John Delach

I shoot de puck, it go in de net, I score de goal, ay! To me, that’s the simplest and best description by an athlete replying to the tired, inevitable reporter’s question, “How did you win the game tonight?”

My late, great Canadian friend and business colleague, Terry Manning, related that gem supposedly made by Maurice Richard at one of our sessions at a bar somewhere in Montreal, New York, London or White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.

(Terry also taught me a valuable late-night pronouncement to be delivered before leaving a bar: “Let’s have one for the ditch!”)

Terry’s first love was the Montreal Canadiens, and I should have been able to torture him during the early 80s when we worked closely together as my local team, the upstart NY Islanders, won four Stanley Cups in a row from 1980 to 1983. But I couldn’t give a damn about these interlopers; my team was the Rangers, the one I grew up with.

My experiences with the Rangers originated during the early 1950s when my cousins, Helen, Bill and Bob Christman surprised me for birthdays and with tickets to Sunday night games at the old Madison Square Garden.

The Rangers weren’t good usually finishing fifth or sixth in the six-team league that was the original National Hockey League. They weren’t any better later in 50s when my friends and I started making visits to the old joint on Eighth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street. We showed out high school General Organization (G.O.) Cards that together with fifty cents gave us access to the side balconies. The principal problem with those seats was they presented an incomplete view of the ice after the third row from the rail cutting off about 10% of the action along the near boards. Regulars would arrive early enough to commandeer entire rows of choice seats for themselves and their buddies and, if perchance we arrived early enough to seize seats for our selves, they were not beyond bully threats forcing us to vacate them.

College years and post-college years before marriage, it was not uncommon for us to attend the Football Giants contest on Sunday afternoon at Yankee Stadium then proceed downtown via the Eight Avenue subway for hockey.

But try as I might, watching hockey on a regular basis was not for me and like NASCAR, if the subject came up, my eyes would glaze over and my thoughts would drift to a myriad of other interests while I half-listened to this background noise. I did attend a number of games at the Madison Square Garden that replaced the old joint in the late 1960s especially after my employer, Marsh & McLennan, leased a series of corporate boxes. Great to entertain clients and I could duck out early and catch a reasonable LIRR train in the basement back to Port Washington.

One memorable night, Winston cigarettes staged a Winston Cup night. At the time they sponsored stock car racing both on a national and local level and somehow or other it was hooked into this particular hockey game. We had 15 folks in the box that night each who received a bright red Winston baseball cap. Then, as luck would have it, a Ranger scored three goals achieving a “hat trick” that night. When thousands of fans finished sailing their new found head gear from high and low the ice had been turned into a sea of crimson. Then, lo and behold, the same chap scored a fourth goal. The few remaining caps hit the ice along with other hats of all types and even packs of Winston cigarettes.

But the playoffs are a different matter altogether and the further the Rangers progress, the further out of the closet I come. They had a near miss in the 1978-79 season losing in five games to Montreal and that glorious 1993-1994 season when they finally won the Stanley Cup and silenced the taunting chorus of “1940-1940-1940…”

Now twenty years later, the Rangers are back in Cup this time as decided underdogs against the Kings. Few give the Blue Shirts a chance. Balderdash! Proudly out of the closet, permit me to paraphrase the late radio sportscaster, John Kennerly, and declare: “The Rangers will go through Los Angeles like the Acela goes through Metuchen, New Jersey!

Sometime last year I heard about a new book called: “The Routes Not Taken – A Trip Through New York City’s Unbuilt Subway System.” Fascinated by the title, I asked my son to give it to me for my 70^th Birthday. Try as hard as he could, Michael discovered, contrary to the information I had, it was yet to be published. In April, two of my buddies, Geoff Jones and Bill Christman, sent reviews from the Wall Street Journal. I quickly went to Amazon and bought a copy.

I’ve read about half of this history of the transit system in the 20^th Century; I will be shocked if the author, Joseph B. Raskin, sells more than 500 copies. It’s not an awful book. Quality is not an issue. The problem is the subject matter is exactly as advertised; a definitive narrative of the reasons that many proposed and planned subway lines were never built. The short answer; lack of money, conflicting interests and / or lack of political will.

You now know the primary cause and effect of Mr. Raskin’s narrative. Beyond that, do you really want to know that the Brooklyn – Queens Crosstown Line, today known as the “G” Line was originally conceived as a steam-powered elevated line in the late Nineteenth Century or that the Winfield Spur in Queens only appeared on the 1929 Board of Transportation Planning Map even though an underground subway terminal was built along the IND Queens Line to accommodate it? That terminal remains today, abandoned, unfinished and connected to nothing.

