Unsupervised Activity

Once a month, my wife Helen plays Bunco with eleven other women. She has been playing with the very same women for five or six years now, if not longer. In any given month, one of the regulars, due to unforeseeable circumstances, cannot be part of the camaraderie. There is a substitute waiting list for those longing for an opportunity to fill in. The game itself is an afterthought if you ask me. It’s the social interaction that all these women look forward to one Saturday evening each month.

To this day the game of Bunco remains a mystery to me. At one time or another I have inquired as to the rules of play, yet retain none of the information my wife has provided. I have considered that my inability to grasp the game’s objective perhaps lays in my subconscious awareness that Bunco and all that goes with it, is not to be part of my realm but Helen’s alone, her activity to be enjoyed, her time away from the trappings of our relationship.

This much I do know about Bunco. It is a dice game. Twelve people are needed to play. Helen and her friends play for money. Just this morning while considering this topic, after several moments of contemplation, I proudly declared to Helen, as if discovering some previously unknown strand of DNA, that I was of the belief Bunco was some sort of advanced form of Yahtzee. To which she succinctly replied; “No, Bunco is nothing like Yahtzee.” I am forever doomed to wander the earth for the rest of my years unfulfilled, tormented by my ignorance of Bunco. So in any given month, once the date and whose home for the rendezvous is set; I make plans to go out. (See Where Everybody Knows Your Name).

Since I no longer drink, I cannot simply go to a bar like I used to do when given a night of unsupervised freedom. Besides, just going to some watering hole lacks a certain amount of social creativity. I tried going alone to the movies; once. I was dying to see Gran Torino. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you’ll know that if Clint Eastwood was doing a two hour infomercial or public service announcement; I’d consider that “can’t miss” entertainment.

I had seen the trailers. I read the glowing reviews. I heard those who had seen Gran Torino gush at Eastwood’s latest cinematographic triumph. I would go while Helen played Bunco.

When I arrived at the theater, I saw how it had been taken hostage by a generation of individuals exceedingly younger than myself. I am well aware of the behavior of these miscreants. They talk throughout the picture. They don’t turn off their cellphones, allowing them to ring indiscriminately during the course of the movie. They have not-so private conversations with acquaintances that are within shouting distance. And if anyone were foolish enough to “shhh” this unruly mass, you are met with the vulgar catcalls of “Fuck you!” and “Up yours,” or the popular alternative “Shove it asshole.” I have experienced these moments firsthand. I vowed to only attend matinees henceforth. I waited for Gran Torino to come on Pay Per View.

Every now and again Helen’s Bunco night coincides with my friend Gregg’s plan to attend the Mosaic Theater, a small, wonderful theater group. I jump at those opportunities when Gregg offers. I love live theater. Particularly really good live theater, and Mosaic productions are just that.

I have had the good fortune to be out of town once or twice on Bunco night though it wasn’t planned that way.

Sometimes obligations arise involving groups I am affiliated with. These obligations provide the perfect outlet for my limited solo social activity.

There have been evenings where I was perfectly content to stay at home while Helen and her band of merry women did their thing. I stayed home to watch March Madness. I’ll stay at home if the Mets are going to be on TV. If I’m lucky enough, someone may invite me to take in a Marlins game.

I’ll stay home if there’s a movie I’ve wanted to see being premiered on HBO, Starz, or Showtime.

Last January, Helen was the designated Bunco host. I stayed home, in the bedroom, with the door shut, and watched the first of two NFL playoff games. I went out to a local sports bar Bokamper’s, to watch the second game between the Colts and the Ravens because I felt uncomfortable for reasons unknown.

Within the last year, the internet has given me something new to do on Bunco night. Facebook has reconnected me with people who live locally that have gone missing from my life. One of them is Ari Gelfant.

Ari was my boss when I sold cars, if you could call what I did “selling,” much to Ari’s frustration; so confounding in fact, that when I informed Ari I could make more money if I collected unemployment and social security disability, Ari did his part by obligingly firing me. However, I neglected to tell Ari that I had to wait several months before the first disability check came. Hence, I did not have enough money to pay the bills during this period and found myself in a terrible mess. Along came Ari to the rescue.

Ari developed a brand new position for me at the dealership; Customer Relations Manager. Together we broke new ground and paved the way for those that followed in proper customer care practices and procedures. He truly held out a helping hand to a man when he was down. I never forgot him for that, though we eventually drifted apart, in no small part due to my burgeoning alcoholism. Facebook brought us back together. I was delighted to see his “friend request,” and quickly accepted. I called him immediately.

