Maries the name, retail is her game...

We needed to buy a new washer and dryer since there's just two of us, we don't need huge machines or all the bells and whistles. In today's world, every retailer has the same prices. It came down to what store could deliver the machines as soon as possible. That store was Home Depot. I could have done the entire transaction online since the store is only a couple of miles away I drove over to see and touch the machines. There I met Marie in the appliance department. Marie is a tiny older woman, jeans, t-shirt, running shoes, short gray hair and of course a Home Depot apron. Damn, she was good.

She got me the best price and knocked off another 25 bucks because we had an "up to 35% off" email.

Marie said, "Don't pay for the hookup, just buy the hose and the dryer vent, put a couple of ten-dollar bills in your pocket and ask the guys to do it for you. Slip them the cash, they get more money that way and they'll be happy to do it."

She went through the contract, highlighted the important parts and wrote in additional warranty tips.

I asked her how long she'd been working at Home Depot, "5 years but I've quit twice and come back because I'm bored. They don't like me very much, but with your purchase, (she thought for a moment) I'm now at $649,587.58, number 1 by a huge margin in this store and I'm number 2 in the entire western division of Home Depot."

"Do you get a commission?"

"Hell no, only full-timers get a piece, they couldn't afford me if I was on a commission." She laughed.

"What did you do before you worked here?"

"Port of LA, I was the only woman in the old days of IT, remember the old clunky IBM punch card systems?"

"Sure."

"That was me. The only woman working there whose job wasn't answering the damn phone. Then I reinvented myself and ran the billing department at a hospital."

3 marriages, all to younger men, 4 kids, 11 grandchildren and now 5 great-grandchildren, "The oldest is 22, so I've got a shot at being a great-great-grandmother."

Firm handshake, warm smile, it was a pleasure doing business with Marie. I'm writing a letter to Home Depot.

Rock bottom? I hope so...

While waiting for our new house we did an extended stay at Extended Stay America this summer, we met some interesting people, there was this one guy, in particular, let's just call him Mr. P.

Mr. P is (was) a sheet metal contractor, most days he would start drinking when the liquor store opened and continued on. Mr. P was (is) a decent guy with a massive drinking problem. He had no driver's license because he'd had 4 DUIs and had spent a year in jail after his 4th.

He had gotten divorced, split the proceeds of the house with his ex-wife and plenty of cash in the bank. When we met him he'd been at Extended Stay for a couple of months, he was accompanied by his dog Rocky and a geriatric cat. I didn't see much of the cat but Rocky was a great little dog, he was the clone of Eddie on Frasier. Rocky and Anze became pals.

As the weeks past, Mr. P drank more and more every day, to the point where he was slack-jawed by noon. A couple of construction guys rebuilding a Target store found him one night passed out in the parking lot with little Rocky watching over him. They helped him up and got him back to his room.

By the time we moved, we'd met his long-time friend B, another contractor who was trying to get Mr. P off the bottle and into rehab, if he started a rehab program the DMV would give him a restricted license and he could get back to work and start rebuilding his life. To this end, Mr. P bought a 5th wheel trailer, put a hitch on his Chevy pickup and was looking for a spot to park. Temporarily he parked the rig in the lot at Extended Stay. At that point, 5 weeks ago we moved into our house.

Yesterday, I had coffee with one of the guys I got to know at Extended Stay, here's what he told me happened.

A couple of homeless drunks started to sleep under Mr. P's 5th wheel, Mr. P befriended them, they started drinking together and he gave them the keys to his truck and trailer. They moved in. He also "loaned" them his debit card and his pin, party time ensued. Extended Stay got pissed and kicked him out. He moved into the trailer and was supposed to get it off the property ASAP. He had no license, one of the homeless guys volunteered to drive. Mr. P agreed and they decided it was such a great idea, that they ought to have a drink on it and did they ever.

The construction guys found Mr. P dead drunk in the lot, his wallet gone, his trailer gone, his 2-year-old Chevy pickup gone and so was little Rocky and the poor old cat.

With the help of his buddy B they tracked down the homeless drunks and got the rig back. The dirty bastards let little Rocky and the cat out and couldn't remember where. B helped Mr. P get the rig parked, got some food into him and stocked the trailer with enough food for a couple of days, put him to bed and left for work out of town.

The next day B got a call, Mr. P was in jail for his 5th DUI. He'd gotten drunk and decided to take a drive and see if he could find little Rocky and the poor cat. B got him bailed him out and he is awaiting a court date. In California, he'll go to jail again.

His dad is living alone in Michigan and has Alzheimer's, the old man is pushing 90, Mr. P will probably never see his father again. He has no relationship with his two kids or his one grandchild, his brother has washed his hands of him, the only person in his life now is his friend B.

I feel bad for him, but I feel worse for little Rocky and the poor cat.