If you answered anything other than, “Hell, no!” you are a liar, psychotic, a fool or a subway geek. As for me, I jumped on such information like a dog on a bone but, I admit, this book is a test. A test of endurance, knowledge and patience. Witness this simple paragraph describing a proposed extension to the Flushing Line:

“The extended route would run past Flushing and along Warburton Avenue (now 38^th Avenue) to Bayside Boulevard (now 221^st Street) near Little Neck Bay. For most of this distance, the Flushing line would closely parallel the LIRR’s Port Washington’s line.”

Did you find your eyes glazing over, were you distracted or did you even finish reading the passage? Even if that paragraph made any sense to you at all, admit it; everything being equal, you’d rather be forced to watch snooker on the tele than read any more of this drivel.

But I am hooked as I knew I would be. You see I hold what would be the equivalent of a Masters Degree of Subway having honed by education and knowledge for more than 50 years from publications like the Electric Railroader Association (ERA) and the National Historic Railroad Association’s (NHRA) bulletins. I began collecting material while in college making visits to the nearby Transit Authority’s headquarters on Jay Street where I met two employees who I learned were legendary subway historians; a.k.a. geeks, Don Harold and Frank Goldsmith who introduced me to material I did not know existed about the subways.

My collection of written material expanded over the years. As technology improved first with VHS tapes and, later, DVDs, I grew my video library of the old films featuring trolleys and old els shot in the 1930s and 1940s. Previously they could only be viewed on 8mm and 16mm projectors at club meetings.

It was the internet that made research simple and provided a plethora of information about the subways past, present and the routes not taken. It was about the same time that I secured copies of the official Board of Transportation maps of 1929 and 1939 that laid out plans for the so-called, “Second System” the next phase of extending the IND system.

Please, do not be under whelmed, to a subway geek these maps are the equivalent of Biblical scholars finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. Oh, all right granted I am engaging in a bit of hyperbole, but they were a major find. But the maps had to be taken on face value and details were poor. Oh sure, I could see where the Utica Avenue Line and the Smith Street – Staten Island Line would go or where the two-level South 4^th Street Station would be located in Brooklyn, but there weren’t any details.

But Mr. Raskin opened the vault and has provided intense and specific details not only of locations, but of the how, why, when and who were responsible.

He make life good for subway geeks everywhere.

But before I sign off I will confirm one thought you are considering: It’s true; I have never met a subway geek whose all there including when I look in the mirror.

When the 7:07 PM Metro North / Connecticut Transit train to New Haven left the Grand Central Terminal on time on Friday evening, May 9, 2014, it’s consist of cars included the last bar / lounge coach operating on any American commuter railroad. Officially dubbed, Café Cars, this forty- something years old unit was removed from service at the end of that run together with three other like lounge coaches.

They were rolling dinosaurs and only lasted this long because Connecticut deferred replacing their M-2 commuter car fleet well beyond other railroads had like Metro North and the Long Island railroads. Their very existence was odd as the Nutmeg State still chose to include Café Cars when they ordered new train sets in the early 1970s at a time  almost all other systems were eliminating these coaches as they modernized their equipment.

Like Chicago; Jim Hagelow recalled “We lost ours years ago and with them, many fond memories. Birthday parties, Cubs outings, ‘Oh Shit’ card games and singing Christmas carols. Every year for years, a fellow from Peat Marwick and I led the car singing carols during our rolling party.” Jim also admitted a universal truth: “I think my wife was happy when it went away.”

Geoff Jones remembered that the older pre-MTA equipment included lounge cars with upholstered chairs and couches that could be move around. “Some had service bars at one end, but there were others with long bars along one side of windows. The railroad had a bartender who rode south from Poughkeepsie in the morning running a continental breakfast service. At night he became the bartender for the northbound run to Poughkeepsie where they put him up in a small apartment. On weekends, he continued further north where his family lived.”

“When the new equipment arrived, booze carts on the platforms at GCT replaced the lounges. But drinks bought there didn’t last to Peekskill where a funny thing often happened on Fridays. The platform is located on a pretty sharp bend of the Hudson. The train emptied on the right so it took the conductor a long time to check it all to see if passengers were safely off. Just across the street was a pizzeria and thirsty commuters who still had a way to go pre-ordered pizzas and six-packs of beer from pay phones in GCT (no cell phones) to meet the train. A designated runner left with the first wave of exiting passengers to secure the order and re-board the train. Usually, the run went smoothly, but I do believe the conductor held the train when it didn’t. The pizza always smelled great but it was only ten minutes to my stop in Garrison so I didn’t join in.”

After the LIRR introduced their new M-1 coaches without bar cars in 1969, for a while they turned trains that went long distances into bar cars by putting a cart and bartender on one of the units. He maneuvered the cart taking over one of the two vestibules in that car. He disabled the doors behind him and the conductor would announce his location. Pity the passengers, especially non-drinkers in that car. A line would snake down the narrow aisle with thirsty patrons competing for space with others carrying their drinks back to their friends. If that didn’t create sufficient discomfort for regular riders, once the bartender came on board, that coach officially became a smoking car!