We did our share of catching up and promised to “get together” in the near future. I had heard and made that promise many times over the years, only to see the “get together” never come to fruition. Not so with my friend Ari. When the opportunity presented itself in the form of one of Helen’s Bunco nights; I seized it. I called weeks in advance to see if Ari truly was interested in “getting together,” (is there such a thing as vaguely specific?). He was, so we did. And the townspeople rejoiced!

Ari is in the midst of restoring a 1969 big block Corvette Coupe. Knowing Ari as I do, when he’s finished it will be better than it was delivered from the factory. On this particular evening he was doing some tedious fiberglass work. This did not dampen his spirits nor the conversation. We inquired of our children since it had been many years since either one of us had laid eyes on the others offspring. Aside from that, it was like there had been no gap in real time. This past Saturday Helen had Bunco again. There was no play to go to. The Marlins weren’t in town. Ari and I’d be getting together.

This time I got to see his kids and his wife Suzy (Suzanne to you strangers). I was fortunate enough to see his youngest Zach now sixteen, play hockey. Coincidentally, the first time Ari and I socialized Suzy was in North Carolina visiting a friend. Last Saturday, that very same friend was visiting Suzy. It was a grand afternoon which led into a grand evening. A reunion like this could turn out to be like stepping in dog poop. Initially, you’re surprised, but essentially it’s an unpleasant experience that leaves residual bad feelings.

Months may pass before I get an opportunity to enjoy Ari’s company again. That’s okay, probably for both of us. Most people can only take me in small doses. No sense jeopardizing an evening out when Helen has Bunco.

Don't Stand So Close to Me

If you’ve ever noticed when watching a movie, television show, or even when reading a book; thunder and lightning is always the precursor to something unsettling occurring or about to occur. You can take it to the bank. Pay attention the next time, you’ll see what I mean. It could be an argument or confrontation, a killer is about to strike, something evil is about to transpire. These things and many others constitute the turmoil that follows thunder and lightning.

In real life an actual lightning strike is equally unsettling, particularly if the lightning strike happens in the general vicinity of where you happen to be. If you are unfortunate enough to beat the 1 in 700,000 odds and get struck by lightning, needless to say, that would go way beyond the descriptive parameters that the word “unsettling” covers.

Last Friday, I overheard a gentleman telling of his upcoming annual excursion to that spring wonderland, cultural mecca, and tropical paradise of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Aside from all that Pigeon Forge has to offer, you may ask what would draw a normal, sane individual to this hamlet tucked away in the northeastern corner of the state. Well ask no more! This fellow is making his annual sojourn to attend The Lightning Strike and Electric Shock Survivors International World Conference. Upwards of one hundred hearty souls will be gathering for the twentieth celebration of these miracles of modern science.

All attendees have had to been struck by lightning at least once (the man I came in contact with was a two-time winner/loser?). You can also qualify by surviving an electrical charge substantial enough to kill an individual. This is one conference I hope I’m never eligible to attend unless it’s strictly as an observer. There have been some close calls in my life even though I live in the lightning strike capital of the United States.

I saw a person get struck by lightening once. Well I didn’t actually see it, as much as saw what happened immediately after. Andy Christie was his name. He played on the freshman baseball team for the high school I attended. The JV and varsity practices were cut short due to an imminent approaching storm. The freshman remained behind to finish up before they too called it a day. Just before we reached the doors to the gymnasium, there was a deafening explosion just behind us. Many of us were knocked to the ground by the force. It was as if this enormous hand had whacked you on the back. When we rose, we turned toward those that had stayed on the field. One player did not get up. His clothes had been blown off his body. Athletic Director David Pooley acted quickly and without hesitation. He began CPR while someone else called for an emergency vehicle.

Pooley’s quick thinking probably saved Andy’s life. He missed quite a bit of school while recuperating. The whole episode scared the shit out of me. Years later I would occasionally run into Andy at The Bartley House, a local watering hole. He looked no worse for wear, but his gaze had a vagueness to it, and his line of thought could be slightly disjointed. He always said he was fine, but I had my suspicions, particularly when he’d excuse himself to take a piss all over the jukebox. I just made that part up.