Teenage Boys Working a Funeral

When I was in high school I had a part-time job working for Kenny Hall's Rose Floral shop, I drove the delivery van and dropped off flowers all over town. If we had a hospital delivery or a funeral, Kenny would send a buddy of mine and me out as a team. We drove a Ford Econoline van, we'd load the Econoline up with the arrangements and off we'd go.

One day we loaded up for a huge funeral at St. Mary's Church on Belmont Road. My partner JF had gone to St. Mary's school and been expelled for grabbing a Nun's ruler just as she was attempting to whack his hand with her metal edged weapon of choice. he grabbed her ruler and tossed it out the window. It wasn't long before he was on the street and starting school at Soouth Jr. High. I should add that during the short tussle the Nun lost her headgear.

We had a van load for this funeral, four commemorative wreaths, a huge casket spray and 24 pots of flowers to line the altar around the casket, plus a half dozen other floral arrangements.

We hustled everything inside and under the direction of some chud from the funeral home, we started the final setup. The guy from the funeral home was a bit of an ass, for a half-hour we moved wreaths and pots an inch this way or that. He went on forever, finally, we were done, or at least we thought we were done. The funeral guy stepped back to take a final survey of his design work, as he did, he knocked a pot of flowers over, it fell against another pot and then another, flowers, water and florist foam all over the floor.

JF looked at me and said, "Jesus fucking Christ!"

At the exact moment, the words left his lips, one of the Priests, stepped from behind the altar and shouted, "Young Mr. F, leave this church and never return."

JF left immediately, I cleaned up the mess. I got in the van and we drove to the Kegs for an early lunch, went back to work and delivered flowers all afternoon.

BTW, JF did slip back into to St. Marys from time to time but, only under family duress.

JF is still one of my closest friends, this story always puts a smile on our faces.

The Greatest Country in the World?

I recently met a guy, Mike, while we were spending time at Extended Stay America. I'd take Anze for a walk, I'd say hi, he'd say hit back. After a couple of days, we began to talk while sitting on the park bench.

Here's Mike's story:

Mike has two kids, a boy 15 and his daughter 12. He's an over the road trucker by trade. Truckers with Mike's experience, who are willing to work, can make excellent money, drive for 6-8 days, home for 3 and make a couple of thousand a week.

Mike and his wife owned a home in Ventura, she worked as a legal secretary. They were building a nice comfortable middle-class American life, they worked hard, took great delight in their children, enjoyed family and friends. Then Mike's wife was diagnosed with cancer and died after two years of treatment.

The company Mike drove for was based in Oklahoma and he opted to stick with the companies' insurance plan, as he said, "my first mistake". Mike was an owner-operator. He owned the truck and worked under contract to haul the company's trailers. With his wife's passing Mike had to stop doing long haul trucking, he needed to work close to home so he could be with his children, which meant a pay cut of almost half. The co-pay on his wife's hospital bills were almost $200,000 dollars. Mike had to sell his house and his truck to pay the bills. He moved into a  three-bedroom apartment and his wife's aunt moved in to help with the kids. Mike went back to long haul trucking and for a while things were okay. He was driving to the east coast and back, numerous stops on the way, he was gone for 8 to 10 days at a time and then 3 or 4 days at home with his family.

3 years ago Mike was diagnosed with cancer of the jaw. He had surgery and lost a saliva gland and half of his tongue. The radiation ruined his teeth, now he's missing almost all his teeth on the bottom, he was on disability and started getting behind in his rent payments, he got evicted. He had to move his kids to Arizona to live with his parents. Once his cancer was under control he went back to long haul trucking. Mike saved his money, spent as much time as he could with his kids and started to rebuild his twice shattered life. As he said, "I could finally see the light at the fucking end of the tunnel." He was ready to reunite his family again, his wife's sister was willing to help with her niece and nephew while he was on the road.

Then Mike was driving in a late-season snowstorm in the Sierras, he stopped to put the chains on his truck, as he was tightening the chains, the pry bar slipped and he broke his right thumb. Surgery, insertion of 4 screws and a rod in his hand. Once again massive copays and physical therapy for several months. His plans up in smoke again.

Mike is back on disability again, he has a solid job with the trucking company waiting, his kids start school in Ventura in the middle of August. He's two weeks away from hitting the road again.

This is the only country in the world with a health care system that allows this kind of thing to happen to a guy like Mike, to his kids and his extended family. Mike lost not only the love of his life, but he lost everything they had ever dreamed of together. He's a tough guy, a good man. He said with tears in his eyes, "See my girl, she has auburn hair like her beautiful mother."

We need to do better, we can do better.

Do the Math...

This is from a year ago, it's worse today...

The other night at a town hall in Fort Wayne, Indiana, Elizabeth Warren was talking about making the economy work for all Americans. A lot has changed for the majority of us since the '70s.

After watching the town hall, I did some math using an inflation calculator. The results are interesting. 

Actually, they are amazing.

In 1971, I was making 20,800 a year, today that 20 grand is the equivalent of $138,994 a year. There is no way in hell my old job pays that in 2019.