My own make-shift bar experience came on my son’s last commute to Port Washington before he was to be married and move to Fairfield, CT. I bought four cans of beer to share on our express run home, but while the train was still in Queens, we stopped at a station for what the crew described as a medical emergency. “EMS is on the way and will be here soon.”

The doors were open and I spied a bodega at the end of the platform across Northern Boulevard. “Watch my briefcase,” I said to Mike and made my way as quickly as I could. Dodging traffic, I replenished our diminished rations and made it back as the EMS fellows were removing the distressed commuter from the train. “Hey, is that for us?” one of them called out as I re-boarded.

“Afraid not fellas, but if you had let me know, I would have picked up four more.”
 

This is an excerpt from my 2014 Baseball Journal: “Tickets: $6.00 – Hot Dogs $18.75”

Our 2014 annual baseball trip takes place in late April and culminates in Durham for a late afternoon contest between the Bulls and the visiting Scranton / Wilkes-Barre Railriders, the Yankees AAA affiliate. The Bulls represent the Tampa Bay Rays. We are an audience of six, part of the 10,011 sell-out crowd. I am joined by my baseball buddies, Bill, Don, Geoff, Mike and Geoff’s son-in-law, Paul whose family lives in Durham. We sit along the third base line out toward left field.

The ballpark is modern and Geoff explains that they undertook an $18 million renovation after the 2013 season ended. New four and five-story office buildings loom over the left and center field walkways with balcony’s overlooking the field. Paul explains that during weekday early starts, office workers come out to watch the games.

Just inside the left-field foul pole is a large painting of a bull. When a Bulls’ player hits a home run, steam comes out of the bull’s nostrils and its eyes turn red. Written on the bull is a sign: “HIT BULL WIN STEAK.” Below the bull on painted grass it reads: “HIT GRASS WIN SALAD.”

A Sign in Center field proclaims that this is Goodmon Field. Paul explains that Jim Goodmon is a local media mogul and current owner, but it seems his choice to name the place after himself is not catching on. Newspaper reports of the game call it Durham Bulls Athletic Park or by its initials, DBAP, pronounced D-bap.

I take a solo walk around the ballpark during the early innings to observe the view from all fields. Covered stands stretch from just past first base around home to just past third base. This main seating area is a big single deck, that tapers down beyond first and third. Luxury boxes line the wall along the rear of this grandstand. Open stands continue to the right field and left field foul poles. Bleachers line right-center with a grass seating area in center field. The scoreboard covers the left field wall with a an outdoors restaurant above it.

Before the game begins, I ask a fellow two rows behind us to take our photo using my phone. He does, but the chap with him asks, “When did you boys play for the Bulls.”

“I’m not sure of the year,” I reply, “But they were still flying the Confederate Flag.” After a group of youngsters finish performing the National Anthem, I turn and ask, “When did they change the tune?”

At first he looks puzzled then he explodes in laughter.

It’s an easy game for the Bulls who take a 5-0 lead into the Ninth on the strength of two home runs. It is only then that I wake-up to the fact that the starting pitcher, Mike Montgomery, has pitched eight innings of no-hit baseball! But he is also at or about the 100 pitch count. Somehow, he avoids his manager, Charles Montoyo, and returns to the mound for the top of the Ninth. But Montgomery throws two straight balls before getting the batter to ground out to first. Without hesitating, Montoyo goes out to the mound and takes the ball from Montgomery. There are some boos, but then, mostly cheers. Montgomery gives his manager the ball without hesitation which leads us to believe wrongly that Montoyo told him he was going to take him out after the first batter. Instead, like a kid being caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Motgomery meekly returns to the dugout. At least he receives the accolades from the fans that he deserves on his way.

Brad Boxberger in relief, gets the last two outs. The crowd explodes with cheers as he strikes out the second batter preserving the no-hitter.

We eat in a crowded pub in the tobacco warehouse district near the stadium. Paul points out the Lucky Strike smoke stack, now preserved. (I think to myself, few of these people here ever smoked a Lucky Strike or know what their advertizing slogan, L.S.M.F.T. meant*)

I make it to the end of the bar attempting to flag down one of the harried bartenders while we wait for a table. When I catch one’s eye, I decisively demand, “One Fat Tire, three Kettle One’s, rocks and two non-alcohol beers.” This command impressing a young couple watching me.

“You know what you want,” the boy notes.

“At 70 years-old, I should. Pretty soon, I won’t remember what I want.”

We have a second round at the bar so when we sit down, we only order food. That’s why, when we split the bill, we are shocked that each of our share is $15.65. “How could we have ever submitted that on an expense account when we were working?”

*(Lucky Strike Means Fine tobacco.)

