Jumping Through College Hoops

I love this time of year. For those of you who read this blog on a regular basis, you’re probably surmising I love any time of the year if it has to do with sports. Conversely, I fall into the dark abyss of melancholy when the calender signals a sports lull. This supposition is not entirely true. I am grateful for each day and the promise it holds. However, sports do brighten my mental landscape. With that being said; when an annual athletic event of great importance - to me and the rest of the sports loving world- occurs, I become a bit giddy with anticipation.

I have previously voiced this sentiment concerning sports “perfect storm” of early fall. When college and professional football are in full swing, Major League baseball reaches its crescendo staging the World Series, and college and professional basketball are just getting started. While not as much in terms of sheer volume happens in early spring, the import of the competitions is no less noteworthy. The March Madness of the NCAA basketball tournament and the start of a new Major League baseball season happen in a three week span.

I had to type that last sentence three times before I got it right my hands were trembling so with excitement. Before you pass judgment on what brings me pleasure, think of what interests aside from your families that floats your boat. I thought so. Unless your hobbies are stem cell research or oncology let’s not be rash in our opinions shall we? I know some of you may think who cares about an over hyped competition of pituitary cases? Let me say, Luther Halsey Gulick might be if he were alive today. I’d venture to say he’d more than care; he’d be ecstatic.

You see, it was Mr. Gulick who instructed a student of his at the Young Men’s Christian Association Training School that Gulick headed, to come “up with a game that could be played indoors in the winter and integrate the YMCA’s holistic principles of mind, body and spirit.” The students name was James Naismith; the game he came up with was basketball.

The hooligan Irish and German immigrant youths of nineteenth century Boston needed something to occupy their time other than their normal shenanigans. I love using “hooligans” and “shenanigans” in the same sentence. These incorrigibles couldn’t very well play baseball in the snow could they?

Theodore Roosevelt didn’t like what he saw was happening to America’s middle- and upper-class younger generation of boys. Roosevelt coined the term “sissies” when he referred to these lads spoiled by the comforts of urban life. Roosevelt felt they hardly seemed prepared to take over industries their more “manly” fathers had worked so hard to create. “Only aggressive sports can create the brawn, the spirit, the self-confidence, and the quickness of men essential for the existence of a strong nation,” Roosevelt asserted. Christ, his head would explode if he saw the “mere animal sloth and ease” and “the gradual failure of vitality” of today’s video game playing couch potatoes.

Unlike baseball, basketball was relatively inexpensive to play. Naismith hung peach baskets to crossbeams. All that was needed was a pair of shorts, a pair of athletic shoes, and a ball. It is this aspect that makes the game so appealing for university athletic departments on a budget. As I’ve said before; nothing brings a university notoriety like success in a major sport.

Academics are great, but no one hears of great academic schools without doing some research. Sure, aside from the Ivys and the Academy's, there are ten or so schools known primarily for their academic standing. Even a couple of those schools, like Stanford for example, have outstanding athletic programs. The University of Chicago was known for its sports before it was known for its academics. For small schools, funding a football or baseball program can be cost prohibitive. But a top notch Division I basketball program can exist even at the most obscure minimal enrollment institution.

The NCAA has made the format for entrance to the “Big Dance” as the NCAA tournament is sometimes referred, quite enticing for smaller schools. Most DI conferences, no matter minuscule, have their own tournament at the end of their regular season. The winner automatically qualifies for the “Big Dance.” That’s how schools like St. Mary’s (enrollment 4300) or Quinnipiac get in to face juggernauts like Kansas or Kentucky. Not only does this bring recognition to the school by being on national television, but every once in awhile one of these lesser programs emerges victorious. Because it occurs only every once in awhile, Greg Cote, that paragon of sports insight who writes for the Miami Herald, lobbied in his column prior to the start of this year’s tournament, to do away with automatic entry for the smaller conference winners. What an asshole. Almost as if his piece served as the motivation, several schools were able to give Mr. Cote a collective middle finger salute.

Small schools’ beating big schools is one of the main reasons why I become immersed in the tournament. Another reason is the thrilling finishes. This year I got both.