My rent in 1971 was $175, a month for a two-bedroom apartment in a new complex with a pool, there was a large storage room with hookups for a washer and a dryer and had covered parking for two cars. Today the rent would be $1,152 a month and you couldn't find a comparable place for less than 2,000.

In 1974, I was making $28,000 a year in base salary, adjusted for inflation that's $184,000. I was moving up in the world, right?

In 1974, I bought a new 3 bedroom house with 2.5 baths for $39,900. 10% down, 30-year mortgage. The payment was $333 a month PITI. Today my first house would sell for $262,000. The payment would be $1,300 The problem is you can't find a house in my old neighborhood for under 650,000. My old house sold for 710,000, 5 years ago. The house is in Ashland, Massachusetts, 20 odd miles west of Boston. The payment on a 710,000 home? $2,900, not counting taxes or insurance and that's putting 142 thousand dollars down.

I got recruited for a new job in 1979, at the time with bonuses I was making 45k. My new job paid 76,000 a year, the equivalent of $268,000 today. If that job pays $150,000 today it would be a miracle.

We bought a new house for $110,000. The payment was less than $900 a month, we had two new cars, my wife didn't work, we skied most weekends in the winter, traveling to New Hampshire and Vermont and we flew to Colorado for a week of Rocky Mountain skiing. I belonged to a sailing club that filled our summers with fun on the water. I forgot, something, I was doing consulting on the side, it paid a thousand a month or in today's money, $3,500. I'd just hand my wife the check and forget about it. The consulting gig today would be worth $42,000. a year.

Our beautiful, historic house in Norwell sold for almost a million dollars a few years ago. By the way, the company I worked for, John Blair, paid all of our health insurance, gave me an expense account (I never paid for lunch), and paid my membership to the University Club. It wouldn't happen today, not even close.

What happened to that American Dream?

Inflation-adjusted pay is down for the majority of Americans, Housing costs are through the roof, transportation costs are staggering, car payments, insurance are all up. American productivity is up, but pay hasn't kept up. Families need two incomes today and childcare costs are over the moon.

Corporate profit is stratospheric, Wall Street is booming, taxes are down for the rich and have stayed about the same for the rest of us. Americans are now working for the mythical "Economy" and that "Economy" isn't working for us.

One last thing, I wanted to buy a three-story Brownstone on Marlborough Street in the Back Bay of Boston in 79, it was $10,000 more than the old 1749 house in Norwell. It had two apartments and a studio to rent, We would have had the entire 3rd floor and the roof deck. The apartments paid the mortgage and put a couple of hundred a month in our pocket. We could have gotten rid of one car and I would have walked 10 blocks to work. The girls could have gone to Brown and Nichols, a top-flight private school. Today those brownstone houses are worth between 8 and $900 a square foot. We opted for the suburban Boston house. I thought I was a smart guy, right?

One more thing, 90% of Americans make less than the Social Security cap of $128,000 a year. That top 10% thing is real, isn't it?

Three Pilots...

June 7th, 75 years and a day after D Day...

My father was a WWII pilot, he went through the cadet program at Jamestown College, he was sworn in at Fort Snelling, traveled to Texas, where he earned his wings and his commission in 1943, he was trained to fly fighters, then the Army Air Corps decided they needed bomber pilots, he trained as a bomber pilot. Then the Army Air Corps decided they had enough bomber pilots and told his class of  fresh new pilots they could be Radio Operators, Navigators or bombardiers. Dad said no thanks and in the summer of 1944 he volunteered to fly gliders. The Army Air Corps sent him to Laurenberg Maxon in North Carolina to train. Dad arrived in England on the Queen Mary in late September of 1944. Dad was handy for the Air Corps, he was qualified in everything that had wings. That winter he flew supply missions, delivered gasoline to Patton's Army and dropped supplies for the Battle of the Bulge. His big show was flying the 2nd glider across the Rhine in Operation Varsity, the invasion of Germany in the spring of 45. After he landed his glider, the pilots formed up as an Infantry Company and fought the Nazis on their own soil.

My neighbor in Florida was a P51 Ace, he enlisted at 17 one day after he graduated from high school in 1942. Not long after his 18th birthday he was flaying bomber escorts over Getrmany. He was a 20 year old Captain when he came back in 1945, he started school on the GI Bill and couldn't buy a drink in a bar. I took him to a big Air Show, the final fly over was done by three planes, an F16, a F18A and a P51 Mustang. They  flew low over the crowd wing to wing, went into a vertical climb, still side by side, the two jets peeled off and the P51 continued the climb alone. I looked over at my neighbor, he had tears in his eyes.

I had the opportunity to introduce my neighbor to a Tuskegee Airman, another P51 pilot. This Red Tail escorted bombers on the other side of the European Theater of War. Their stories were similiar, they were the same age and they flew the same plane. They both went to college on the GI Bill,they both retired as Colonels in the Air National Guard. One thing was different, when the Tuskegee Airman wanted to take his prospective bride for an airplane ride in a Piper Cub while they were in school, he was told, "N****rs Can't Fly!" He had 1100 hours in high performance military aircraft.