My dear senior citizens and fellow travelers, one of the passages we must make when the calendar verifies that we have reached the magical age of 65 is to enter into the brave, new and different world of Medicare. In many ways it is not overt or a shock to the system, but there is also no doubt that we will discover that things are different as we make appointments with doctors for the most mundane of visits. First, almost universally, our bright new red, white and blue Medicare Cards are accepted readily and little attention seems to be made to secondary providers. Despite all of the wringing of hands and doom and gloom articles that doctors are ready to opt out of Medicare, we experience a warm welcome, “Nice to see you.”

Then we discover that every time we see a provider, a CMS, Medical Summary Notice is produced detailing the costs of services rendered, the amount covered, less deductibles and coinsurance and the remainder that you may or may not be billed.

No longer is the bill for a visit a fixed amount. Now, when the nurse – practitioner takes a test, that’s a charge, takes your vitals, that’s a charge, uses a machine, that’s a charge and each charge has a different code; one visit, many codes.

When the doctor finally appears and asks, “How are you?” that’s a charge. “Say Ahhhh.” that’s a charge, “Let me see you walk?”: A charge. Test reflexes, that too is a charge. And, if during the course of your discussion you mention another non-related symptom, that will lead to additional tests and multiple new charges.

…And so it goes because that is the Medicare way. But you come to realize that there is something basically wrong with the system that encourages a menu of tests, treatments  and examinations to be undertaken without regard to their actually being necessary, appropriate or beneficial.

Then, finally a wake-up call. Take Dr. Salomon E. Melgen, a North Palm Beach, Florida ophthalmologist who received $21 million in Medicare reimbursements in 2012. All hail Dr. Melgen, king of Medicare payments.

Better yet, he is worthy of being Fighting Dr. Melgen, he is suing Uncle to claw back $9 million he over-billed in 2007 and 2008. He protests the activities the federal lawyers charge he undertook with patients where they state: “(He) seeks to game the system by seeking reimbursement of three to four times its actual costs.”

The New York Times explained this charge further on April 10, 2014:

Each vial of medication (Lucentis) comes with up to four times the amount that a patient requires. Investigators said the doctor was using one vial to treat three or four patients and billing as if he had purchased a new vial each time. The doctor would be reimbursed $6,000 to $8,000 for a vial that cost him $2,000.

Fighting Dr. Melgen isn’t alone. Thanks to the Wall Street Journal taking the Department of Health and Human Services to court, the DOH&HS has been forced to release the list of the top Medicare earners. Joining Melgen in the second spot is Dr. Assad Qamar of Ocala, Fla, an interventional cardiologist at $18 million in Medicare reimbursements. Dr. Michael C. McGinnis, a pathologist from Wrightstown, N.J., finished third at $12.6 million.

Like Melgen, Assad doesn’t mind throwing money at politicians including $100,000 to the DNC. Assad also hired “…a former Justice Department official and Capitol Hill aide from the firm named Gregory W. Kehoe – helped Mr. Oamar contact more than a dozen members of congress asking them to help him address why he was subject to such intense scrutiny from Medicare auditors.” (NY Times.)

And, just in case you are wondering, both Melgen and Assad, according to the Paper of Record…”are still certified to receive Medicare payments.”

But wait, there’s more. Witness the lead story in the April 28^th edition of the NY Times that ran under this headline:

One Therapist, $4 Million

In 2012 Medicare Billing

8 of Program’s top 10 Earners in Physical

 Therapy Practice in New York

The four million dollar therapist is Wael Bakry. The Times notes that his practice treated 1,950 Medicare patients in 2012 and that Medicare paid him for 94 separate procedures for each patient. “That works out to 183,000 treatments a year, 500 a day, 21 an hour.”

Bakry’s rejoinder and rationale: His patients receive good care and return when they have other problems. “If the patients didn’t get good care, they wouldn’t come back to us again.”

Why is it I have this feeling this is still only the beginning with more to come down this Medicare pipeline? Good God Almighty, Only in America!

From the very beginning of our early visits to the 1964 New York World’s Fair, my friends and I made it a habit to salute our visit by enjoying a brew or two at The Schaefer Center. Outstanding beer; extremely fresh, straight from their Williamsburg brewery having arrived by truck that very day. Not only was the taste exquisite, Schaefer served this, their premier draft larger in a special glass that they commissioned specifically for the Fair.

“Schaefer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one,

A most delightful pleasure in this man’s world,

 For people who are having fun,

Schaefer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t bold enough to attempt to steal one or two of these works of art and I had enough cash in my pocket. So, I asked the bartender if I could buy one of these glasses? The answer was no, but he told me I could buy a set of six glasses protected by a strong carton in which they were boxed and sealed. The price was reasonable so I took the plunge. Somehow the glasses survived the night and arrived safely home with me in the early morning hours .

When my mother awoke the next morning she discovered the box on our kitchen table and naturally assumed that the glasses were a gift for her. After all, what would her 20-year-old son want with a set of glasses? Also, she accepted this as a special gift fomher son as the Fair opened on her birthday, April 22. Mom had adopted the Fair as her special place.