As my drinking habits became more than a habit, I couldn’t help but see Andy more often. Was the drinking a byproduct of the long ago lightning strike? I can only venture a guess. My other close brushes with nature’s version of ‘Ol Sparky did not have as nearly disastrous results, and were much more entertaining. One such event happened only two years prior to the misfortune that befell Andy.

My parents had rented an efficiency apartment for the entire summer in Lavelette down at the Jersey shore. One evening around sunset I heard the bells of one of the numerous ice cream trucks that trolled for customers up and down Route 35. I could hear the thunder getting closer each time the closed blinds became illuminated in an eerie blue aura. My main concern was beating the downpour that was about to commence at any moment. Fearlessly I opened the door to head out. My stepfather swore for as long as he lived, that as I stepped down off the single riser, the lightening bolt struck no more than fifty yards from where I was in mid-step. He said that without ever touching the ground, while still in the air, I pirouetted one hundred and eighty degrees and shut the door behind me all in one fluid act. I can’t remember if I pissed myself. If I didn’t, I certainly should have. The errant bolt struck the gas station directly across the street and promptly burst into flames. However, only the structure caught fire, which was immediately contained. Thankfully the flames did not have the opportunity to ignite the fuel tanks. In the event that was likely, I’m sure we’d have been evacuated…I think. The summer of 1983 was the next close encounter. The proximity of the strike was considerably less, yet the sight of it was no less majestic.

My future ex-wife and I who were not yet married, attended a concert on the pier in Manhattan with the UPS building serving as the backdrop. The Clash was performing on this hot and humid night. The tour promoted their recently released Combat Rock album featuring the single “Rock the Casbah.” Another lesser known track “Straight to Hell” (fitting) happened to be my favorite cut.

The song begins with a kinda ghostly melodic guitar riff that is repeated later in the song. It was during this second riff that a lightning bolt struck the Hudson River a couple hundred yards east of the pier. A huge plume of water shot into the air. It was an awesome sight indeed. The crowd roared its approval. And then the rains came. People scurried for shelter. The rain was so immediate and torrential you were going to get drenched no matter how fast you ran for cover. My ex and I decided to ride it out. Our sticktuitiveness was rewarded with three more songs before Joe Strummer decided he and the rest of the band had enough as well, all adding to the mystique with which I fondly remember that night.

The last occasion occurred on a golf course. The myth is that lightening strikes more frequently on a golf course than anywhere else is not true. While golf courses see their fair share of lightening strikes, it is just as likely to happen on a baseball field (see above).

My friend Gregg and I were playing a round of golf at the Golf Club of Miami; post motorcycle accident. I mention that because due to the metal rods that have been inserted in my femurs, and the plates in my right ulna and right fibula and tibia, and my prosthetic left leg; I am no longer grounded in case I’m struck by lightning. As a matter of fact, I now attract electricity in the air. Needless to say, I get a little anxious when l’m outdoors and the possibility of lightning is high.

As an umpire, if there wasn’t a lightning warning system at the park I was working; I would just grab a hold of the wire backstop with my right arm. If lightning flashed and the hairs on my arm stood up, I knew it was time to get everybody off the field. By the way, it’s also a real howl to go through airport security.

As I recall, Gregg and I were on the seventh hole when we remarked how great it was we weren’t being held up by other golfers in front of us. We saw some lightning and heard some thunder off in the distance, but we believed it not close enough to deter us from proceeding. We had heard no warning siren from the clubhouse. No marshall drove by to tell us we had to come in. So we kept playing, finishing the front nine without incident.

When we arrived back at the clubhouse, we saw all the carts lined up in front. Inside, golfers stood elbow to elbow. Another golfer asked us where the hell had we been. We told him we were completing the front nine. He made some comment about our mental state, and told us everybody was called in off the course nearly an hour earlier. Someone had been struck by lightning on the back nine. Whoops, we didn’t get that memo.

Our laughter had an air of nervousness and devil-may-care attitude that confirmed our fellow golfer’s reservations concerning our sanity. I wonder if the folks gathered at that shockfest in Pigeon Forge find their run-ins with lightning as humorous?

I find the whole thing odd to tell you the truth. What the hell do you talk about at a convention of people who’ve been struck by lightning and lived to tell about it? I imagine the conversations must be something similar to the stories retold by World War II or Vietnam veterans describing the horrors they endured. I just can’t picture those guys laughing about what they’d been through.


From what I read, many believe they’ve been selected to be part of some “master plan.” I certainly hope this plan wasn’t the brainchild of some guy named “Frankenstein.”

