added capacity would make the shutdown more tolerable for the tens of thousands of commuters who pass through the Hudson tunnels each weekday.”

Isn’t that just swell? To the nearest billion dollars, name the amount funded for the Gateway Project? The correct answer: Zero point Zero!

That’s not all; two of the four tubes under the East River suffered the same kind of lasting damage from Sandy as their Hudson River cousins. Estimated cost to rectify, another $350 million, but at least three tubes would remain open while one was closed at a time. Back in New Jersey, just northeast of the town of Harrison, stands a two-track 100 plus year-old swing bridge called the Portal Bridge that is also in bad shape. Each time it is opened to permit the passage of marine traffic, it’s a crapshoot whether it aligns properly when it is closed. Same story…billions are needed to replace it but not one penny has been set aside to fund it.

Sad, isn’t it:

Once I built a railroad,

made it run,

made it run against time.

Once I built a railroad,

Now it’s done.

Buddy can you spare a dime.