Even though I was a still-selfish, newly-minted, post-teen, I had enough sense not to deny her those glasses or to concoct some malarkey as to why I should keep them. And so they remained with my mother until she passed in 1997. It was then that I discovered that all six glasses remained almost in mint condition having never seen the inside of a dishwasher during their long lives.

Wow, what memories these glasses provide for me. Thanks, Mom for keeping these treasures safe.

This is what I wrote about them in 2002. That piece, The Beer Glass, appeared in my anthology, The Big Orange Dog:  

The Beer Glass

A fluted eight-ounce beer glass, it is both handsome and practical. Though not very old, it is nonetheless well-crafted projecting the pride of the brewery that commissioned it.

On one side, near the top, there is a vertical oval ring embossed in gold. Gold lines radiate inward from the top and bottom of the ring to a horizontal red oval in the center of the ring. In clear script, “Schaefer” is imprinted onto this red oval. Beneath the gold ring, in matching red script, the glass proclaims, “America’s Oldest Lager Beer.” On the opposite side in matching red script, “Schaefer Center- New York World’s Fair 1964-1965.”

The glass is well balanced, easy to hold, easy to drink from. It cries out to be filled with, “The one beer to have when you are having more than one.”

 When filled, the amber liquid backlights the red script, the clear brand name and the gold ring, while a foamy head provides needed contrast.

Pick it up. Look at it. Drink from it. Settle back into a different era when they still made beer in Brooklyn.

The spring of 1964 in New York City; what an exciting time to be in The Big Apple’s fourth borough, Queens. On April 17^th, LaGuardia Airport’s brand new main terminal opened replacing the original 1939 art deco classic. Yes, it’s true; this is same building that Vice President Joe Biden recently decried as being so awful, it’s worse than aviation facilities in third world nations. But 50 years of wear and tear can do that to a building and in 1964, it was a state – of – the – art edifice for both the city and the country opening just in time for the start of domestic jets service by  727s and DC-9s that would revolutionize our national travel habits.

Less then two miles away from LaGuardia, on the very same day, Shea Stadium opened. The Amazin Mets hosted the Pittsburgh Pirates for this first baseball game in their brand new ballpark. William Shea christened his namesake by pouring the contents of two small champagne bottles onto the infield. One contained water from the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn. “You couldn’t see the Gowanus from Ebbets Field,” Shea said, “but you could smell it.” The other bottle contained water from the Harlem River that flowed by the Polo Grounds the Mets first home then being demolished.

Robert Moses gave the shortest speech, “My friends, this is no time for oratory. Mere words are superfluous. Let lunch begin.”

Casey Stengel, naturally, was the most obtuse: “We got 54 rest rooms, 27 for the men and 27 for the ladies and I know you all want to use them now. And the escalators, no stairs. I tell you, you’ll keep your youth if you follow the Mets.”

The Mets lost that game to the Bucs, 4-3. I sat in the upper deck on the third base side and watched together with 50,312 other fans as Willie Stargell hit the first home run out of the stadium.

I was in my Junior Year at St. Francis College in Brooklyn that spring and I already had a summer job. I was in a teller training program at First National City Bank’s main office in Manhattan to be a teller at their World’s Fair Branch once the fair opened on April 22^nd, my mother’s birthday. Alas, I never did make it to that branch, missing the cut and being assigned instead to a money counting facility deep in the bowels of 399 Park Avenue where the fair’s deposits were sent. Instead of becoming a bright eyed, young teller garbed in his Citi-bank blazer and chinos happily assisting the banks customers visiting Mr. Moses’ grand creation, I was a mole working 12 hours a day, three days on, three days off in a sub-terrenean vault so deep that when the E and F subway trains rumbled by in their tunnels on Fifty-Third Street just on the other side the wall of our vault, they were above us!

But I did get three days off in a row every fourth day and I did have a bank pass to the fair. I practically lived at the World’s Fair that summer and on the night of June 5^th; I met a girl in the Red Garter banjo bar in the Wisconsin Pavilion (also the home of the world’s largest cheese.) Her name was Mary Ann Donlon of Flushing, Queens and she would become my wife on November 11, 1967.

The fair was held at the height of the era when technology was king and the automobile reigned supreme. The member nations of the international association that controlled these fairs distained the New York Fair as it broke their rules. Germany, England, the USSR, and Canada chose not to attend as did all Communist countries following Moscow’s lead. (China attended, but it was our China: Taiwan.) R.M. said screw’em. He grabbed the Vatican for the space reserved for the USSR. Using his clout with Cardinal Spellman and the Archdiocese of New York, a relationship no doubt fashioned at Toots Shor’s, he pushed enough buttons to finance a Vatican Pavilion and have Pope Paul VI loan Michelangelo’s Pieta to the Fair. As a throw in, the Pope agreed to visit the Fair during the 1965 season: brilliant!

