Sweet Sixteenth Anniversary Part III

I Said, Hotel, Motel, Marriott Inn..."


Wherever we go, one of the main requisites of Procrastinator Junior, is that the hotel or motel has to have a pool. So The Missus and Junior did their due diligence on an online site and found a hotel with a pool.

It was late as we pulled up, I'll say about 10 pm and this motel is rather small and of the "nearby the airport variety." Lo and behold, that makes sense because it actually right behind the Ukiah Postage Stamp, er, "Airport."

I guessed that the pool was out back...ha-ha. Ahem... ah, yeah. So, like I said this motel was tiny and that is understandable, because the town isn't very big and which makes sense, because outside of the winery and Native American casino crowd, who is going to fill the occupancy?

The plan was for us to rest up and hit the ground running, in the morn. This place we were staying at has free breakfast, but by the time we were up at 9:30, virtually everything was gone except for small boxes of cereal and a waffle iron straight out of Hades. I mean, I was getting a tan off of the thing, just by looking at it. I said later to the joint, leaving The Missus to cook waffles for Procrastinator Junior.

Sure, call me a "coward. Just don't call me "hungry" because I hit Jack In The Box for an Ultimate Cheeseburger breakfast. The one thing you will find out when you get this far north in California, is that every other male wears a baseball cap.

There are to be no professional sports teams on these caps. These caps will have instead, the following:

A) A hunting or hunting-gun related motif.
B) Something representing one of the Big Three Automakers.
C) A beer related hat and if there's a brand involved, it has to be domestic.

Now, I have a baseball cap...





...with an Audi logo. With the exception of one restaurant, neither my cap nor my color, bothered most of the people of Ukiah.

The other absolute is that every other male will drive a truck or an SUV. They can be foreign made, but none can ride at stock height. This is the more practical of all the peer pressures there. If you live have to drive a dirt road to get to a friend's or your house, you're gonna need that extra suspension travel.

I had my breakfast and my two loved ones had theirs, so it was swimming time. It turns out the pool wasn't in the back, but it was an indoor pool. Procrastinator Junior was disappointed with it right away, apparently they used a special lens with the travel site because it was a whole lot smaller in real life. We're talking approximately fourteen feet wide, by twenty feet long. Hey, no problem, we had the thing to ourselves.

"Someone Has A Promising Future At The DMV"

After the swim, it was off to Applebee's and the adventure picks up. Let me preface this by saying that there are two groups of people I never try to offend: Nurses and waitstaff.

The place was packed and a man paying for his check while we were waiting to be seated, was sporting a Rambo knife that was inch or two away from being a short sword. It's Appleby's, man, who is going to challenge you to a knife fight at a family restaurant? Leave the deer sticker in the truck, Saint George.

He gave me that "look," then about six more people gave me that "look." You know, that "is he from Mars?" stare. I don't get this Long Island anymore, I didn't get this by Yosemite last year and I didn't get that anywhere else, but one other restaurant. Was this an omen?

We got the indifferent waitress from hell, as opposed to the overt waitress from hell. The kitchen was backed up, so it took awhile for everyone to get their food. The problem was that the waitress didn't want to give us our check, I mean she really didn't want to give our check.

After fifteen minutes of her taking orders and avoiding eye contact with us, we were beginning to wonder if she wanted us to skip out on our bill. At the sixteenth minute, I asked the assistant manager for our check and he asked her to give it us. She kept this up for another eight minutes and the assistant manager saw us sitting there, and he asked her again.

Then the manager started his shift and we asked him for our check and then, she finally relented...thirty f**k*ng minutes after we were done with lunch. Karma where is thy sting?

Coming when I get around to it, "Mermaids And Shirley Temples."

Sweet Sixteenth Anniversary Part II

"Duck!"

Ah yes, the joyous occasion that is a wedding anniversary! First, there is the exchanging of the gifts and every year is pretty much the same. Upon receiving the gift that I bestow upon The Missus, she flees for the bedroom, where she locks herself in there, cries for half an hour. Then? She comes out throwing.


This year? I got her something more practical, so she only cried for fifteen minutes and as she exhausted her vase ammunition on her birthday, she only threw things at me for a couple of minutes. Oh, joy!


We had dinner at Mel's on Geary, actually I had breakfast. It doesn't wear you down as much when you have a long drive ahead. As to where we were going, I had little idea other than the fact that we would be traveling north on the 101.


"I Can Drive, 55, Sammy Hagar"


The Missus gave me directions, but I didn't know what our ultimate destination would be. Barring whatever route that an airplane has taken on our return flights from New York, I haven't been this far north in California, since the summer of 1982. If I had only known we were going this route, I would've bought Journey's "Escape" and Queen's "The Game" to relive the experience.