All three pilots are gone, but never forgotten.

A Note to Drew...

I read Drew Magary's "Funbag" every week on the Deadspin website. Magary is a brilliant writer, he's funny, he's a little profane, doesn't take himself seriously and he makes me laugh.

I had a question for him, here's what I sent.

Drew,

We're both dog people and you've mentioned dog shit a time or two. Here's my problem with my loyal. loveable German Shepherd, Anze. (he's named after Anze Kopitar of the Kings)

After a god damn lifetime of work, we finally bought a house in a canyon north of LA. It's nice up in the canyon and the house is beautiful, in the right light it looks like a painting by a French impressionist. We have an acre of land, 90 percent of  the acreage is "natural" which means I don't have to fuck with it and that brings me to my Anze the Dog problem.

Our property is fenced, Anze the Dog can't get out, so he can run around as he pleases. He goes out in the morning, does his recon mission, barks at a squirrel or two comes back and shits on the sidewalk.
He does it again in the evening. Just to piss me off he sometimes shits on the deck by the spa. This means I have to pick up his shit in a plastic bag and toss it in the garbage bin. I spent decades living in Boston's Back Bay and picked up dog shit at least twice a day for years. When we moved to the canyon, I thought, "I'll never pick up dog shit again." I was wrong, wrong, wrong.

On Friday mornings I haul our trash bins 100 yards down the driveway for pickup. Anze the (fucking) Dog comes along on the trash run, every Friday he takes a shit on the way down and another on the way back. One Friday he took three and he doesn't even bother to move off to the side, he let's loose in the middle of the road.

I love him but, he's just fucking with me, right?

Of course,my wife won't pick up dog shit, but she's more than happy to point it out.

I said, "What if I have a heart attack and end up in the hospital, you'll have to pick it up then!"

She laughed, "I'll just wait until you get out, you'll need the exercise anyway."

I cannot win.

Robert

P.S. Sometime I'll tell you about wearing my Patriots jacket to Costco during Super Bowl Week. That was an experience. It was even better a week later.

Shit Kickin.....

 I’m at my Mom’s for a few days, we’re all talked out, I’ve seen the rest of my family, thankfully I got a phone call from Cowboy Marv, “Heard you were in town, let’s take the horses and go for a sunset ride in the hills by Fort Lincoln.”


Marv picked me up in his black, Chevy ¾ ton, 4x4 pickup. The two-horse trailer is hooked up. Rebby and Flash are in the back and we’re off to cross the wide Missouri.


We had a nice ride through the hills and breaks, watched the sunset in the west from the top of a butte overlooking Fort Lincoln. Of course, we drank a few beers from the saddle bags too. A historical note, Fort Abraham Lincoln was Custer’s command and he rode off through these very same hills on his way to the Little Big Horn.


Cowboy Marv has a little piece of land south of Bismarck, big enough for the two quarter horses, it’s got a pond, a small barn. We drop the horses off, curry them and give them some oats.

Marv and I climb back in the Chevy, it’s almost ten o’clock and we haven’t eaten. We hit the drive through at McDowell’s Big Boy. I had a pizza burger, “Flying Style” fries and a diet coke, can’t remember what Cowboy Marv ate. When we were finished, Marv suggested we head for the Dakota Lounge. I thought that was a great idea.


The Dakota is the size of a supermarket and it was packed with “shoppers” on a Thursday night. The live band was kicking out country, country rock and the dance floor was packed, the black jack tables were full and the girls who sell punch cards and other gambling shit were working overtime. Marv fit in, black hat, worn jeans and rough out boots with just a touch of horse shit on them. His shirt is a ragged plaid cowboy model, missing a few pearl buttons over a black t-shirt

I’m wearing pressed 501s, shiny, black lizard Tony Lama boots and a Red Sox long sleeved T, no hat. I’d scraped the horse turd crumbs off my shiny boots out at the barn. Marv and I are squeezed in at the bar drinking beer, 

Marv is hammering Bud, I’m drinking Tecate. We ordered up two shots of Jack Daniels, we’d just knocked them back when a woman pushes her way in between us, she yelled at the bartender, “I need two shots of Cuervo Gold, goddammit!” She’s loud, so loud, the bartender’s head snaps and she got her tequila immediately. She drank them both, turned to me,, “My so-called friends are fucking assholes.” She grabs Marv’s Bud, “You don’t mind if I have a taste do you?” She pounds the can. Cowboy Marv suggests another round, she gets another Cuervo and a Bud. “Fuck my friends, the bitches. They wanted to leave and I wanted to stay, so fuck them, know what I mean?”


Cowboy Marv tilts his hat back, smiles and they begin to engage with each other. Her back is to me and I notice that her skirt is short, so short it barely covers her ample ass, she has on fish net hose and red high heels. When she turns around, looks me in the eye, “You’re not from here are you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and turned back to Marv. I notice that her large boobs are not harnessed. She and Marv order another round, I pass since I’ve got a half a beer left. A guy walks by, looks at my shirt, “Fuck the Red Sox, go Twins!”


