Dealt a Fine Hand

The other day I was washing a silicone sleeve that I wear over my partial left leg. I needed to turn the sleeve inside out in order to wash both sides. Silicone, when wet, is rather difficult to manipulate, covered in soap, harder still. Most people would have to grasp both sides of the sleeve and roll it down so the inside was exposed. I did not have to attempt this with slick hands. I reached inside, and pulled at the very end with the tips of my fingers, (I was grateful for their length) turning the sleeve outward. I kept one hand dry, making it easier to wash. This moment gave me pause. If you are still reading, this may not seem life altering. It may very well not be, however, this small act gave me a renewed appreciation for the things my hands can accomplish. No wonder zoologists who study primates are fascinated by the opposable thumb.

Those of you who have all your appendages may take them for granted. I am here to tell you, if one is missing, you tend examine a little more closely what the others are capable of.

I have had the good fortune to have very large hands, and no, for those with filthy minds; it is not always true about everything being proportionate, though my shoe size is relative to my glove size. These hands have been able to palm a basketball since my junior year of high school. They have made using a baseball glove a little easier, as well as more deftly. As for the winter gloves, yes, it has been harder to find ones that fit. I often had to settle for what was in stock, rather than the style I may have wanted.

One hand alone was large enough to support my five pound premature son immediately after he was born. Those hands, you may think could be clumsy, particularly after reading “A State of Disrepair,” were nimble enough to gently change innumerable diapers, make a thousand lunches. They were tender enough to wipe a nose, bathe an infant, and roll one mean joint without tearing the fragile rice paper or spillage. My hands have tied thousands of tight, concise, Windsor knots. They’ve tied a toddler’s shoes more times than I can count, and they’ve dressed a wound when a little boy fell down.

I have been fortunate enough to attend many hundreds of live events. My hands have applauded the excellence I’ve witnessed. Often, the New York Mets were responsible for me to bring my hands together. Every so often it was Broadway shows. Sometimes it was the concerts. Seeing Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers front row center for my son’s fifth birthday; my hands made more noise than I thought possible. My hands have never learned how to play a musical instrument. There’s still time for that.

I have also brought these hands together to stop a cat from clawing the furniture, or a dog from pissing on the carpet. But the times my hands were happiest was when they celebrated an achievement of my son Cory. His exploits on the baseball field would often serve as the driving force behind my hands coming together. The holiday shows he participated in with his classmates gave my hands great satisfaction exhibited in the form of applause. But I believe their proudest moments were when I brought them together to recognize his high school and college graduations.

My hands have built things, albeit most of them poorly, but they were responsible for the completion none the less. I have raised them singly in a variety of academic environments. In high school it was to tell my excuse du jour for not having completed an assignment. Most recently, at the collegiate level, it was because I had something of substance to add to the discussion, quite a change for my hands, they hardly knew how to act.

My hands have been raised to volunteer for countless school fundraisers and group functions for organizations I’ve been affiliated with over the years. A hand has been raised to toast a happy event. They have held up friends, sometimes at these very same events, when if my hands were not available, they’d have fallen over. Occasionally, back in my young and stupid days, I kept myself amused for lengths of time by waving my hand back and forth in front of my face while under the influence of some hallucinogenic. My hands have struck another individual in anger. These last two I am not proud of.

My height also matches the size of my hands. This has enabled me to reach things others of smaller stature were not physically able to. The grocery store is where I am most frequently put to good use. Another place is the kitchen, where I can put away the dishes my hands have washed, in places my wife can’t reach.
My hands are also rather strong. They came in handy when Cory and I first moved to Florida. We did not have a car. I was able to carry four full bags of groceries, doubled of course, the quarter mile walk back to our apartment. Had you met me after the sixth grade, you’d be well aware of the strength in my hands.

Drew Lindstedt, my middle school gym teacher, taught me how to shake hands. One day while giving instruction on wrestling, Mr. Lindstedt demonstrated the proper decorum prior to the beginning of a match. The combatants shook hands first. I was the guinea pig. When I took Mr. Lindstedt’s outstretched hand, he dropped mine, and chastised me.
“What is that, a dead fish!?” he bellowed. “Let the other guy know you’re alive for crying out loud! Now try it again!” From that moment on, whenever I’ve been introduced, or bid a farewell, I’ve let my hands do the talking as to the status of my current physical condition. I have shook hands with the famous, and the not so famous, friends and those who became friends, relatives and those who I consider irrelevant. I let each one know they had my full attention. One of my hand’s favorite handshakes was with an individual whom I admire and respect. It happened twice; both times he was giving me a diploma. Frank Brogan, Florida’s former Lieutenant Governor, now Chancellor of that states university system, is the former president of Florida Atlantic University. He congratulated each graduate personally at every commencement he presided over during his tenure.

The same hands that have twisted off stubborn lids, held hands with numerous females, have also been responsible for signing documents that have altered my life. One hand has been broken, as well as a couple of fingers on each, but the documents they signed did not break me, or my spirit.

There have been movie characters depicted with only one hand; the constable in Young Frankenstein, and the military uncle in Harold and Maude.
There are those too with one hand who deserve our admiration. Professional baseball players Pete Gray and Jim Abbott succeeded at their chosen endeavor despite the lack of one hand. Aron Ralston chose to cut off one of his rather than perish in the desert. Then there are many who serve in the armed forces that have lost hands not by choice.