R.M. also went after the corporate giants who turned this world’s fair into a grand display of the American way. And these corporations responded spectacularly, especially those that commissioned the incredible talents of Walt Disney and his Disney organization to produce their exhibitions. Pepsi Cola’s “It’s a Small World After All” was one of Disney’s triumphs. Walt loved it so much that when the fair ended, he had it shipped to Disney World in Florida where it still operates today. Even if you don’t know the words, you can hum that incessant melody until it drives you nuts…It’s a small after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small, Small world. La, la, La, LA, la…     

General Electric commissioned Disney to build a circular ride where the audience went from scene to scene in Progressland watching as a robotic family acted out “… a warm, whimsical drama, from the days before electricity to the present.” Anyone who saw this will remember the same family dog appeared in each scene.

RCA, AT&T, the Bell System, Kodak, Coca Cola, General Cigar and IBM and its amazing egg vied for our attention. Bell created a, “400-foot floating wing (housing) an exciting ride that tells the story of human communications.” At IBM, “Audiences of some 400 at a time are lifted on a ‘People Wall’ of moving seats into the egg by hydraulic mechanism.”

And Moses touted religion. Besides the Catholics, we had the Mormons, The Russian-Orthodox – Greek Catholic Churches, Christian Science, Sermons from Science, American – Israel, Billy Graham and the Protestant & Orthodox Center. R.M. rules – religion: good – honey-tonk: bad

Moses ban on fun did not extend to the consumption of beer, wine or spirits. The Red Garter where I met Mary Ann featured Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller and Schlitz on tap. West Berlin had Lowenbrau; Ireland had Guinness and Irish coffee. Two of our local Brooklyn breweries, Schaeffer and Rheingold put up their own brilliant pavilions. (Schaeffer produced a beautiful World’s Fair 12 oz. beer glass that I will write about soon.)

But Ford and GM stole the Fair. Ford, that boasted the largest pavilion, used their latest model convertibles including brand new Mustangs first unveiled in April to carry visitors on a technology ride through their building. As super as that was GM ruled with a canopy over the entrance to their 200,000-square pavilion. “Behind the canopy, the main portion of the 680-foot-long building houses the exciting 1,700-foot Futurama ride.” Actually, “Futurama II” it was the modern version of the first ride introduced at the 1939-1940 Fair. Visitors rode chairs to see “…gigantic machines for conquering the oceans, the deserts and the Arctic. What was then jungle – rain forest, in today’s parlance – would be conquered by an atomic – powered 300-foot-long machine that would cut trees with lasers, spread herbicide and extrude behind it a four – lane freeway at a rate of a mile an hour.”

Pop Art was represented by U.S. Royal’s tire – shaped Ferris wheel, “An 80-foot-tall pop concept worthy of Claes Oldenburg. It still greets motorists alongside Interstate 94 near the Detroit airport, as if it had rolled there from the World’s fair site down the Grand central Parkway, over the Triborough-RFK and the George Washington bridges and out to the Midwest.”

What a Fair, what a time to be young and living in Queens!

One time just before I left Marsh & McLennan, in a fit of pre-retirement candor and rash enthusiasm, I looked my client from XYZ Petroleum in the eye and said, “Do you know that the only organized group out there that has a worse reputation than ‘Big Oil’ are child pedophiles.”

Though admittedly not the brightest thing to say, I stand by that statement except I believe that the airlines have deservedly joined Big Oil as the public’s favorite whipping boy. That certainly holds true for me. I do have two exceptions, Jet Blue and Southwest. Jet Blue is my go-to airline of choice as they offer frequent non-stop flights from New York City to multiple places at reasonable fares on new, clean and well-functioning equipment with excellent crews and good attitudes. My only real criticism is directed at their on line reservation which has become overly complicated.

Southwest is excellent at moving large number of passengers efficiently and economically also on well-functioning equipment with good and sometimes great crews. Bags fly free on both airlines and my one hesitation with Southwest is the need to make connections in Chicago or Baltimore to get to where I really want to go.

That’s it as far as I’m concerned. Traditional airlines, particularly, American – U.S. Air – Air West, Delta – Northwest and United – Continental all suck. Not too long ago, I was chatting with a flight attendant on a United flight about their upcoming merger with Continental. She noted, “I wonder what the new name will be?”

I replied, “I have a great idea for the new name, “Eastern.” The look she gave me let me know she knew what I meant.

Once upon a time it seemed that I lived on Eastern Airlines because they flew to all of the places where I peddled insurance; Richmond, Boston, DC, Miami, Atlanta, Mobile, Houston, San Juan and Bermuda. I was a one of their Executive Travelers and a member of the Ionosphere Club when it mattered. That combination was so powerful that I knew the receptionist at the club in their JFK terminal on a first name basis who always  upgraded me to First Class. In fact, one morning back in the 1980s I arrived for Flight 807, the morning airplane to Bermuda, without my passport or even my driver’s license. Helen, the receptionist, asked, “What are you going to do Mr. Delach?”