I wander around the Dakota, watch the blackjack players for a while, buy ten bucks worth of pull tabs and win 4 back. The band is playing a credible version of Merle Haggard’s “Swinging Doors”.


The Dakota is clearing out, it’s midnight and Friday is a workday. Marv has graciously offered to give Cheryl a ride home, as we leave, the band is playing Buck’s “Together Again”. 

Cheryl is Cowboy Marv’s kind of girl, she's. hanging on Marv as we cross the parking lot, he helps her up into the cab of the truck. Marv’s Chevy is a single cab, bench seat and it’s a stick shift. We get settled, Marv behind the wheel with his hat pulled down again, Cheryl is in the middle straddling the gear shift and I’m riding shot gun. Cheryl, now in charge of the radio, cranks up Y93 enough to rattle the speakers. The station is playing “Back in Black” by ACDC. Cheryl is dancing in place. Marv is keeping time on the steering wheel. Me? I’m just fucking amazed.


Marv stops at a traffic signal, when it turns green, as he shifts from first to second gear, he says, “Fuck me!” Cheryl seems to perk up at that, then realizes that Marv’s ID bracelet is caught in her fishnet stocking. 
Marv can’t shift the truck into 3^rd, so Cheryl does the shifting. Marv’s right arm is attached to Cheryl’s left thigh, trying get the bracelet loose, she’s making it worse. Marv is working the pedals and steering the big Chevy, Cheryl is doing the shifting.


More stop signs and stop lights, Cheryl is pissed, “Fuck this shit!”, she pulled up her skirt, unhooked the fishnet from her garter, kicks off her red shoe and unrolled the stocking. She put on quite a show. Marv wraps her fishnet around his right wrist and starts shifting for himself.


Cowboy Marv and the lovely Cheryl drop me off at my mother’s place. Mom is still up, reading and listening to Barbra Streisand records, 

“Did you have fun?” Mom says.


‘It was just super, Mom.”


“Anything interesting happen?”


“Naw, not really.”


“Did you see anyone else you know?”


“Nope, just some guy who hates the Red Sox.”


The next morning, Cowboy Marv called. I ask. "How did it go?


‘Well I took her home, the goddamn door is chained from the inside, Cheryl beat on it until her mother opened it. The woman grabbed Cheryl by the arm and dragged her inside. You won’t believe what she said to me.”


“What did she say?”


“That I ought to be ashamed of myself for taking her daughter out and getting her drunk.”


“She say anything else?”


“Only that I should get my cowboy ass back to Kist Livestock or wherever I came from and if she ever saw me around her daughter again, she’d call the cops.”


“Jesus.”


“Jesus is right, man. Her old lady was pissed."


“Probably should stay clear of old Cheryl Marv.”


“Hell, I don’t know, I kind of like her.”

The Day I went Blind...

I had a busy schedule on a Monday. I spent an hour on the phone with the investors, wait that’s too polite, they were vulture capitalists. The bastards.
When I finished explaining what was going on at least three different times, they seemed satisfied and we hung up. 

I took the dog to the park, he peed and pooped. Back in the house, I gave him a cookie and left for a meeting with an engineer and his asshole boss.

It was one of those Boston, cold blustery March days, windy as hell at times, but sunny and 50 degrees. I got on Route 2 in Cambridge and worked my way through traffic to 128, doubled back at the exit, parked at the tower site. The engineer and his boss were late. We got nothing done. 

I left, got back on 128 South headed for Wellesley and a meeting with my lawyer at his office. The traffic was shitty as usual. I worked my way over to the left lane and pushed the old Range Rover up to 80. About a mile from the Route 9 exit it happened. I went blind in my right eye. Nothing but black. I blinked, I rubbed it. I couldn’t fucking see.

My right eye is my good eye, as in it’s been surgically rebuilt, it’s 20/30. The left eye is useless, they don’t even have a number for it. Know what I can read on an eye chart with the left eye? The huge E at the top and that’s it.

I can’t see shit and I’m driving in traffic at 80 miles an hour. I take a chance, speed up and cut across 4 lanes to the right shoulder and stop. I heard a lot of horns honking, I couldn’t see the Massholes flipping me the bird. I know they did.