Most of you who’ve gotten this far, I’m sure have all the limbs you were born with. The next time you bump your funny bone, or stub your toe, instead of curse, remember there are some who wish they could experience such a moment. Well, I’ve got to run. Oh, wait a minute; I can no longer run anywhere anymore. I do however, have both of my hands. They are responsible for, among many other things as you’ve read, writing this piece. I’m really thankful for that. It would suck to type this blog each week with only one foot.

Bigger than Life

Technologically speaking, we’ve come a long way since Joseph Henry and Michael Faraday started farting around with electromagnetism in 1831. The list of those who contributed, for better or worse, to the advent of television, is numerous. Those Generation Y sexters probably can’t fathom that Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone, and Thomas Alva Edison, the inventor the electric light, collaborated in 1880 to explore the possibility of telephone devices capable of transmitting images as well as sound. From Paul Nipkow sending sixteen line resolution images over wires in 1884, to the 1900 World’s Fair in Paris where Constantin Perskyi first used the term “television,” men, sorry ladies, worked tirelessly to bring this new vehicle of entertainment to the general public.

Vladimir Zworkin patented a color television system in 1925 with the research backing of RCA and General Electric. In 1927, Philo (Philco) Farnsworth, much to the chagrin of those entities, filed for a patent for his “Image Dissector.” Personally, the word “television” had a lot more potential. 1936 brought us coaxial cable, and after an experimental testing between Philadelphia and New York; the first coaxial cables for everyday use were laid between Minneapolis and Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Wow, to think Stevens Point had more going for it than just Point Beer. RCA chairman David Sarnoff used the 1939 New York World’s Fair to showcase his “television” with a broadcast of a Presidential speech. However, if you wanted to hear it, tough shit. It wouldn’t be until the Dumont Company located in Dumont, New Jersey-I couldn’t resist- marries the two mediums of radio and sound, so you can hear and see (what a novel idea) what is being broadcast. Dumont, the company not the town, began mass production of the odd boxes.

Peter Goldmark invented 343 resolution color TV in 1940, but it would be a decade before the FCC approved it. And Howard Stern thinks he's had FCC troubles. I guess they didn’t want Peter sending color pictures of his peter over the airwaves from his lab. The UFO craze was starting about then. Maybe the FCC didn’t want the primitive tinting process that made everything and everyone green, alarming the public, giving the impression we were being invaded by Martians. What a gullible lot our parents and grandparents were. Christ, it’s embarrassing really. They bought into that duck and cover bullshit in the event of a nuclear attack. Yeah, good thinking.

In the case of the topic at hand; my grandfather swore he’d never buy a color TV until it was perfected. I sure glad he wasn’t hanging by his balls waiting. It’s not perfected yet, but not for lack of trying. Pop finally broke down and bought one in 1977 I think. He was eighty-two years old. I'm glad he didn't wait much longer, because he didn't have much longer.

If I wanted to watch programs on a color set, I had to go to my friend Tom Rowlands’ house. They had a color set when they moved into the neighborhood in 1965. Tom’s father working for RCA may have had something to do with it. I’d appear at their door early Saturday mornings, just after dawn if the truth be known, to watch cartoons in color. Had I been capable of an orgasm at eight years old, I’m sure this would have served as the impetus. Enough about that, I’m getting off the subject.

Over the years, television technology has leapt forward. Today, we have flat screen, stereo, surround sound, LCD, DLP, HD, plasma, climax inducing TVs. That last part I made up. However, when my wife and I got our first too large to do your eyes any good, flat screen Sony Bravia TV, we nearly did. And that was watching a commercial.

I remember growing up having seven channels to choose from. If it was an especially clear day, you could add four more Philadelphia stations. That was one of the advantages of living in the New York Metropolitan area. Hell, the Mets and the Yankees had stations that broadcast the majority of their games, WOR for the Mets, and WPIX for the Yankees. Now we have to buy a baseball “package” if we want to follow the teams we grew up with just because we’ve relocated. Our house had the antenna neatly, and securely located in the attic. The Rowlands’ had a motorized antenna for optimum reception for all their channels. They even got Hartford and Boston with just a touch of the dial. Now I’m starting to sound like my parents and grandparents.

It’s 2009, and you have either cable or satellite. After a decades long festering feud with cable, my wife and I opted for the unsightly dish on the roof. We now get over seven-hundred channels, not including music stations. We can’t watch any of them if a severe storm strikes.

Why is it that the same technology that can take a picture from outer space of me pissing in my backyard cannot provide a signal that can penetrate through cloud cover, and I get to pay handsomely for this distinction? I guess I’m supposed to feel privileged to be able to access all of the quality entertainment at our fingertips. However, this household does not take advantage of this endless, thought provoking, engaging, assault on the senses. The reason for this is because television programming in my opinion, for the most part, sucks. For the price that’s charged, every single one of the shows and sporting events should take place live in my living room. However, with HD television, at least it looks like they do. I’m still undecided if this is a good thing.

HD television is reported to make everything look more “real.” Isn’t “real” an oxymoron when it comes to TV? First, it’s said the camera adds fifteen pounds to a person. That’s unreal isn’t it? If that’s the case, then people have to be thinner than they want to just to keep their careers afloat, a sometimes “unreal” expectation (see John Goodman). This distortion does not count when it comes to sporting events and the various forms of “reality” television.