In the first round: Murray State defeated Vanderbilt. How many of you know in which state Murray State - since there isn’t a state called “Murray” though maybe there should be- is located? I thought so. It’s Kentucky by the way. Cornell, yes that Cornell, beat Temple. Ohio University, not Ohio State, soundly defeated a heavily favored Georgetown team. Old Dominion beat Notre Dame. Anytime a Notre Dame team loses anything I’m thrilled. Wofford nearly upset Wisconsin who would lose to Cornell in the next round, and BYU needed two overtimes to beat the underdog Florida Gators. If you want to know what state Wofford’s in, look it up.

The University of Washington squad not only upset Marquette in the first round, they duplicated the feat by beating favored New Mexico in the second. St Mary’s of California with its forty-three hundred enrollment, beat powerhouse Villanova, officially fucking up my bracket. But the biggest story was UNI, or the University of Northern Iowa for you laypersons.

Not only did UNI beat UNLV (I like typing that too), but they beat the overall number one seed of the tournament and the top ranked team in the country Kansas. This was all the more exciting because UNI plays on Robert J. McCoy Court. This thrills me no end because my son was once roommates at the University of Florida with Robert J. McCoy Jr. the elder member of The Brothers McCoy previously mentioned in past blogs. The hero for UNI was guard Ali Farokhmanesh whose specialty was shooting three-pointers from the parking lot. He also played with gonads the size of bowling balls and as tough as titanium. Take that Greg Cote.

CBS did a wonderful job keeping me abreast of all that was happening. Only a couple of too soon cutaways and an errant selection of the featured game for my region caused by producer brain farts kept the coverage from being nearly perfect; those missteps and Gus Johnson, one of the CBS announcers yelling about everything. I didn’t purchase the DirecTV package. I think had I been able to watch each game in its entirety, watching multiple games on fifty inches of splits-screen HD television, I may have popped a blood vessel due to sensory overload.

I think the NCAA tournament should stay exactly the way it is…unless I have a stroke. That would be bad.

Anemoi

It seems as though I should be writing about the health care plan our government is attempting to institute. However, I find it too daunting a task to condense to fifteen hundred words. The bill is over twenty-eight hundred pages. It is written in such legalese that I sincerely doubt any member of Congress or their staff members have completed such an arduous task; imagine combining three copies of Atlas Shrugged written in the style of Paradise Lost. I’ve decided to tackle something simpler, yet no less perplexing.

I am grateful for the lake I live on. It is not only pleasant and calming to gaze out on, particularly at sunset; but it also provides me with a gauge for the direction of the wind. Here in South Florida, the wind cannot be judged by which way the clouds are moving. There are times when the low lying nimbostrati are going in one direction, while the altocumulus or cirrus are heading in another. Thank goodness for the lake. All I have to do is look to see which way the water going to know where the wind is coming from. This revelation gave me pause. The wind is really quite remarkable when you think about it.

In ancient times, early civilizations denoted the wind as one of the five elements upon which the fundamental powers of anything were based. This elemental form serves a special place for those who practice the occult.

The wind never laughs, but it does wail, moan, and Jimi Hendrix said that it cried Mary. Bob Dylan said the answers were blowin’ in it; The Scorpions confirmed that when they sang of the winds of change being felt in the U.S.S.R. in 1989. We can’t see the wind, but Mocedades said we could touch it (Eres tu) which may be possible since we can feel it.

Tex Ritter said it was wayward, confirming Churchill’s observations of the winds of war at work prior to World War II, which illustrated how an ill wind can blow no good. But it also can bring despair when it’s a picture of health.

A strong wind can blow a gale, bringing destruction in the form a hurricane or blizzard depending on the time of the year. The wind is moody. It can be gentle as a breeze, it can be a breath of fresh air, or be as tempestuous as a…well…a tempest. It can cause a home to be drafty, and a house to be homey when the smells from a kitchen waft throughout.

Just as quick as a gust can come up, a tornado can blow a house down; no wolf needed. If you must have a wolf, check the wind in the willows.

Frank Sinatra sang of a summer wind as mild as a zephyr, yet that very same wind can bring a blast of hot air that’s stifling, very much like those who are full of it. Still, Seals and Crofts said a summer breeze can make one feel fine. Come to think of it, the wind is a paradox.