I was relatively calm considering the situation. I ran scenarios through my head. Should I call and have somebody pick me up? Should I drive slowly down the shoulder to the Route 9 Exit, the lawyers office was only a couple of tricky U turns and a few blocks from the exit. Should I call 9-11? Fuck, I couldn’t even read the numbers on my little Nokia phone. I told myself to chill and stop thinking, try to be Zen about this. I cranked the seat back, closed my eyes and listened to the emergency flashers click. I can’t remember how long I sat there listening to the click, click, click of the flashers. Every time a big rig went by, the Range Rover shuddered. I finally put the seat back up, opened my eyes and the right was still blank. A thought crossed my mind, what if this was the new me. I opened the window and gulped some fresh air. Decision made, I’d try to get the hell off 128, the exit wasn’t that far, I could do it. I put the Rover in gear and started slowly down the shoulder to the Route 9 Wellesley Exit. Take it slow and steady. As I crept along at maybe 10 miles an hour, my eye started began to come back. The process was like a series of window shades opening, from left to right. One tiny shade would slowly open, then another, I didn’t keep track, there were maybe 5 or 6 tiny roll up blinds opening one after another. By the time I reached the exit, I could see. I looked at the clock on the dash, I couldn’t see it a few minutes ago, I was late. I sped up made the U turns on Route 9 and parked in the lot.

The meeting lasted an hour, I took good notes, I didn’t mention what happened. With that taken care of I drove home to the Back Bay. It was 3 in the afternoon, I walked the dog again and it occurred to me during the walk, that I should probably find out what happened. When I got home, I called my eye surgeon at Mass Eye and Ear. He said, “Get your ass down here now” he added, “take a cab, do not drive!” Yes sir!

Cakes was flying the shuttle at the time and she’d be home around 5. Thank God she was finally taking the T home from Logan. I left her a  cheery note with the car keys on the counter. The dog got another cookie and I caught a cab on Mass Ave. The dog couldn’t figure out why I was leaving again, he had a disappointed look on his German Shepherd face when l closed and locked the door.

Dr Foster ran a couple of tests at the eye clinic, he had a couple of colleagues look at the results and he had one of his assistants walk me over to the ICU at Mass General. More tests, more docs, then they rolled me to the neurology ward and popped me in a bed. They hooked me up to a couple of IVs and started to pump me full of blood thinner, heparin. I had to pee, the nurse handed me a plastic pee bottle and said, “When you’re finished, just set it on the side table, the head resident will be in to see you in a few minutes.”

There was a guy in the other bed, when his wife drew back the curtain to leave, I noticed he was laying there, staring straight up at the ceiling, his wife was talking to him, he didn’t answer. She looked at me and started to cry.

The Head Neurology Resident came in, the guy looked like a miniature version of my nephew John. He said it wasn’t my eye, it was my brain. I’d had a transient ischemic attack (TIA). It occurs when part of the brain experiences a temporary lack of blood flow. He was sure that the part of my brain controlling my vision, stopped supplying blood to my right eye and shut it off. The job now was to figure out why it happened and stop it from happening again. To get to the answer, it would take tests, lots of tests. I heard my phone ringing in the closet, he got it for me. It was Cakes. She wanted to come down, I told her to wait, because I was headed for a CAT scan.

Cat Scans or CT scans in my case can show with reliable results the probability of a permanent stroke, that was why I was getting the test, of course they didn’t tell me that at the time. I was the mushroom in the dark.

When I was rolled back to my room, my roommate was gone and they’d moved me to his bed, this made me nervous at first, but I liked the view from the window. The nurse got me settled in and Cakes walked in. She was very upset and scared. I found myself reassuring her everything was going to be fine. I was in good hands. I explained what the docs had told me so far, not much really. We held hands and she decided I needed some proper pajamas. We shared my hospital, low fat dinner and joked that it really needed some wine to wash it down. I hated to see her go when visiting hours were over.

Cakes brought me the book I’d been reading, I couldn’t read, I watched TV, shut it off. I wondered if what had happened today was a one-off event or a predictor of my future. I decided that I’d rather be blind and functional than condemned to wearing a drool cup the rest of my life. If that happened, I’d rather be dead. I was in a dark mood.
I couldn’t read, I couldn’t watch TV and I couldn’t sleep, it was after 11 and I’d gotten up at 5 to get ready for my conference call with the Vultures, I’d gone to two meetings, one bad and one good and god damned killed myself on 128. Oh, and I’d gone blind for what, 15 minutes? 

I got up and went to the bathroom dragging my IV stand along with me. When I go back, there was an angel in the room. Her name was Dr. Monica Watson, she was the resident on duty. Dr Watson was warm, funny and scary smart. She was a black woman who’d grown up poor in Dorchester, she’d gotten into the premed program at U Mass and then into Harvard Medical school. Dr. Watson listened to me whine, she answered my questions, calmed me down, patted my arm and left. I felt better and was asleep in minutes. She sure as hell had the human side of medicine down pat.

Cakes was back in the morning, she brought me a coffee from the Charles Street Bakery. We nibbled at the low-fat breakfast. We watched the Today Show together in bed. It felt good to have her head on my shoulder.

It didn’t last long, in marched the head Neurologist with his platoon of residents, he said “GOOD MORNING” at the top of his lungs, picked up my chart and continued like a god damn Army DI. I finally said, “Jesus can you tone it down”. He didn’t. What an asshole. He performed like this everyday I was in the hospital. A very tired looking Dr. Watson rolled her eyes at me as they marched out of my room.