Second, with HDTV, more makeup is needed because of the clarity this technology achieves. Hence, a person on camera then looks more unreal, in some cases, surreal. Movie viewing has brought out the worst, best? in HD television. In each movie the features of each actor are clearer than I think I want. You see each and every zit, scar, pockmark, nose hair, facial and dental flaw or cosmetic reconstruction, no matter how much makeup is put on. You can even see exactly how much makeup is used, and what color, which often times is also unreal. Sometimes seeing these supposed visions of genetic perfection makes me feel good at the way I look. I see Art Pacino’s collection of bad hair pieces. I saw in Oceans Thirteen the awful condition of his fingernails. You see the bad dye jobs, the wrinkled, veiny hands. You see the five o’clock shadows. The crow’s feet are amplified, as are the chicken necks. In some instances, it’s so bad the last time I saw that much dangling, John Holmes was alive. We get to see stretch marks, cellulite, and age spots. J-Lo’s and Jennifer Love Hewitt’s more than ample asses take up as much of the screen as they are so entitled. All of this dispels the myth of starlet glamour, and brings a dose of realism to our living rooms. I’m reminded of the song “More human than Human” by White Zombie. I kinda like that aspect. What I don’t like is the price.

Sports and movies are my thing. DirecTV preys on people like me. If I want a particular movie channel, I don’t get the sports channels I want. I can only get those if I were to upgrade, which would include other movie channels that I don’t give a shit about. It is not cost effective to get just what you want. Therein lies the rub.

The word love does not accurately describe the affection I feel toward the Cincinnati Bengal football team. Since no one else outside of Cincinnati feels this way, their games are rarely shown on national television. That and they usually suck. In order to watch their games, I have to subscribe to NFL Ticket to the tune of $250 per season. This I have done for the past three years. To see these games broadcast in HD, I need to pony up another hun. I’m already paying ten extra dollars a month for an HD converter. I don’t understand if the games are being broadcast in HD on networks, and I have the converter box (original cost $100), why do I have to pay extra to have them broadcast in HD with NFL Ticket? Oh, DirecTV says you get all sorts of other wonderful features that also fall into my I don’t give a shit category. You can watch eight games at the same time! Is that really possible without missing something? Only a hard core gambler needs this feature. Besides, all the games at the same time means they’re all very small. What’s the point of having a big screen if they shrink the games? This is a bonus?
Viewing every other team in the league I treat with equal disregard. I don’t give a shit about them save the Giants. I have splurged on my beloved Bengals for three years, in HD. You do the math.

If I want to watch my New York Mets, no matter how pathetic they are, I would need to ante up another $350 for baseball season. The same goes for the NBA, NHL, and college football. I cannot select one team in a specific sport. I must get access to all, but what a bargain so says DirecTV. This year I told them that due to infrequency in paychecks, they would need to take a backseat in the bill pay line. They offered to take $50 off if I renewed. How magnanimous! All because of what a loyal customer I’ve been! For the amount I pay per month, and my little extravagance the past three falls, they should give me my own goddamn channel. I would settle for uninterrupted reception when it gets cloudy. That, they can’t help me with. Aside from that really fucking annoying periodic inconvenience, HDTV is spectacular. Ask my wife.

She is not a big sports fan, the main reason for the extra expense. However, the weekend the TV arrived three summers ago, coincided with the playing of golf’s last major of the year, The PGA Championship. We didn’t move from the couch, not even during the commercials due to our sensory heightened viewing experience, and boy are we glad we didn’t.

A commercial came on advertising the most advanced form of high definition television available, the Sharp Aquos system. A multi-colored bejeweled blond woman dressed in black, walking a multi-colored bejeweled white leopard, with a multi-colored bejeweled leash, graced the screen. My wife and I oooohed and ahhhhed. The colors jumped off the screen. I inquired why would I want to buy the TV they were advertising if the picture was this phenomenal on our set? The point taken, we couldn’t wait for the commercial to be shown again.

The vibrant colors no longer cause such unbridled awe. We’ve grown used to it. We’ve come to expect it for that matter. I guess HDTV is worth the money, the cost for getting over 700 channels of shit is not. I don’t know how they are going to make any real discernable improvements in picture quality and clarity in the near future. 1080p, or one-thousand and eighty megapixels of resolution per square inch is a far cry from eighteen lines for the entire screen. I better go cut my grandfather down.