As we got north of the (San Francisco) Bay Area, we finally got to see all those Native American casinos that they advertise on TV. Then the roads got difficult. Dark, uneven, unfamiliar, and this reminds me of an ex, but I digress. At any rate, I had to keep around 55 mph or under on some of the curves. Which was not fun when the lanes narrowed down to one because of "construction" and some of these gamblers were in real hurry to lose their money.


This was to be a recurring theme that weekend, phantom road construction and people charging around in a hurry, though people up there were insanely polite when it came to four-way stops. Procrastinator Junior became confused, because the terrain resembles that of the area just east of Fresno, on the way to Yosemite. Once you go inland in California, the rolling hills look pretty much the same, with the only difference being the trees, and how dry the grass gets.


Because I let him watch most of Wild Police Videos (excluding the shootings and crowd control melees) Junior brought up some of the accidents that he has seen. With semis and would-be gamblers all over the road and driving stupid, I asked him to change the subject.


"Me, Tarzan...Ukiah"


We were on our way to Ukiah, which I haven't been through since 1976 and I'm not sure if I swung through there in '82. It is a one and a half horse town and while our local TV stations mention it during the weather, I don't consider anything north of Santa Rosa to be part of the Bay Area.


Not only that, there is no graffiti in Ukiah, thus, it really isn't in the Bay Area. I mean, even in the most placcid of suburbs, there are tags here. Honestly, in the last two years, the only two places where I haven't seen tags or etched glass, are east of Queens and Ukiah and the towns north of it.

What I missed on the way up because of the darkness, was all the vineyards. From Calistoga until Willits, every other lot seemed to be a vineyard. I have been writing for the better part of the last thirty-six hours, so I'll leave it off here and resume this on Thursday.

Travelogue The Sequel Part. IV

Who will save us from the evil dog that devours Russian tourists?!





Why, Peanut M&M, of course!

Right after the Blogger dinner, we hit Mama Sbarro's, which is better than regular Sbarro's. What do you want? It's Italian fast food and Procrastinator Junior loves their pizza. He only had a few ravioli at dinner, because Tuesday is pizza night.

Then it was off to M&M's World, because we're touristy like that.

Mister M&M rising...

Mister M&M rising...

You gotta keep on risin'...

That was the Jumbotron outside and this is the inside...

Note the Statue of Liberty M&M. Four floors of cups, t-shirts, special flavored M&M's exclusive to their stores, and all kinds of paraphernalia.

Now, on to my favorite billboard of all time...

Did I mention how much I love this ad? Some people don't, particularly the church right below it.

Mind you, I could've taken a better shot, but I didn't want to bring the camera down to our hotel's fifth floorpool and getting Naomi Junior all geeked up. The ad was directly across the street from the pool.

I took these shots from below. In the same plaza across the street where I took these pictures, this restaurant was in the subterranean courtyard.

I'm not feelin' the whole pie-fi-thing.

Travelogue The Sequel Part. III

"Another Starbuck's Ripoff"

Last year I had to point out just how cheap the people were at the Starbuck's at 81st and Broadway...


Customers of the Starbuck’s on 81st and Broadway, whatcha’ gonna do? Show me that Californians are wrong? That New Yorkers understand that hard work could at least be rewarded a quarter or two? Prove me wrong? Not likely, because y’all too CHEAP!


West-side!


That should "be rewarded by a quarter or two." Anyway...oh, what's that? Can you feel it? 'cause I sure can, yes...it's...a...rant!


So still on the Monday night tip, right after we hit the Village, we walked across St. Mark's to the nearby Barnes & Noble for a little reading material. We ordered a blueberry frappucino and a strawberry frappucino...don't bother with either flavor, if you can help it.


The thing is Barnes & Noble, is that you as a corporation, are lacking in consideration. The mystery section is just that...so small and pitifully stocked, that it's a mystery as to why it is even there. Second, there is no tip jar at the Starbucks. Can you see that big empty space in the picture?




The cheap bastards won't let the poor people at the coffee counter have a tip jar, "because the other employees do not have one, either." At least that was what was hinted at, they couldn't tell me directly because one of their supervisors conveniently showed up in line behind me. I still said it was wrong...nice and loud, plus I took a picture of it. Not to mention, I said that the neighboring three Starbucks franchises in the neighborhood should dump their tip jars here until this gets rectified.

"The Hotel Swimming Pool's Next Top Model"

That night, Procrastinator Junior and I hit the pool at the hotel for a relaxing swim. You all missed out on Naomi Campbell Junior, whom despite her meager audience, still put on a show like it was the runway. The resemblance was slight, though she was tall enough, had the accent down, and she had enough attitude to be the cousin of the model.


She didn't punch or bite the maids, but then again, there were none near by. She didn't want to get her hair weave wet, so she clung to the pool's coping whenever possible. I just dug it because she had to be on at all times, like there were dwarf paparazzi lurking behind the plants that were about to spring forth and put her on the cover of a magazine. Pre-coked out print models crack me up.