Francois de la Rochefoucauld, the 17th century French author noted how it blows out candles, yet kindles fire. But Buddha noted it can’t erase our good deeds. Nevertheless, the Antebellum South civilization was gone with it, and still wisdom sails with it.

You can break wind, as well as be long winded. Heaven forbid the two are ever combined. You can’t change the direction of the wind, but if you’re breaking A Mighty Wind, it’s good you do it down from it.

The Bible says if you trouble your own house, you can inherit the wind, but if you inspire others they will rise up on your wind beneath their wings according to Bette Midler.

Socrates would be pleased we still held his notion of humanity’s insignificance in the big scheme of things. The band Kansas reiterating centuries later that we’re all just dust in the wind.

Wind can bring the greatest golfers in the world to their knees, yet a flag waving in it can cause us to stand up and feel a certain pride. A hard enough wind can knock us over, but we can get carried away on it as well; just ask Dorothy and Toto.

For clarification for those who’ve seen Jersey Shore, or been to Seaside Heights or any place where there are amusement rides; the wind can be a cyclone, but not a wild mouse.

The wind can be selective. Convertible owners like to put the top down so they can feel the wind in their hair. Motorcycle riders claim the same thing; this is why some prefer to go helmetless. I’ll check back with you to see if you hold those same sentiments after you kiss a telephone pole like I did. Dogs love to hang out car windows to have the wind in their faces, but if it’s in a humans face, we struggle. Bob Seger would say this is against the wind. Instead, if it’s at our backs, we are filled with optimism.

Forrest Gump claimed to run like it. The Lone Ranger extolled Silver to ride like it. Woody did the same to Bullseye in Toy Story. Maybe just to prove this wind was not exclusive to the cowboy community, Christopher Cross said we all could, not just heroes and their steeds.

Mark Twain said the wind can bring doubt, as demonstrated by the evening weather report. Each night fisherman everywhere check to see how calm the seas will be the following morning to confirm if they should venture out. But as some of you probably know, you don’t need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows.

I know this entry is shorter than normal; I don’t want you to think I’m just some tired old bag of wind. Besides, if I sit here much longer, I may get a second one, and I’ll never be able to wind this thing down. Did I fool anyone with that last gasp of “wind?”

Down for the Count

Hey kids, guess what time it is? It’s time to take the U.S. Census! Isn’t that exciting? The census is taken in the United States every ten years. I don’t know if other countries conduct a census, but I don’t live there, so I don’t really care.

The census is taken to get an accurate account of how many people live in the United States. There are two very important reasons why the government needs to know how many people live here. First, the government doles out over $400 billion dollars to states and municipalities based on population. So if you want a piece of that legislative allocation, you make damn sure to fill out your census form.

The census is so important; the census sends you a letter stating that the census form is coming in the mail. Now there’s a fine use of tax dollars. There has also been an endless stream of television ads telling everyone how important the census is, and that you’ll be getting a form in the mail. I wonder what those ads cost. Maybe the census takes all the census costs out of the $400 billion.

The elderly get money for services pertaining to them, so we need to make sure to get an accurate count on them. Approximately 6700 people die every die in America, many of them elderly. Getting a correct tally could be tricky. Some of the money goes to schools, so it’s important to get a fix on how many children there are. However, about 11,800 babies are born every day in the U.S. That can really mess with the figures the government has to work with.

The other reason is that our representation in Washington is based on census figures. The population of districts determines whether or not the district is entitled to another unneeded legislative asshole that doesn’t have his constituents interest at heart. That’s the clincher for me in a nutshell. I don’t know about you, but I certainly want my tax dollars going to another out of touch imbecile’s salary who doesn’t give a shit about the needs of the voters, and all because the census determines we need one.

Personally, I think the census is a great idea in theory; in practice the census is woefully flawed. Let’s take the illegal immigrant population shall we? The U.S. Census estimates that there are between 7 and 20 million illegal immigrants living in the United States at any given time. The census estimates that approximately 200,000 illegal immigrants enter the U.S. every year, and have been doing so at this rate since 1986. Correct me if I’m wrong; my math skills are a bit weak, but 200,000 times 24 years, gives me about 5,000,000. That’s a far cry from 7 million, and it’s a blood curdling screaming tantrum from 20 million. Where the census gets their figures from escapes me? Oh, that’s right, they get their figures from census estimates. There’s that word again that’s bandied about so freely; “estimates.”