A State of Disrepair

I am not what one would consider to be a handy guy. I am not embarrassed to admit this by any means. My testosterone level does not increase when I go to Home Depot. I do not meet my friends at the local Ace Hardware to shoot the breeze like Tim Allen’s character on Home Improvement. A different definition of “Tool,” (as in “he’s such a…”) comes to mind when it comes to me fixing, replacing, building, or repairing most things. Sure, I’ve had my moments in the sun. However, these construction moments are not only few and far between, but an eclipse that lasts for an infinitely long periods usually follows. That’s what makes what happened yesterday a little different.
It is difficult to pinpoint when the seeds of my mechanical ineptitude began to take root. My maternal grandfather, who I believed as a very small child, possibly helped Noah erect his Ark, had his own workshop complete with machinery. You couldn’t call them just “tools” because of the sheer mass of these industrial strength behemoths. As a pretty good size teenager, I recall having to help load these monstrosities into the U-Haul when my grandparents moved to a retirement community. I was quite sure the thought of ever having children was rendered moot by the lifting of these cast iron and steel relics.
My grandparents had a two car garage in their home with a wall separating one unit from the other. The left side was for the car, the right was The Shop, where my grandfather puttered on projects great and small. Sometimes my grandmother would assign him to fix this, that, or the other thing. Sometimes he would build shit just because he could. He once fabricated a stereo system for his television set out of old portable radio speakers when his hearing started to go. They straddled either side of his La-Z-Boy Strat-O-Lounger. Now as far as I was concerned, his hearing started to go shortly after I was born. I never knew of a time when my grandfather did not keep the volume of the TV so high that the majority of his neighbors knew what he was watching even in the dead of winter.
He made his own ammunition for his collection of target pistols being the good card carrying NRA man and Son of the American Revolution that he was. He made refrigeration elements from scratch. He made cabinets, tables, recaned and reupholstered chairs. He owned his own lathe, drill press, table saw, etc. My grandmother would bellow “Weh-esss” summoning him from the upstairs of their neat bi-level home, just to ask him what he was doing. The standard response was always, “I’M WORKING IN THE SHOP!!” voicing his distain for being disturbed. I was often by his side as he unsuccessfully tried to expand my dexterous horizons. I recall how he painstakingly talked me through a head gasket replacement on my ’67 Mustang. I retained little. A tradesman I was not. However, at two very different times in my life did I work in a trade.
I worked as a laborer for three different masons in my younger years. I did every duty imaginable except lay brick and block, but carried plenty of both. I even got a job once to pour a patio for someone, and it turned out great. I just never had the inherent inclination to improve on my limited knowledge.
I pumped gas at a full service station, yet never utilized the lift and tools at my disposal to do work on my own vehicle after hours. I had different priorities, like drugs, sports, and a girlfriend, not necessarily in that order.
Later in life, at the tender age of forty-three, and sans one leg, I labored for a neighbor who did tile work on the side. Again, my sieve-like mind held nothing while my own home was in need of said tile work. I don’t know if any of these prospective tutors found my incompetence frustrating, but I know my father did.
My father was handy, and he learned more still from my grandfather. My Dad even suggested at one time learning a trade so I’d have something to fall back on in case my career plans were derailed. Since that train jumped the track before it ever left the station, there was nothing to fall back to.
My father-in-law found me to be apt pupil when I could fit it in. He was also very well versed in all aspects concerning anything that required use of his hands. When he asked for my assistance, I was either nowhere to be found, or my hands were in my pockets. He maintained his own boats, planes, and homes; both the summer house on Long Beach Island in New Jersey, and the year round abode in the suburb of Madison. When it came time for his daughter and I to move into our first home, he was the first to offer a hand to fix whatever needed fixing. The one time he asked for my help, I remaining sleeping after a long night of drinking and doing drugs. He clattered and banged while I snored. When we turned the basement of my teenage home into an efficiency apartment, he stepped to the proverbial plate and hit a refurbishment grand slam. This time I did my part, with our answer to Bob Vila guiding my hand while I put down new flooring, and paneled the walls. I could not duplicate one moment of what I’d accomplished so long ago. Gone those lessons were, like so much chalk erased from a blackboard. Since then, there have been several minor erection victories, none with penile implications.
I could always put together things at Christmas time without taking out my frustrations on the general public with an assault weapon. I’ve put together computer desks, computer chairs, and the maze of wiring necessary for most home electronics. Granted, when it came to the electronic stuff, I often needed my son to do it once or twice before I got it down. I erected a shed out back, the last surviving monolith from my drinking days. This was no small feat, believe you me.
Back in 1999, in dire need of additional storage since two new members were added to my new wife’s household, we went shopping for a shed. The pleasant young gentleman at Home Depot assured my wife and I that the model we were interested in, which stood before us in all its floor display glory, took two people four hours to complete. Our fears of a time consuming project beyond my elementary levels of assembly aptitude allayed, we made our purchase with our confidence in tact. The hulking massive box of vinyl had to be delivered. How the hell I was going to get it in the backyard was anybody’s guess. I’ve gone blank trying to remember exactly how it did make its way back there. I’m sure it’s some sort of a painful memory I’ve suppressed. Insert maniacal hearty laughter here.