Not So Deep in Thought

Since those with the power to hire and fire seem to find my skill set not worthy for the standard employment pool; I find myself with too much time on my hands to think about arbitrary shit. Often it’s the same stuff many lend their spare moments to quietly contemplate while formulating educated, or not, informed opinions. However, there are other topics of lesser import –or no import at all for that matter- that I mull over in my overactive cranial lobes. Today I’ve decided to share these thoughts on subject matter that ranges from the sublime to the absurd. Let’s start with the latter.

Fizzies were an extremely enjoyable part of my childhood. I loved everything about them. The noise they made when you plopped a couple in a glass of cold water. The fizz-foam that formed as the Alka-Seltzer like tablets reacted with the water. The metamorphosis was like my own at-home scientific experiment that could be purchased in the soft drink aisle of a grocery store; right there next to the Tang, another marvel of modern science; except Fizzies didn’t go into space with the astronauts. When the tablets had disappeared, my concoction was ready to drink! Though occasionally I gave into temptation and took a couple of small sips to gather in my mouth the last remnants of the flavorful disks that floated to the top of the glass. The sensation of sucking on this morsels was akin to eating Pop Rocks.

The process complete, I downed the tasty flavored water without coming up for air. There was probably enough sugar in those two tablets to send less hearty souls into a diabetic coma. Not I, I lived the majority of my younger days in search of the ultimate sugar rush, and Fizzies did its part in helping to achieve that goal. My sister and I once put an entire box of Fizzies in a full bathtub long before Animal House popularized mass use of Fizzies. The result was a fantastic volcanic eruption of root beer enhanced carbonated tub water. And then one day Fizzies vanished from the shelves of our local A&P. Probably due to some FDA study that linked Fizzies to brain cancer.
While cutting coupons one Sunday morning several weeks back, my eye caught an ad heralding the arrival of the new Kool-Aid version of Fizzies. I seized the moment to save a dollar off what I perceived to be an opportunity to relive a glorious moment of my youth. On my next shopping expedition I would yield to the yummy treats. Or so I thought.

The only flavor available was grape. I was partial to the lemon-lime and root beer varieties ages ago. But Frizzies were Fizzies for crying out loud. They could have been tofu flavored and I would have still bought them. Judging by the taste, they may very well have been, and the box was just mislabeled. They percolated the same as the old Fizzies, they turned the water a funky share of indigo like the old Fizzies, but they tasted like ass. You can imagine my disappointment.

So my question is this. Is the Kool-Aid version as bad as I’m making it out to be, or were the Fizzies of my childhood just as rancid but the memory of the taste sweeter? Just one thought I’ve been pondering. And another thing…

…did you know that shithead Glenn Beck makes $3.2 million dollars a year on the lecture circuit? What qualifications does he have to warrant such fees? He’s a goddamn disc jockey for Christ sake! Only after being granted special dispensation from Yale under their non-traditional student program did he even attempt to gain a higher education, and he dropped out of the one class he signed up for. Maybe he was too busy formulating uninformed opinions to share with the other uneducated masses he thinks are too stupid to think for themselves? No, I’m not jealous; I’m saddened by this state of affairs. That’s enough about that. If I go on I’ll get too incensed. But there is…

…Andy Rooney to get me inflamed as well. On this past Sunday’s airing of 60 Minutes he referred to himself as an “average American.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t realize the average American makes a seven figure salary. I didn’t know that the average American appears for five minutes every week on the most watched television news program. I also didn’t know that the average American owns multiple residences. One of the reasons why Rooney felt he was an “average American” was his tour of duty in the U.S. Army. I didn’t know serving in the armed forces made you average when your life is anything but. Rooney cited several other examples to reinforce the “average” notion. I noticed he didn’t use “delusional” to be a trait of the average American.
Rooney used these examples as a prelude to his ignorance of today’s popular musicians. He claimed not to know who Usher is, or Lady Gaga. He suggested that generation who does know who they are should know who Ella Fitzgerald was. I recognize all three. My suggestion to Mr. Rooney is say things to bridge the generation gap instead of make it wider. I see it as his responsibility, particularly if you want younger generations to listen to what you have to say. Following 60 Minutes on CBS was The Amazing Race…

…which really pissed me off. It is very rare I watch a network television program. My wife got me interested in The Amazing Race. I find most “reality” television to be a big load of mindless shit. They were developed because the networks lacked the creativity to come up with anything original, and “reality” shows cost much less to produce; those cheap bastards.