In my estimation, that leaves between 2 million and 15 million illegal immigrants unaccounted (?) for; the difference being roughly, since we’re using round numbers, twice the population of New York City. That kind of number can really skew where $400 billion should go. But don’t be alarmed; the census has a contingency for just this kind of inaccuracy.

There is a Federal law, which means it must be so, which states, and I’m taking this right from the back of the page of supplemental information:

Federal law (see, I told you!) protects your privacy and keeps your answers confidential (Title 13, United States Code, Sections 9 and 214). The answers you give on the census form cannot be obtained by law enforcement (whew!) or tax collection agencies. Your answers cannot be used in court. (whew again!) They cannot be obtained with a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request. As allowed by law, census data becomes public after 72 years (Title 44, United States Code, Section 2108). Wow! No government agency can gain access to any census information. Do you really buy that bullshit?

I knew there was a catch. That means if you are an illegal immigrant, and stay in this country for 72 more years, you can then be deported. There is also another catch. All of the information in the previous paragraph is written in English!
When I opened my census form, two things jumped out at me. One was the first two questions.
1. How many people were living or staying in this house, apartment, or mobile home on April 1, 2010?
2. Were there any additional people staying here April 1, 2010 that you did not include in Question 1?

If you don’t believe me, look for yourself. Is this some sort of second chance to come clean? Is the census bureau saying, “Okay, we know you didn’t tell us the truth in Question 1, so here’s your last chance. Think carefully about your answer to Question 1, and see if you really want to stick with that.” I guess “additional,” and “did not include,” are underlined to emphasize how important this figure, and that the census bureau means business!

Imagine being the person whose numbers from the first two questions coincide. What do they say to themselves? “Whoa! I guess the jig is up. Nothing gets past these sharp census folk. Okay, you caught me. Rats!” Or is the number in the answer to question one so high, that you forget everyone who’s living with you?

I propose to get a truly accurate census that the United States declares a “National Census Day.” Everyone is given the day off. Schools are closed. All businesses cease operation. You know, just like Sundays back in the ‘60s. That day, everyone at their predetermined time, MUST stand outside on the street they live on, and each town’s census takers will drive around to get a physical head count. No names, no addresses, no phone numbers; just bodies. The same “Federal laws” would apply.

The second thing that perplexed me was the absence of any European classification. Question 8 covers every “Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish” background. Question 9 allows for all Asian, Pacific Islander, Black, African American, Negro (people still refer to themselves as “Negro” in 2010?) Native American, and White. Are Europeans supposed to be just bunched together with all “whites?” What if Euros take offense to that? Am I allowed to use the term Euros? I’m so confused.

So are the folks who live in states with little or no illegal immigrant population. They feel they are going to get a skinnier piece of the government pie because their states can’t pad their population figures the way states like Arizona, California, and Florida can. New York illegals don’t count. They’ve included themselves for years with impunity. However, a problem exists in California, Arizona, and Florida that could gum up the works.

California and Arizona have really cracked down (Florida not as much) on illegal immigration. Florida’s approach to illegals has always ebbed and flowed like the tide, relying on the general mood of public opinion. With this kind of uncertainty and the innate distrust in government; I’m sure illegals everywhere are suspect as to whether filling out a census form is in their best interest, though they would also gain if a little extra government coin was to flow into their community. What a conundrum! This gives new meaning to the adage “fish or cut bait.”

As the dutiful good American that I am, I will fill out the census and return it in a timely manner. I will do this for the same reason I vote; it gives me the right to bitch. It gives me the right to point my finger at those that eschew this responsibility, and reinforce the pandemic apathy that plagues this country. I certainly don’t want to become part of the reason my community’s schools are underfunded. But then again, I don’t want to be included as part of the reason we get to elect another legislative douchebag to Congress. Maybe I’ll just fudge my answers to questions 1 and 2.

You know; if you say the word "census" enough times, it almost sounds like "senseless."