I borrowed my neighbor’s cordless power drill, along with a couple of concrete penetrating drill bits. I bought my initial case of beer, and commenced my industrious project alone. The optimum word in that sentence is alone. The guy at Home Depot said “two people, four hours.” I just assumed one person eight hours. I assumed wrong. I measured each distance precisely. I used a square to make sure my corners were perfect. It was time to bore the holes to which I would anchor by screws, the frame of the shed to the concrete. After breaking two drill bits, wearing out another two, I made my first trip back to Home Depot for a few more. In ninety-five degree heat, I drank and drilled, and drank some more before my first day’s work was done. One-hundred and twelve holes had to be drilled into that god-forsaken concrete. Nothing more was done that day, just 112 holes. Exhausted, hot, sweaty, and smelly, I mentally prepared myself for day two.
I was unaware that global warming could occur over night. The directions, written in Sanskrit, were obviously some sadists attempt at humor. Yet I persevered. Most of my adult life I had endured the jibes centering on my incompetence when it came to things of this nature. I would show everyone, but first I needed another case of beer. That task complete, I trudged onward, frequently screaming profanities in what I’m sure my neighbors thought was some sort of practice for a weird X-rated operatic aria. Once the frame was in place, made all the more stout due to the copious amount of steel-like caulking I’d used, it was time to put up the walls. My structure now had form. Pleased at what I saw, I attached the doors. Much to my dismay, as well as drunken mind, I had neglected to compensate for the crown in the concrete that allowed for drainage run off. The goddamn doors were out of square. This unappealing revelation elicited two mental responses. One, I could just stick a small bit of C4 to the partially finished exterior and give up the ghost; or two, admit a minor setback which everyone could live with and resume my task. Sadly, reason prevailed and I chose the latter, a decision I would soon regret. I had had enough, darkness was falling on my little corner of the world, it probably wasn’t, I think I was just on the verge of passing out. Satisfied at the dissatisfaction that stood before me, I packed it in so as to fight another day. And fought I did.
After stopping at the local quickie mart for case three for day three, I had a daunting revelation that took the wind out of my sails on a day where there was no wind to be had due to the fucking horrendous heat. If the doors were out of sync, that must mean other things were out of sync. The first was the roof, and the second was the location which had nothing to do with my measurements and everything to do with my stupidity.
In order to put the roof panels in this fucking albatross, I needed a ladder. My wife forbade me from using a ladder due to my legless condition. If I fell, there was no one to dial “911” as I often instructed my son to do when I tackled other jobs that required some sort of physical labor. I would wait for my wife so I could complete my version of the Guggenheim. Once the last panel had been slipped, well, really more like pounded into place, I stood back to witness the splendor that only a construction deficient individual can feel. It has withstood four hurricanes, and suffered no ill effects while the surrounding homes lost roofs and sustained structural damage. It stands today, a legend to my lack of ability. I frequently point to it proudly when another project comes along I’m certain I can handle, many of which I couldn’t until yesterday.
After several unsuccessful attempts at replacing the inner workings of both our toilets, I decided it was time to move forward; that, and a faucet that had been dripping for two years, increased the speed of the flow. My wife and I had purchased two new faucets six and half years ago. Her son replaced one. But before he could replace the other he moved. Perhaps spurred on by the prospect of having to replace the other? I thought I’d surprise the little women and do it myself. I’d show her that I’m not the unhandiest of handymen.
The area in which I had to work was small. I am large. Think of Shaq in a Smart Car. I have little range of motion in my left knee to which is attached a prosthetic devise that makes doing anything laborious a huge fucking pain in the ass, but I would not complain. With the same grit and determination that kept me plodding forward ten long years ago, sans the beer, I was going to replace the faucet before my wife came home. Blew that deadline due to a part I neglected to install. Once that was replaced, I was done, with little outside help. We went to test my handiwork and no water was forthcoming. There was no blood curdling profanity laced tirade. I would ask my friend Cliff, who’s really fucking handy; he would know what ails my faucet. Low and behold it was dirt. I cleaned out the end thingy, and eureka! Paydirt! In deep need of affirmation I asked the all-knowing Cliff if aside from the dirt, was my installation correct. What he said was music to my ears even though it was only one note. “Perfect” he said. I told him to say it louder so my wife could hear. I really wanted him to go out on the front porch and announce it at the top of his lungs to the entire neighborhood, but I settled for just my wife. He did as instructed and I gloated. I’m really glad this kind of stuff only needs to be done once every ten years. I guess I’m just one of those people who keep tradesmen employed. Why upset the natural order of things if you don’t have to. Some people are born to do, I am one of those that’s born to pay to have them done.