Cakes left to buy me some pajamas and I read the Globe until I was picked up and rolled away for more tests for the rest of the morning, back to my room for a delicious zero fat lunch, after lunch, I napped and then was rolled to the basement for another CT scan.

I’d been out of contact with the Vulture Capitalists for 24 hours, I had Cakes send an email saying I was involved in a “family emergency”, not the truth, on the other hand it wasn’t a lie. If the bastards thought I was sick, who knows what they would do.

I felt great, I could see and I began to wonder what the hell I was doing in Mass General. While I was contemplating my escape. I got a new roommate. He was an Italian from Rome.

Pietro was really pissed off, he’d had a stroke while visiting his America relatives, he couldn’t use the left side of his body, but his mouth worked just fine and he worked it overtime, in Italian and English.

“Hey Roberto, you gotta god damned mirror?”

I got out of bed, rolled my IV stand over to Pietro’s bed and pushed the bed tray up to where he could see it, I flipped up the top and he looked at himself in the mirror. “Mother of God, I look like chit!” And he did. Pietro’s face drooped on the left side. His curly hair was sticking out at every possible angle. “Look at my fucking eye, Roberto, I look like that fucking actor, Marty, what the fucka is his name?”

“Marty Feldman?”

“Yes, the guy from Frankastein!”

“Pardon me boy is this the Transylvania Station?”

“Yes, yes, and “walk this way”.

We both laughed and Pietro felt better. Pietro loved American movies and Frank Sinatra.

That night, Cakes came back, we watched a steady stream of Pietro’s American relatives’ parade in and out of the room. They ranged from mustached old ladies in black to young tarts from Revere with huge hair. His male relatives ranged from god father cast members to well dressed guys in Italian suits with blonde wives. One of the old ladies combed his hair.

When visiting hours were over, Pietro winked at me with his good eye, his immigrant older brother had slipped him a bottle of grappa, we each had a stiff drink and fell asleep.

Wednesday it was more tests for me. Pietro had the same routine, different schedule. We bitched about the food, I hated it, Pietro said, “questa è spazzatura, non posso mangiarla” translated, “this is garbage, I can’t eat it”. He was right, it was low-fat garbage. He asked me what my favorite Italian food was, I told him pappardelle with chicken and mushrooms in broth. Pietro’s mouth began to water out of his good right side.

Thursday morning I walked my IV stand down to the cafeteria, I got some good coffee and buttered rolls. Pietro was grateful. We skipped our egg whites and dry toast breakfast, listened to the loud neurologist again and my roomie was rolled off for more tests. Since I was ambulatory, I walked to mine. 

That afternoon I got the good news, I was going to be discharged on Friday morning. Pietro was going to moved over the weekend to rehab, they needed to get him going so he could fly home to Roma. He said, “6 fucking weeks, Roberto, 6!” His good news was his wife was coming to be with him.

I told Cakes the good news and suggested she do her scheduled shuttle trip on Friday, she agreed.

I was released at ten on Friday morning, it was a beautiful late March day, so nice I walked all the way home from Mass General carrying a plastic bag with my new pajamas and a bunch of medicine. Straka the Dog was happy to see me, I was happy to see him. I made some coffee, poured it in a to go cup and took Straka to the dog park. I tossed his ball, watched him pee a hundred times, we walked some more and sat on a park bench in the sun and contemplated how lucky I am.

I checked on my Italian roommate, the rehab people at Mass General got him walking and he left for home. I hope Pietro is doing okay, I am.

Still my favorite...

I had been reading Mechanics Illustrated's Tom McCahill, and Sports Car Graphic since I was in grade school. I had raced go karts on road courses, I liked drag racing and fast muscle cars but there was always something about sports cars that appealed to me. A ride in an early Austin Healy 3000, my old man's friend Ed tossing the keys to his brand new, red '63 Jaguar XKE when I was a senior in high school and saying, "Take it for a drive." And did I. The occasional use of a Corvette off the used car lot. When I was 19, this car happened into my life. It was a revelation.

What I knew about Porsches was what I'd read about Porsches, which was more than most people knew in my home town. My dad had taken it in trade, the car store had $1350.00 dollars in it and that's what I paid for this 1959 Porsche 356a 1600 Super Convertible D. The car sold new in 1959 for over $3,000. It was a steal. I didn't even know the Convertible D was the rarest of the rare. A Speedster with a taller windshield and roll up windows, fewer than 2,000 built worldwide. It was Meissen Blue. Meissen Blue is the color of the fine porcelain china made in Meissen, Germany.

The interior was red leather.

In those days there was no internet, the closest Porsche dealer was in Minneapolis. I was pretty much on my own. I signed up for an SCCA Driving School on the old Brainerd Road Course. I learned some driving lessons and some Porsche lessons as well and made a few Porsche friends, too. That came in handy when the clutch burned out a couple of months later and was told, "Forget the Porsche parts, take to a VW dealer and have them put a Transporter clutch in it, that's what the guys who race them use." I had a front wheel bearing go out, I measured it with a set of calipers, went to the John Deere parts depot and rifled through hundreds of bearings until I found one, I was back on the road the same day.