“Well, Helen, I do have my company ID that has my photo and we have an office in Bermuda so I think that will work.”

“Okay, good luck.”

Imagine that encounter today. Long story short. It did work with a minimum of fuss both ways; getting past Bermuda Immigration onto the island, and U.S. Customs and Immigration getting off.

But I watched Eastern go down under Frank Borman’s stewardship. In fact we had a running joke to describe how bad things became before Eastern went out of business. “Eastern is run by Frank Borman, but the way it is run you’d think it was being run by Martin Bormann.”

Which brings me to the point of this rant. Back in January I booked a baseball trip with  four buddies that would take us to Atlanta for a Braves game then on to Charlotte and Durham for two AAA games at the respective homes of the Knights and Bulls. We’d fly into Atlanta and drive a rental north and return to our homes from Raleigh Durham. Each of us made our own arrangements but coordinated times as best we could.

I chose two non-stop American Eagles flights. The south bound flight was scheduled to leave LaGuardia at noon and arrive in Hartsfield at 2:25 PM. Or so I thought until I received an e mail message nine days before my scheduled flight. American Airlines, in their infinite wisdom, had cancelled this flight and chose to book me instead on a flight that would leave LaGuardia at 11:20 AM. But guess what – not one to Atlanta! No, no, one going to Chicago. The connecting flight would not arrive at Hartsfield until 5:05 PM!

The message noted: “If the proposed flights are NOT acceptable to you, you (your) reservation can be discussed with one of our specialists.”

After forty-eight minutes on hold, a human being answered my call. I wanted to demand being transferred to another non-stop flight to Atlanta in the same time frame with any additional cost their responsibility, but that would have required a call-back from a supervisor with no guarantees. So I asked for an alternative and the best the rep named, Nancy could do was to offer me a new flight out of LaGuardia that would get me to Hartsfield at 1:07 PM. That was the good news. The bad news: it was a US Air Flight is scheduled to leave LaGuardia  at 8:40 AM going to Atlanta by way of Charlotte.

No mas, I grabbed it. Otherwise, I foresaw continued frustration and high blood pressure.

I hate flying and I hate the airlines.

The Ridgewood of my youth was a humble, blue collar, working-class neighborhood located on the Brooklyn / Queens border. Originally settled by German immigrants just prior to the start of World War I, their influence remained into mid-Century albeit tempered by later arriving Italian-Americans. Corner saloons, pork stores, bakeries, social clubs, knitting mills and mom and pop shops gave Ridgewood its character. A sleepy community isolated from the frenzy of “the City,” most neighborhood activities revolved around churches, schools and these local stores. Weekday mornings I ran my daily errand before school, first to Edelman’s candy store for the Daily News and Daily Mirror then to Bauer’s Bakery for fresh rolls and crumb buns.

Meat at dinner came from the Emil, the butcher or from the pork store. Vegetables came from Carmine, the green grocer. We had Penesi, the shoemaker and his cousin, Penesi, the barber. Myer’s Delicatessen, Koch’s Drug Store and Schneider’s Funeral Home were all less than a block away on Onderdonk Avenue.

But, as the 1950s progressed, Ridgewood’s future grew dim as people of Color from the South and the Puerto Ricans came to dominate nearby Bedford-Stuyvesant and Bushwick making it seem that it was only a matter of time before “white flight” would add Ridgewood to the list of old neighborhoods left behind by the exodus of people escaping to those new tracts rising in the endless dust from former potato fields in Nassau and Suffolk. Those of us who stayed watched our friends, neighbors and family leave adding sadness to this time of discontent.

Despite this despair and the fires and violence of the 1960s and 70s that consumed swathes of Bed-Sty and Bushwick, Ridgewood hung on remaining true to its blue collar. As the old Germans and Italians died off, their kin stood fast and the neighborhood assimilated a broad spectrum of new residents, a multi-cultural collage of New Yorkers seeking affordable housing. All the while, Ridgewood remained below the radar as Williamsburg, then Bushwick, gentrified.

It seemed the neighborhood was immune to gentrification being too far from Manhattan putting it beyond the range where urban pioneers felt comfortable. But a subway runs through it from Manhattan, the old 14^th Street-Canarsie Line. A long, local, multi-stop, dingy train line, that meanders through Brooklyn backwaters without joy. But, now re-named, the L Line, it was recently voted the cleanest subway in New York. According to its critics, the reinvigorated L has progressed“…from zero to hero.” Ridership has soared as a new army of hipsters wearing their defacto uniforms of “knit caps, skinny jeans and sporting intrepid takes on mustaches”, toddlers in tow with names like August and Apollo are pushing further and further east along the line out of Williamsburg across Bushwick to the very edge of Ridgewood.