You’ve Got To Be In It, To Win It.

A couple of year’s ago during a master’s class in sociology, the discussion focused on traits of certain socio-economic classes. Soon, the dialogue turned, quite innocently, to rudimentary stereotypes. A particular student, for whom I considered to be enlightened and well-informed, began to list what type of individual played the lottery. Urban poor, rural poor, lower middle-class to middle class all played for the obvious reasons. To get out of their various level of indebtedness, to escape whatever predicament they found themselves in brought on by financial circumstance, to obtain all the things associated with success. She pointed to the lack of education “most” members of these classes had for their frivolous spending. Not once did she note that this affinity for playing games of chance could have been an addiction. Not once did she refer to the possibility that this characteristic had been cultivated over many generations.
While she pompously, with an air of pretention never before exhibited, droned on with her supposed deep, meaningful analysis, the rest of the class snickered in agreement, everyone but me. I nodded politely at her observations, while inside I seethed at the thought of being so neatly categorized by someone who I thought was at least their intellectual equal. And now I was being summarily dismissed to a lower cerebral rung because of my penchant for games of chance. I could have sat there in silent approval, cowering under peer pressure. But that’s not me. So…I raised my hand, and told my story of lottery play.
Quietly, I said “I play the lottery.” The young woman looked as though I had slapped her with a newspaper for peeing on the floor. Her face turned a nice crimson color, and before she could unhinge the one foot that was firmly embedded inside her mouth, I explained to her my reasons which she, in her wildest dreams, and those of my classmates as well, never could possibly have fathomed.
“Look,” I said. “How many amputees do any of you know?” No one out of a class of fifteen said they had ever met, much less knew another besides myself. “Pretty long odds to become one don’t you think?” Next, I asked what were the odds of getting primary custody of a child back in the ‘80s? Again, expressions of bewilderment crossed their faces. “Now” I went on, “what are the chances of an amputee, alcoholic, drug addict, convicted felon, not just getting custody, but raising a child who’d become co-captain of his high school baseball team, and a 100% Bright Futures Academic Scholar?” Silence. I saved the best for last. “What are the odds, the father of that child, cleaning his act up, returning to school, and graduate Magna Cum Laude?” A long shot at best, I asserted. “Put all those odds, of all those things, happening to one person, phenomenal eh?” “That’s why I play the lottery. The odds of winning Fantasy 5 are around 1-400,000, Mega Money, 1-3,000,000, Lotto, 1-23,000,000.” (There was no Powerball yet. In case you’re interested the odds there are about 1-195,000,000.) “All things considered, I’ll take those odds over the other stuff that has happened.” Not one soul in the room argued with my reasoning, though it did elicit some good natured chuckles. But there’s more to it than that.
I had a rather serious gambling problem at one time. I’m an addictive personality, what can I say? Years ago I went to the casino in Atlantic City with $200, been up $3500, and lost it all, so utterly wiped out that I had to stop at toll booths to scrounge the ground for quarters to pay the tolls. During the same period, I’ve gambled a few large on a football game, with no means to pay if I lost, and lost I did. You get the idea. Playing the lottery, participating in my wife’s office football pool, picking a couple of boxes on Super Bowl boards, fill the void from my youth quite nicely thank you. Sometimes there even has been a modest payoff.
Back in the late ‘80s while still living in New Jersey, I got 5 of 6 numbers twice in thirty-five days, in that state’s version of Lotto called Pick Six. I won around 9 G’s. I have yet to be that fortunate here in Florida, but I’m not dead yet.
On each drawing date I approximate what the payout will be for any of the games I wager on, and plan accordingly. If the day ever comes, I want to be prepared. There will first be phone calls to a good tax attorney, an accountant, and an investment house that specializes in annuities. No squandering of a windfall for me. There are donations to institutions of higher learning to be made, and trust funds to be set up for family members. You won’t be reading about how I went off the deep end, bought multiple houses, boats, cars, and the like. So much good can be done with something as sizable as a Lotto pool, or better yet, a Powerball pot. Like the line from Forrest Gump, you can only be so rich, the rest is just for showing off, or something like that.
I’m curious whether any of my former classmates were still in school when a young lady I was in a master’s French class with won. She and her husband were not Lotto savvy. Rather than take a lump sum payment of $11 million, they opted for $770,000 a year for 30 years. The interest alone, had they been careful with their initial spending, in five years time, would far exceed their yearly installment. I guess the lottery commission counts on people to not think things through; otherwise, I don’t believe the payout amounts would regularly be as high as they are. By the way, the husband of the young lady from French class was an accountant. He’ll never get my business that’s for sure. Also, she quit school six credits shy of obtaining her master’s degree. The rest of the class discussed this decision, and we all agreed, we’d never leave school with that kind of income. The young lady claimed she’d be harassed by her fellow students begging for handouts, a little too full of herself I think.
Besides myself, there are other unlikely participants in the weekly Florida Lotto and Powerball drawings. My ex-wife’s father, who has been rather prudent with his money throughout his life, giving him quite a sizable nest egg, plays when the pool is over $10 million. I guess he considers $3 million (the minimum pot) not worth the effort. I am not trying to justify what many, my former sociology classmate being one, consider to be a wasteful expenditure. I’m just saying, to me, it’s not wasteful. As I see it, I’ve already beaten more unlikely odds.
I don’t sit around waiting for Publishers Clearing House to call, nor do I use up my valuable time entering any and all contests that claim riches await me. Superstition dictates that I buy my lottery tickets from the same business establishment everyday. It’s located across the street from my house. If I ever win, Abdul (of course) the store owner, and his family will benefit handsomely, got to pay the vig you know. Besides, it’s the right thing to do. The winnings will do so much for so many others, that’s the real payoff, not what the money would do for me. Well, I’ve got to go. It’s Wednesday, that means Lotto and Powerball. Maybe they’ll be a neat follow-up blog next week. If not, I’ll keep trying to get published, keep trying to secure the next speaking engagement, and keep taking on other assorted jobs that require my expertise. It’s always good to have a back up plan.