Comfortably Full

Winter is drawing to a close. And yes, to all you smartasses who think South Florida doesn’t have “winter” per se; we sure as hell did this year. We did not get the snowfalls that many parts of the country had to endure. Nevertheless, we frequently saw temperatures drop into the upper thirties and low forties. It may not seem like such a hardship compared to many of you, but after being down here for nearly seventeen years, I must admit it, my blood has thinned. And while I find an occasional chilly spell quite invigorating, this year caused me a bit of discomfort. Alas, I was able to find solice in those foods that snuggle up to us like a fuzzy teddy bear.

You know the ones I’m talking about. The dishes our mother’s, and their mother’s before them, prepared to ward off the cold that had settled into our bones. Sometimes these rib-sticklers were fixed to mend an aching heart, or provide the extra blanket we wrapped ourselves in when we came down with one of Old Man Winter’s henchmen; cold and flu. Some form of chicken soup has been the standard that has stood the test of time. While lacking in volume and mass, it was always “good for what ailed you.” Though some of our favorites may not have been very good for us, they sure as hell did the trick for whatever may have been ailing us.

Philly Cheesesteaks and chicken pot pies have no redeeming nutritional value at all. Hell, they should come with warming labels like cigarettes: “Caution you may clog an artery while eating this item. A heart attack may occur.” I must say, I definitely feel a sense of satisfaction after eating either one.

A steaming pot of chili and some sourdough bread for wongeing, was short on nutritional value, but long on satisfaction. A pot of beef stew that had bubbled away for half the day, shared the same qualities.

Meatloaf, with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy may not be what I ask the warden for as my last meal, but it’s pretty high on the list when the weather turns foul.

Each family has a recipe for meatloaf. I have eaten meatloaf at the dinner tables of friends and relatives both as a child, and as an adult. The meatloafs (meatloaves?) served were as varied as the company with whom I shared this bounty. My maternal grandmother, who legend has it, once burned water, served a meatloaf so devoid of any moisture, resembled a sizable moon rock. It never mattered to me. It filled the hole it was supposed to, and left enough for sandwiches later. Granted, the now cold loaf had to be slathered in catsup; each bite chased with at least eight ounces of milk just to get it down without choking.

I’ve eaten meatloaf containing onions, both real and imagined, depending on your opinion of Lipton Onion Soup Mix.

I’ve eaten meatloaf with tomatoes, both canned and fresh.

I’ve even eaten meatloaf made with pickles; courtesy of Jim Oot’s wife Jill. It was terrific.

Pot roast; is there a better aroma to waft from a kitchen when the mercury drops? I’m a bottom round man myself. Some find a “California Roast” more to their liking. If you don’t simmer a bottom round long enough, a new baseball glove could serve as a substitute. A “California” or chuck roast plopped in a Dutch oven with carrots, potatoes, onions, and tomatoes, when prepared according to the “Jesus Christ Cookbook” can feed up to two dozen unanticipated guests….and there’s still leftovers.

If there is a meal more synonymous as an antidote for the icy winds of the season than grilled cheese sammies and tomato soup, please tell me what it is. I am not particularly fond of either, but just the image it conjures in my mind’s eye makes me feel warm all over.

Macaroni and cheese, though normally a side dish, on a blustery day becomes a hearty staple able to stand on its own merit.

The recuperative powers of comfort foods may be found in their simplicity. They need little babysitting. Turn the heat down, or off completely, if a couple of errands need to be run. You can leave some of them on low all day, stirring every now and then to prevent sticking. None of these dishes will ever be ruined if more logs need to brought in to put on the fire.

Desserts also have secured their place as gastronomical panacea. From Apple Brown Betty to S’mores, each is capable to provide warmth when none can be found.
Ice Cream may not be able to fend off the cold, but it sure is a good defense of the cold that lingers inside. A pint of Haagen-Daz cherry vanilla has rescued me from a blue funk on more than one occasion.

A hunk of three-layer German Chocolate Cake succeeded where the thermostat failed.
Just making a batch of brownies can warm a heart without even consuming them, though I highly recommend sampling after baking to make sure they’re suitable to offer company. Even a solitary drink -a concept to which I was unfamiliar- can give you that much needed warm and fuzzy feeling.