My Porsche had an Abarth exhaust system, when you wound it up it sounded like an Indy car. It stirred my soul.

The Porsche drove like a dream, it wasn't fast, it simply did what you asked it to do. If you kept the flat 4 in it's sweet spot it was quick and nimble. It went where you pointed it without complaint. The brakes were good, great, for the times, in fact. The cloth top was tight, the fit and finish on the car was perfect, everything worked including the Blaupunkt AM/FM radio with TWO speakers. Too bad the only FM was WDAY FM playing elevator music. CKY and KQWB sounded good on it, so did KOMA and WLS at night.

When you were behind the wheel, you felt like part of the car or the car was part of you. It almost seemed like if I could think it, the car would do it. An Airline Captain friend of mine said the same about the F 16 he flew in the air force.

A social note, the car had reclining seats, so it was decent for parking. One weekend in Bemidji a friend of mine lost his virginity to a BSU sophomore in my Porsche while I drank a flat beer and waited in the rain under a grove of pine trees. I'll never forget their heads hitting the convertible top. Pretty big of me, don't you think?

Porsche built variants of the 356 from 1948 to 1963, the best were the 356a built from 1955 to 1960. Mine, a Convertible D with the 1600 Super engine was only built in 1959, they are very rare. A perfect, numbers matching car like mine is worth close to $400,000 today. Little did I know.

I sold mine to a B 52 pilot, I hope she is still alive and making somebody as happy as she made me.

The Weekly Reader...

It's been so cold here, my fingers have been too numb to type...here we go.

The Oscars are tomorrow, we started to watch Black Panther on Netflix, we lasted 20 minutes and went to bed...probably finish it at a later date, but I'm tired of Marvel Comics made into movies, hell I was tired of Marvel Comics in the 6th grade...

For the best Oscars preview...Drew Magary of Deadspin!

Here's a taste...

"Bohemian Rhapsody. Okay NOW we’re into the horrible shit. Bohemian Rhapsody was like if someone made the movie version of a Wikipedia page but somehow read the wrong Wikipedia page. Here’s a movie that made nearly a BILLION dollars worldwide despite the fact that you can listen to Queen for free at home anytime you like, and despite the fact that it was “directed” by an accused pederast who apparently abandoned the set every six minutes. That’s how you end up with composite shots that look like they were filmed in 18 different locations"

Read the whole thing here: https://theconcourse.deadspin.com/the-hater-s-guide-to-the-2019-oscars-1832753962

Since we are pissing around with English rock bands, this is interesting: The Sultans of Swing was a real band! Guitar George was a real human being for chrissakes...

https://www.loudersound.com/features/the-story-behind-the-song-dire-straits-sultans-of-swing

A love story about greasy food...

https://thelandmag.com/pioneer-fried-chicken-los-angeles-kaleb-horton/

In my little shitty hometown (piss off, you know I loved growing up in Grand Forks) The Kegs had great fried chicken and I had a girlfriend who ordered it every damn time we went there. The breading and the "dippin" honey got all over the car seat. The 3 piece chicken cost three times what a burger did, but you got the fries with it, so there's that! You could get a Sloppy Joe at the Kegs for 19 god damned cents. The car hop would bring you one with a sneer on her face and toss it on the tray.

The prices are a hell of a lot higher now. I took Cakes there a few years ago and the food is still pretty good. She liked the Sloppy Joe and gave the fries 5 Stars. She had a cherry coke, too. I had a double barreled hamburger (a pre Big Mac, Big Mac)

Sidebar, a friend of mine talked one of the Kegs carhops into going out with him after work, he said she was nice, but her hair smelled like French fries. I think she was from the East Side.

Another sidebar, one summer I was working on construction, on payday a co-worker and I went to the Kegs and ordered one of everything on the menu, cost us just under $23. We sat at one of the picnic tables and ate the whole damn order, right there in front of god and all the slack jawed customers sitting in their shit box cars watching us. In Grand Forks we were an event or two shy of solid entertainment options, so that's how we rolled.

Pioneer Chicken, a homegrown fried chicken chain endorsed by O.J. Simpson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, that once boasted 270 locations.

Holy Lord, it’s still around.

Why did nobody in Los Angeles ever tell me this?

Pioneer Chicken, a homegrown fried chicken chain endorsed by O.J. Simpson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, that once boasted 270 locations.

Holy Lord, it’s still around.

Why did nobody in Los Angeles ever tell me this?

Pioneer Ch

Pioneer Chicken, a homegrown fried chicken chain endorsed by O.J. Simpson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, that once boasted 270 locations.

Holy Lord, it’s still around.

Why did nobody in Los Angeles ever tel homegrown fried chicken chain endorsed by O.J. Simpson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, that once boasted 270 locations.

Holy Lord, it’s still around.

Why did nobody in Los Angeles ever tell me this?