Friend Specific

Refusing to be roped into discussing the Michael Vick, Brett Favre soap operas, as if you haven’t got enough of that crap already, those two topics do not warrant any prose from me. As Bruce Springteen said live before launching into a moving acoustic rendition of No Surrender, “this one’s for friendship.” Or lack thereof for that matter.
With all the technological advancements this century has put at our disposal, you’d think maintaining friendships would be simpler than ever. No more having to sit down with a pen and paper to try to accurately convey a precise emotional state to loved one too far away. No more having to wait until after six o’clock on a Sunday for the rates to go down so you can make that cross country call to a friend who’s moved, but certainly not forgotten. No more waiting for pictures to be developed so they can be sent to someone near and dear so as to keep them abreast of the latest happenings in your life. We can e-mail the latest news of our lives with those who care. We can sign up for phone plans that grant us more time than we could ever spend talking if we suffered from a severe case of insomnia. We can take pictures with our cameras and shoot them via the internet to whoever would be interested. And if the moment captured is particularly scintillating, causing us to immediately share the three-legged iguana taking a crap in our front yard with those in our diaspora posses, we can do so via our cellphones. Armed with all this knowledge and technology we now all have so many friends we can no longer go to work because we spend up to eighty hours a week keeping in touch. Not so. We have a ranking system, and a weeding out process that allows us to continue with what resembles a normal life.
There are many categories of friends. Everyone has at least one, if not several “lifelong friends.” These are the people you’ve been friends with since minimally, grade school. This group can be broken into differing levels of loyalty, and intensity. Sometimes you are so close with these friends that you refuse to move your families away from them. Or, when one moves, so does the other. They’re the person you’d push out of the way of an oncoming vehicle only to get struck yourself. This is the most exalted friendship status reserved for the truly rare friend. There can be variations within this level as well. These friends can move away, but the relationship remains extremely close. There are numerous weekly phone calls. Trips are made to one another’s homes. The main difference in this vein is that daily interaction does not take place face to face. Also, you may make friendships later in life that rival the ardor of the “lifelong” friend, the only difference is the length of time knowing one another. The best thing about these friends is that you revel in their company no matter what the circumstances, and for the most part they’ll always be there for you no matter what.
Then there are the friendships formed from “group interface.”This is a coming together due to a shared singular bond or common cause. Church friends, work friends, and friendships from joining a particular association fall into the “group interface” category. Occasionally, a “lifelong friendship” may develop from this type of relationship, but not as often as the less intense “keeping in touch” result. From the “group interface” faction, the level of friendship can vary greatly.
I belonged to the Pembroke Lakes Optimist Club for ten years where my son played baseball, and I coached and umpired. I was vice-president of the PTA for two years where my son went to middle school. I was a member of, and later vice-president of the Cooper City High School Baseball Booster Club. Like the irresponsible and immature individual I am, I have held numerous jobs over the course of my life. Sadly, very few relationships that flourished through constant interaction remained once I was no longer part of any of the former organizations, or places of employment.
You always say the standard “Let’s keep in touch,” or, the ever popular “I’ll call you, we’ll get together for lunch,” when it comes time for us to part ways, but nothing ever comes to fruition. Through my son’s baseball activities, there were many trips where we ate, slept, and partied with the other parents whom I had befriended, nearly all of what I once considered “close” relationships, have fallen by the wayside. All that remain are the smattering few token Christmas card contacts every year. Of what had to be three dozen people, wives and husbands, today I only speak to one, my son’s first baseball coach from 1993. And now his wife no longer speaks to me. The same may be said for the folks who sat in the same section as I did at Shea Stadium.
For five years we were as close knit as a group could be. Our common thread was our affection for the New York Mets. Even the bathroom attendant, Bennie Nesbitt, and our beer vendor Lorraine, all received Christmas cards with notes enclosed for those years. In 1992, I did not renew my tickets, and those relationships came to an abrupt halt. I considered these people my friends. We truly cared about one another, shared intimate moments and secrets, yet not a single contact, save one, since then. I made my way back to Shea for Opening Day in 1992. Lorraine now manned the beer station located behind home plate. I introduced my wife to her, and that was it. We exchanged pleasantries, reminisced a bit, and said our good-byes. Nearly all of the “friends” I made during my work career, I no longer keep in contact with, even though I have the means. I do not have a definitive answer for this, only excuses.
We may use the standard “we’ve grown apart” to absolve ourselves from maintaining older relationships. But, memories of those once forgotten, still rear their heads every now and then, only to be suppressed rather than make that phone call, or write that letter. We may ask ourselves “I wonder what so-and-so is up to these days” yet rarely take the time to find out. If we really wanted to know, it wouldn’t be too much trouble. You can search for them on Facebook.
Facebook has rekindled friendships from long, and not so long ago. However, even with this extraordinary networking tool, we still have a tendency to treat each other the same way we treat all our other relationships. Lengthy messages written to old friends to bring them up to date either go unanswered, or you get a token briefing back, never to hear from them again. Then you have the group of people who seem genuinely happy to get back in touch with you again, or that you’re interested enough to make them part of your daily interaction. This group is much smaller than the first I mentioned, but infinitely rewarding. My high school junior prom date and I frequently comment to each other. The sister of a “lifelong friend” and I exchange observations. A couple of other “friends” from my high school days share what’s on our minds via the magic of Facebook. The same is true for real friends of my son’s, who have been kind enough to “friend” me. Currently, I have one hundred and fifteen “friends” on Facebook. Maybe twenty percent really are.
Be it Facebook, e-mail, texts, or the good ol’ phone, perhaps most of those people who make up the various forms of relationships I’ve established over the years are not friends at all, but acquaintances. I assume part of the blame. A lot of responsibility comes with being a friend to someone, and I’m not always willing or able to put in what’s necessary. At my age, it takes a very long time to cultivate and maintain a friendship. Regardless of status, length of time knowing, infrequency of correspondence, I value and cherish each and every one. And as long as it’s alright with them, I think I’ll still call them friends, it makes me feel good.