What better excuse for warm Bailey’s Irish Cream, or a Hot Toddy than watching the snow fall through frost dusted panes of glass. If you don’t imbibe, a mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows can warm the cockles of whatever needs warming.

Sometimes it wasn’t our mothers, but our fathers who made the food that was as good as a hug. My dad being the good German that he was, made a potato soup I could get enough of. When the weather turned foul, he provided the fare. Cream of Wheat with a little honey and melted butter hit more than one spot. His lemon meringue pie made me feel better just looking at it. It’s too bad his Alzheimer’s has not only taken away his culinary skills, but also the memory of what they once were.

Today, the weather here in SoFla is teasing us with a sample of what lies ahead. My son Cory is home from college for Spring Break. The temperature may not be calling for comfort food, but the companionship is.

One night this week I’ll make Italian Hot Dogs. Up north we call them Jimmy Buff’s, just like the restaurant. The establishment was recently featured on the Travel Channel. My grandfather would buy me one after he closed the deal on his next new car at Washington Motors in East Orange. Down here we can’t get the pizza bread used in the original. We are relegated to using hogie rolls. Personally, I like to use baguettes if I can find them. I’ll saute ppers and onions after I fry the potatoes. I’ll dig out the excess dough from the rolls to make room for the two dogs per bun. I’ll smother the barkers with the onions, peppers, and potatoes. My wife Helen, Cory and I will sit down to feast at the dining room table and talk of the day; an event that’s all too infrequent since Cory has been off at school. He always looked forward to “Sunday Family Dinner.” After dinner, I’ll ask him if he’d like to go for a blue Icee. I sure hope they feel comfortable. Bon Appetit!

Highway Supporting Roles

The blog’s title is a takeoff from Deep Purple’s motorhead ode to horsepower and penis extenders, Highway Star. Songs about teenagers and their cars were commonplace since Rock and Roll began its corruption of America’s youth and the deterioration of the moral fiber of society. The fifties not only brought us Rock and Roll, but a post-war prosperity this country had never seen before. There was a greater likelihood for a household to own two cars rather than two televisions. Getting a driver’s license was a rite of passage on par with someone’s first communion, and being baht or bar mitzvahed. Being licensed to drive told the world “I have finally arrived! My transition into adulthood has begun.” Independence took on a whole new meaning. For those who were fortunate enough to own their own cars, rather than be relegated to driving the parent’s sedan or wagon; the empowerment was even greater. All that has changed.

A recent Federal Highway Association report revealed that teenagers who are eligible to obtain their driver’s licenses are abstaining. The numbers showed that only thirty percent of all teenagers today who are eligible apply do so. This number is down from forty-four percent in 2005. This thirty percent number is down forty-five percent from twenty years ago. Manuel Gallegus, a reporter for the CBS national news cited several reasons for this phenomenon, none of which held any water with me. Call me a cynic (even if you do, I can’t hear you) but I see them through my red, green, and amber glasses, as copouts.

Topping Mr. Gallegas’ list of stop signs is the economy. He said that the family cost of a car, insurance, and gas for the teenager is prohibitive in the current economic environment. Mr. Gallegus was careful to use the term “family costs” instead of “costs for parents,” though that’s exactly what was being implied. He’s not stupid, just prudent. He can’t really say many kids today are spoiled rotten, and the idea that they would be required to purchase, insure, and put gas in their own vehicle is beyond the realm of comprehension for these poster children for entitlement.

Mr. Gallegus reinforces this stunted teen mentality when he adds that getting a driver’s license is “complicated.” I assume he is not implying that today’s generation of teens are mental defectives unable to grasp the printed word. Yet, Gallegus goes into what a chore it can be for a sixteen (or seventeen) year old to learn all the laws in the driver’s manual. Is he kidding? No wonder President Obama is disheartened by the rising dropout rate of high schoolers. How can teens be expected to retain what is in textbooks when they can’t fathom a driver’s manual?

Gallegus adds that some teens just don’t want the responsibility that comes with driving. What a fucking shock that is! Many don’t hold themselves responsible for much of anything. Accountability is a word alien to the teenage vocabulary. Some think they should be canonized for fulfilling the required amount of community service hours needed for graduation.