This week was the season finale. The team that would win the $1 million first prize would be unveiled. A team that cheated won. Granted, one contestant came up with the idea to move their airline seats to first class, thereby giving them a distinct advantage when it came time to deplane. However, this team’s nearest rivals did not employ any chicanery when given the opportunity. Rather than push another member of the opposing team out of the way, this contestant waited patiently while the villainous party completed his task. What was glaringly apparent was this unethical behavior to get ahead that has permeated our society, even if it means fucking someone over. The rationale that was given was,”There’s a million dollars at stake,” as if this makes it acceptable. When it comes to money do whatever is necessary regardless. Don’t we have enough of that mentality without rewarding an example on national television? If that isn’t enough to frost me…

…the constant fear mongering on the evening news is. The other night it was reported that baby cribs with the side that slides down have been responsible for thirty two infant deaths in the last ten years. That means that babies are more likely to get struck by lightning or attacked by a shark than die due to the construction of these types of cribs. These are the very same ones you and I and our children have slept in all these years. Had we known what death traps they were we could have done something about it. What, is anybody’s guess. If the news hasn’t reported enough to petrify us…

…now we can make up shit to terrify us. Walgreen’s is going to sell over-the-counter DNA tests so we can see if there is a history of certain diseases and afflictions we may be predisposed to contract. The disclaimer is the results are not foolproof. There is a margin for error! What the testing center sends you is to be used as a guideline; like we don’t have enough hypochondriacs in this country. Now they can suffer from shit they might not even get. Are you kidding me?

The cost for this little adrenaline rush to judgment is twenty to thirty dollars. If you want a more in-depth analysis, it can cost in excess of two-hundred and fifty dollars. I’m going to go stand in line so I can be the first on my block to find out what I ‘m going to get proactive treatment for what I may die of. And people wonder why health care costs are going up. This is like a made up greeting card holiday concocted by pharmaceutical companies. Note: This product is not approved by the FDA, and we know what a splendid and timely track record they have. Almost as good as the EPA…
…which has its hands full with a multi-million dollar oil rig that was constructed without any idea of how to fix it if something goes wrong. But as an average American I’m preoccupied thinking about more trivial matters that keep my mind off the really important stuff.
I wonder if Fizzies and scotch is considered a cocktail?
Do you think the Brookings Institute is looking for someone to mull over any of the things previously mentioned? Obviously, I really need the work.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

We are in an age of McDonaldization where Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Best Buy, franchise restaurants, and many other forms of conglomerate dominate the economic landscape. Competition is limited to only those that have the cash flow firepower to compete in a global economy where those who are able to wager war are quickly being eliminated all in the name of good clean capitalism, and I hate it.

This financial Darwinism is said to give the consumer higher quality, better selection, and lower prices. Two out of three may be true, but at what cost? Jobs have been outsourced; natural resources have been squandered due to excess shipping; and our highways and byways have become one huge series of nondescript strip malls. Ugh!

Gone are the neighborhood pharmacies replaced with either a CVS or a Walgreen’s or both. Here in Florida there seems to be one (or both) at every traffic light. Or wait, there are.

Gas stations have become passe unless they include a mini-mart or fast food establishment (there’s that word again). I don’t know about you, but “Let’s do lunch at the nearest Citgo” doesn’t have that enticing appeal.

There are exceptions to this rule of the day. As restaurants go Sammy’s Cider in Chester, New Jersey, Bern’s Steakhouse in Tampa, and Cap’s Place in Lighthouse Point also in Florida (unless there’s another Tampa I am unaware of), are shining examples of less is more. Ownership sees no need to open another. They are happy with their profit margin. Perhaps you too have a favorite dining establishment that’s established itself in the single establishment category. (I like that sentence no matter how bad it reads).

There is one industry that seems to have insulated itself in this one size fits all world. Hair stylists are thriving. Sure you have Hair Cuttery and Supercuts, but if you look in the phone book, they are greatly outnumbered. This makes me happy.

There’s a distinct evolution during my lifetime of those who cut hair. My grandmother went to a salon, Joe and John’s to be precise. Every Thursday my grandmother went for a wash, blue rinse, and set. This was a tradition she kept up long after she moved out of Springfield to Chester, New Jersey.