Change from the Penny for My Thoughts

For those of you that have perused my son’s blog, last week he addressed the issue of looking out for ol’ number one. With that in mind, allow me to bear my soul. My friend Cynn (still getting used to that) Chadwick, the novelist/professor, told me that your mood most definitely affects what the storyteller tells. So today my mood is good, but what weighs heavily on mind is similar to the weather outside, cloudy and raining. Be forewarned, what follows is not the usual acid-tongued lambasting of some faction of big business, or some wordy diatribe aimed at the political process and those that work in the confines thereof. Or, a candid look at something on the sports landscape, there’ll be no poking fun at some level of incompetency somewhere rearing its ugly head. No, today I wallow. It’s my blog, and I’m allowed. So don’t read any further if this isn’t what you’re up for.
I was encouraged to start this blog by a friend of my son’s, Jesse Moskowitz. I got to spend some time with him while doing research at the Jimmy Carter library in Atlanta. Jesse was a student at Emory University, and he decided to take me to friend’s apartment where other fellow students were gathering. Immediately upon my arrival I felt comfortable in the company of a room full of strangers half my age. The conversation varied, and I had an opinion on each and every topic. Though I was completely sincere in my passion, my dialogue was colorful and irreverent. There’s something to be said for having a few years experience under you belt, all the while maintaining relevancy. It was then Jesse suggested starting a blog. I was suspect. Who’d want to read what I have to say? He said he would, several of his friends agreed. That was how this weekly exercise in word play began, albeit two years after the fact. Alas, as you can tell by this blogs home page, other than Jesse, none of the other Emory faithful have signed on as “followers.” Initially, I was distressed at the poor showing for those who’ve signed on as such, now I just hope one day everyone I’ve begged, pleaded with, cajoled, threatened, will get the idea how important this is to me.
My pitch went something like this.
“Could you do me a favor please?” “I’m starting this blog, and if I can get enough people to sign on as “followers,” perhaps one day I can sell ad space. I think I’ll need at least fifty, that’s what I heard. You don’t have to read my tripe, just sign up. It doesn’t cost anything, and it would help me out a lot.”
I was assured by one and all, that yes, sure, they’d be delighted to sign on. My son sent not one, but two mass e-mails to his friends exhorting them to sign up, and no, they didn’t have to read it. Weeks passed and very few of the hoards of “supporters” bothered to take the few minutes to sign up. Almost weekly, until I realized how annoying I was becoming; I approached each and every person I knew to once again, please help me out by becoming a “follower.” Did I tell you this small act was free? Did I tell you that these individuals never had to read one fucking word? Still, I wallow in obscurity. Christ! no wonder why I struggled so selling cars here in SoFla, I can’t even get people to do something for me that’s free. How the hell could I expect to get money out of people? It’s a good thing I write in the hopes of entertaining or enlightening. Though, I wouldn’t mind earning some sort of pauperish living off my work.
In an effort to increase exposure for this blog, my son Cory suggested back in December, that I sign up for Facebook, and put the link to my blog there. So every week I post the link in the “What’s on my mind” space on my Facebook homepage. This has resulted in exactly one; let me repeat that, one, new follower. Now, ten months later, I have thirty-nine followers. My son started a blog three weeks ago, he has 110 followers. He taunted me when he launched his blog that he would get fifty followers before I would. I laughed, but it stung. Now, it stings even more.
I also write my blog in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere, will stumble across it, think it’s cleaver, or well written, and offer me some freelance work. Or, someone post it on their web page, and I will gain more exposure that way; a new fangled way of getting one’s foot in the door, if you will. All that I’ve gotten, aside from the psychic remuneration generated from the writing itself, is a foot up my ass. At least that’s how I feel.
I have been in the job market for nearly two years, yielding little results, but I don’t despair. I understand that I’m looked at as being too old for entry level work, though I’d be happy to do it, AND as handicapped, I'm a tax write-off if I'm hired. I understand that I may be over-qualified for many of the positions I’ve sought. I understand that I don't have all the qualifications for some of the positions I've sought. But what I don’t understand is the utter lack of courtesy by those to whom I’ve inquired or solicited. However, the most important thing I do understand is it’s not what you know, but who you blow. I've kissed so much ass these last twenty months, my lips are chapped. Sadly, I guess I just don’t know the right people who’ve tried to open doors for me. The Chancellor of the Florida State University system, and ex-lieutenant governor, Frank Brogan has written a letter of recommendation on my behalf. So has legendary football coach Howard Schnellenberger. There is a letter from a fellow student half my age. There’s another from a former student whom I tutored for several classes. There are many letters from former professors. There’s also a letter from Jesse Moskowitz. Still, there is little work for me.
I thought teaching high school students would be a wonderful way to pass on the knowledge I’ve acquired; not just academic knowledge, but life skills knowledge. But, I can’t pass the Florida State background check because of something I did thirty years ago. Everyone that speaks to me for any period of time has insisted I should write a book. So I have. It has garnered little interest thus far. When I do get odd jobs that I feel I’m well-suited, everyone of my clients beats me up over price. So much so, that a friend recently said I’m whoring myself. Hey, any port in the storm right?
I thought I’ve been a good soldier, and doing, before our President even asked, what he feels will be for the betterment of society, and that is return to school. I did. For six years. And by the way things are going, gainful employment is not the result for which our President is hoping. Is that because so many incompetent people already have positions of such authority, that if someone of advanced education were to be allowed a position within their company, it would jeopardize their job status?
I’ve been told I have a story to tell. Hell, in even in the query for my book I say imagine Pursuit of Happyness on steroids for a frame of reference. So I tell whatever story I can conjure up on a week to week basis for a handful of individual’s kind enough to support me. No one said things were going to come easy just because I got a couple of degrees. I didn’t expect them to. I knew there would be a lot of hard work, toil, and rejection. I was prepared for that, just not nearly two years worth. You know things could always be worse, but I’d prefer not to find out how much worse. At least I’m not selling cars anymore. There, now I feel much better. And no, I don’t want any cheese.