Now, according to a report the New York Times, it would appear that unassuming Ridgewood may one day evolve into a trendy “left bank” center where truly starving artists gather to exhibit their creations.

True, at this stage, Ridgewood remains the lesser to the now hip and trendier Bushwick where the Times noted: The new gallerists, most with more hope than cash, are transforming a former gritty manufacturing and warehouse neighborhood into an art scene.

But the grabber in a recent article by Jed Lipinski entitled, Next Stop, Bushwick, published in the Style Section read:

And though technically in Ridgewood, Queens, a more upscale neighborhood to the east, new spaces like Valentine are considered part of the Bushwick gallery boom. Fred Valentine, 60, a painter who was priced out of Williamsburg 14 years ago, founded his gallery last summer by cutting his studio in half and installing some track lighting and a bar.

An accompanying map put Fred’s studio on the corner of Seneca Avenue and Harmon Street in the heart of the old neighborhood, one block from where I grew up. How thrilling! I think Fred’s studio is in an old knitting mill and I hope he included the bar as a tribute to the time when it seemed that almost every corner in Ridgewood offered a saloon to ease the thirst of the local population.

So good luck Fred and your fellow pioneering artists; may culture reign supreme. But then again, if they succeed; I fear, there goes the neighborhood.

If you had made mention of The Sharing Economy (TSE) to me about a month ago or asked me a question about it, I would have first tried to tune you out or, failing this approach, I would have replied with a rude remark to shut you up.

Not today, thanks to being blindsided by this very same TSE. It began innocently enough during a telephone conversation with my daughter, Beth, who just happened to mention something called Uber taxis that serve her Brooklyn neighborhood. “Dad, they are great. I contact them using an app. on my IPhone. I select an available car based on location of the car and the driver’s rating. I know almost to the minute when it will arrive, how much it will cost and I pay for my ride using the same app. It’s all in real time.”

Yes, I couldn’t help but notice that some of you raised your eyebrows when you read the word “Uber.” Well, although I cannot say this with absolute certainty, I believe Uber is not a Neo-Nazi organization.

But I digress. “Uber is a venture-funded startup and Transportation Network Company based in San Francisco, California that makes a mobile application that connects passengers with drivers of vehicles for hire and ridesharing services. The company arranges pickups in dozens of cities around the world.” So says Wikipedia.

So what! I agree, but here’s the thing; Uber started on August 1, 2009 with $200,000 in seed money. The founders received another $1.25 million on October 5, 2010. After that they raised capital through several offerings so that by last year the company was valued at $3.8 billion. That’s right: 3.8 billion with “B” dollars. Blindsided in deed. If that isn’t enough, Uber is not alone. There are two embryonic competing services, Sidecar and Lyft; I kid you not.

But wait, wait, “You aint seen nothing yet.” You know what Hyatt and Wyndham are, but do you know who Airbnb is? Hint: they are in similar businesses. Hyatt and Wyndham are established mega-hotel chains whereas Airbnb (air: b-n-b) is another tech startup (circa 2009) that finds rooms here, there and everywhere in places owned by ordinary people where travelers may crash. Hyatt’s current market capitalization is $8.4 billion. Wyndham’s is $9.3 billion. Airbnb, on the other hand is at $9.6 billion and it is in advanced negotiations to increase that amount by another $400 million to a cool $10 billion! Too late, like a crazy Golden Retriever undercutting our legs, here we go again:  blindsided.

And being blindsided is awful. One moment you’re standing there safely both feet securely on the ground and the next thing you know your legs have been cut out from underneath, your ass is higher than your head and gravity is about to intervene. It hurts and you feel stupid.

The financial analyses swear that this is not the dot-com craze all over again. Of course not. This time as noted in the NY Times, Jim Ellis, a lecturer at Stanford’s business school notes: “…the companies now enjoying the limelight are a far cry from those that rose and fell during the dot-com bubble. Many start-ups now have business models that can lead to sustained revenue and profits.”

The models or plans are based on a concept called “collaborative consumption.” What could be simpler than that?

Here are a few of them:

Snapgoods – for lending or borrowing high-end household goods such as cameras, kitchenware or musical instruments.

Dogvacay – Hosts who will board your pooch while the family goes bye, bye.

Relayrides – Borrow a car from your neighbors for an hour or a day.

TaskRabbit – Hire day workers for various jobs or tasks.

Liquid – Bike rentals from neighbors. (Formerly known as Spinlister.)

Fon – Wi-fi band sharing with neighbors and friends.

Postmark and Neighborgoods – Buy and sell used clothes.
No doubt, excellent business models all. No dot-com repetitions here. This time they rely on collaborative consumption, that’s their plan.

You do know what Mike Tyson had to say about the plans boxers used to fight him? “The first time I tagged them good, their plan ended.”

That drink I wrote about before; I think it’s overdue. But watch out for crazy Golden Retrievers lying in wait intent to blindside us on the way to the saloon.