Gallegus concludes with some teens are just too lazy to get a driver’s license. He doesn’t say that in so many words, but he does say the need for a driver’s license has been greatly diminished due to today’s advanced technology.

Skype, online chatting, and texting provide enough social interaction for today’s teen that they no longer have to drive anywhere to be with friends. One girl said “You don’t have to be in front of someone to have an actual conversation or have fun.” No wonder no one talks to their neighbors. No wonder so many people come off as transparent phonies. No wonder many teens today lack appropriate interpersonal skills. No wonder we have a teenage obesity problem. However, with fewer teens on the road, there are less teen auto fatalities. So there is an upside to a lack of physical human contact.

Gallegus did point out that there was a drawback to this dearth of younger drivers. Parents would have to chauffeur around their kids longer. I guess you can consider this would qualify as “quality time” spent with your kids. I can see it now, load them into the minivan, and let them put in a DVD, or put in the earbuds to their Ipods, so to remain as emotionally distant as possible, while these helicopter parents cater to their kid’s transportation whims; a heartwarming scene of Rockwellian proportions.

This is not the point in the story where I go into what it was like for my generation, then again, why not?

I can recall petty jealousies over who of my circle of friends would be getting their driver’s licenses before me during our junior year of high school. Since my birthday was the last day of May, that would constitute everyone. Steve Gabriele was first; his birthday was in November. K.C. Cary was second, he got his in January. Tom Rowlands got his license in March. To perpetuate my misery, I checked the World Almanac for each state’s age minimum for driving. I fought my own inner civil war with those states where the driving age was less than New Jersey’s seventeen. I secretly wished my parents would become farmers, so like Alan Hallman and the Thomas twins; I could flaunt the law, and get my farmer’s license at fifteen. Yet, while I impatiently waited for my time, no one was tired of coming to pick me up. Unlike our parents, who thought they’d drive off the earth if they were to drop us off across town a mere three miles away. The freedom of driving myself severed the chains of guilt my parents laid on me for inconveniencing them to shuttle me to play at a friend’s house when I was younger.

Most of us worked at odd jobs so we’d have enough money to buy cars when the time came. Steve had a ’59 Volkswagen convertible. I recall cutting school, and piling seven non-licensed cohorts into the cramped interior quarters –top down of course- and heading off to Seaside Heights one glorious early May day.

K.C. had a ’64 Impala. That car took six of us the winter of our junior year to the state wrestling championships held at Jadwin Gym in Princeton. Ray, Wayne, Steve, K.C. and I watched Tom beat the reigning state wrestling champion in overtime, in the meets most exciting match. As a footnote; I saw amputee Tom Seitz wrestle, perhaps unknowingly providing motivation that somehow was stored away, waiting for the time it would be needed.

Tom had a Dodge ’68 Dodge Charger with a 440 Magnum motor and a Slapstick transmission. Though we no longer lived in the same neighborhood, he would often pick me up to attend whoever’s perennial Saturday night blowout. There were other cars for some of us before graduation; BMW’s weren’t going to head the gift list.

Getting a license was so important, I considered Steve to be a genius when, in order to avoid the lengthy waiting period the Morristown DMV scheduled; Steve had the foresight to go to the Wayne DMV where the wait from permit to license was in most cases, less than two weeks. I owe him a great debt for sharing this secret with me.

Our licenses got us out. Rarely did it ever matter where, as long as we got out together. Even if it was to pool our financial resources for a couple of gallons of gas, just so we could ride around and listen to the latest from Billy Joel, David Bowie, Pink Floyd, or the Allman Brothers. We could do it together as friends without our parents telling us to turn it down, or having them schlep anyone home. A license meant sovereignty in a world controlled by adults, of which we would soon become part. But for that small window of time, before we all went our separate ways, a license allowed us to find out about some things for ourselves without restrictions and undue influence. Our parents for the most part, trusted us to do so, in our own cars, paid for and insured with the money earned from jobs at gas stations, diners, and supermarkets. You can’t get all that out of sitting alone in a room talking to a computer while waiting for Mom or Dad to provide.