As a kid in Springfield, Red the barber cut my hair, and my father’s, and my grandfathers. My father and grandfather had been going to Red well for many years prior to my birth. When we all moved to Chester, we all went to Charlie Treadway the Barber or as he was affectionately known; Charlie the Butcher. It is my belief Charlie became a barber out of necessity. Since Charlie was the only game in town, I believe the town father’s may have anointed him “barber” because no one else volunteered.
In my sophomore year of high school all that changed. Frank Anthony’s Salon opened in Chester’s lone “professional” building.

No one (males) went to a “salon” at that time. Your masculinity was questioned if you chose to have your hair “styled,” a relatively new concept for men. When Bob Walther who had great hair, showed up at school newly coiffed, I decided to give Frank Anthony’s a try. Thus began a relationship that transcended business that lasted for over twenty years.

Soon after I moved to Florida in 1993, Tony had a hair show at the legendary Fountainbleu Hotel in Miami. Tony insisted I come down for dinner and a hair cut. He paid for dinner, and the cut was gratis. He’s one of the finest and nicest men I’ve ever met. After that haircut, I had to endure the anxiety of finding someone new to cut my and my son’s hair.

After a short stint at a local sole proprietorship recommended to me by Cory’s baseball coach, short hair made a comeback, and while the cuts were adequate, the price for them was not, so off to find someone else to get the job done.
Fades had become all the rage popularized by the rap and hip-hop movement. So when a black owned barbershop opened down the street from our home, we decided to give it a try. It was there Cory and I met Nelson. Dino the owner cut our hair at first. He also took my football bets and each week provided me with football gambling tickets. The shop was short on decor and long on friendliness, laughter, and comfort.

There was a second rate large screen projection TV that was normally tuned to sports or some courtroom show. Conversations and the barbershops regular characters were both hilarious. The time it took to cut our hair was less than twenty minutes, but I always stayed at least an hour. It was a place you could spend an entire day at and never be bored.

By the time Cory got his driver’s license, we had become regulars of Nelson’s. With a couple of exceptions which I won’t go into here, Nelson has cut our hair ever since. That was nearly ten years ago. Even after Cory went up to Gainesville, he makes it a point to have Nelson cut his hair whenever he’s home. We have followed Nelson to whatever shop he’s decided to make his temporary home until now. You see, Nelson finally has opened his own shop. There is no one happier for him than I.

Nelson is not my barber; he is a friend of mine who cuts my hair; just like Tony Gentile. From the beginning our banter was never small talk, we became engaged. The topics were diverse, all discussed with a certain amount of passion. Often other barbers or patrons put their two cents in. Getting my hair cut, an activity I loathed as a child became something I looked forward to.

Nelson and I have shared each others trials and tribulations as well as our dreams and aspirations. He has made me feel hopeful in times I felt less than. Last Saturday was Nelson’s chance to shine as he celebrated his shop’s Grand Opening which coincided with the airing of the Floyd Mayweather-Shane Mosley fight on Pay-Per-View which Nelson planned to purchase for the special occasion.

Nelson announced the event on his Facebook page. He sent out texts to his regular customers. He bought food and drinks for those who wished to partake. He was all set, or so he thought. There was this little matter of commercial broadcast rights for businesses who wished to show the fight. Nelson would have gladly paid whatever was needed to procure these rights, but there was more to it than that. Nelson was unclear about the rules and regulations for purchasing said fight for his establishment. These unfortunate details caused him great angst. He saw the evening playing out to utter failure. But Nelson didn’t consider one thing; himself.

After a futile attempt to have the fight streamed on the business computer, Derek and Tony rose above and beyond the call of duty. Tony had prior experience with satellite instillation. With Derek obtaining a dish from who knows where, Tony went to work attempting to hook up the computer to gain a signal via whatever means necessary. Both men took to the roof for one thing or another. Cables were run through the ceiling. No stone was left unturned. When it looked as though they had achieved success, only to find the signal sophisticatedly scrambled.

We all laughed at their furious Herculean effort. I was awed by it as well. Here they were doing anything on a moments notice to try and help out a friend. Some people who showed up to watch the fight left when they found out it wasn’t going to happen, but many stayed. They were there for Nelson, not having the fight may have put a damper on the evening, but it didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits. We ate the food, beverages were consumed, more laughter ensued. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. The draw for me was not the fight, it was Nelson, our relationship, and the hope for his success that drew me there last Saturday. I’d venture a guess that many of the other guests that stayed well after midnight felt the same way. As an afterthought, did I mention Nelson gives me a great haircut?