"Penne Alla Vodka & Mrs. Parker"

So come Tuesday morning, the youngest sister-in-law cancelled out her portion of the Manhattan visit. Because the youngest of her brood was coming down with a bit of a cold. This freed up our the earlier part of the day to run the errands that we were going to do on Wednesday morning. We had to go to Utrecht to pick up some calligraphy supplies, so that the Missus could create seating cards for the In-laws Golden Anniversary.


Then we hit the Garment District, so the Missus could hit the bead shops because she's a part-time jeweler. This and an unfortunate incident which I'd rather not blog about (nothing major, just embarrassing for me), ate up most of the day and it was time to get ready for dinner.


Yes, the dinner. The meeting of the minds. The Algonquin Table Redux.


I invited Becky first, then Chelene and last but not least, Coaster. I wanted to invite the great Is That So Wrong, but he doesn't even blog anymore and I don't know if Joyce Carol Oates had the literary mafia do something bad to his typing hands (or worse).


Let me preface this by saying that I screwed up, big time. I believed, though deep down I knew better, that I could get a reservation for 7PM with just four days notice. Nope, you will take 6PM or 9PM and like it was my response, though they said it in a more polite manner. I tell you what David Bowie, let's do a remake and call it "Aneurysm City."


So all had RSVP'd, though I knew that it would be a miracle if everyone could get there before six, even though two of the Bloggers Three worked nearby. I wore a shirt that bore my slogan and told the Bloggers Three to look for the Spouse, The Offspring and myself.


So we took a cab, because I panicked and believed that we wouldn't be there early enough if we walked (the hotel is some seven blocks away, in case you're wondering) and we got there with about twenty-seven minutes to spare. We had so much time in fact, that the Missus and Junior disappeared on me twice, taking pictures of Time Square in the process.


I made a reservation for nine, just in case someone wanted to bring someone else. The fine folks at Carmine's said they wouldn't seat us until the majority of the party showed up. They were nice enough to hold the table for us, as traffic and the Theater District crush conspired to do away with our table.


I must have gone in and out about a dozen times, relying on the few pictures I've seen of everyone here and there, plus a poor memory to remember them by. Becky showed up first and Chelene, just a few minutes after.


You know, men in Manhattan may have taste in food and in clothes, but they don't know sh*t about women. The fact that such two beautiful and charming women aren't beating potential suitors off with a stick, speaks volumes. Not to mention there isn't a picture in the world that does either woman justice. "Good gravy" is all I'll say further on the matter, as I have surely already incurred the Missus ire.


The irony was that during my meeting the two of them and trying to get ahold of the wife, who couldn't hear her cell phone through the ambient noise, was that I held open the door for Coaster and Poor George, and I didn't even know it. I have some recollection of it because Coaster is a lot taller than I expected and he was the only person of that height to walk by as I held the door.


Introductions all around and we were off to the table. Like I said, I made a reservation for nine and we had two extra chairs, as I wanted to cover all bases in case someone else tagged along. So if I were seated at the six o'clock position of the table, the Missus was at the 7:30, Junior was at the nine o'clock, Poor George at the ten, Coaster at the 11:30, Becky at the 12:30, and Chelene at around the two o'clock. Remember this configuration, because it was difficult following three conversations at a time, while trying to engage in another conversation.


Coaster was taller and wittier than I had imagined, though he was a lot more laid back than his online persona. Poor George has a slight resemblance to a cousin of mine, but his mannerisms and voice are exactly the same as said cousin! These two are probably the coolest couple I've met and they were cracking us up, constantly.

The waitress was pretty patient, considering we had time enough to order about four times, before we even ordered our first appetizer. She was not only a patient waitress, she was smart as I told her to bring the check to me so that Poor George couldn't pay it first (I do the inviting, I pay the check, Mr. G) and she was tipped well.

We covered jobs, ages, eating habits, where we came from, and where we're all going. Educational backgrounds and I found out despite our various origins, we all have a taste for trashy made-for-TV movies. I can't remember whether it was Chelene or Becky who said that we should switch seats, just as they do with speed dating.


I didn't know exactly what to do because as I had mentioned in Part. I, the acoustics in Carmine's lower dining room, leave something to be desired. Well, maybe not the acoustics so much as the hundreds of people talking all at once. If we all go there again, I'll insist on a reserving a table upstairs. I had Poor George talking in one ear, just cracking up the Missus and Junior while I was trying to hold a conversation with Becky, Chelene and Coaster.


On the menu was calamari fritti and stuffed mushrooms. Penne alla Vodka, Cheese Ravioli, Chicken Saltimboca, and spinach for the main course. Everybody hardly ate anything as we were all talking. Everyone was also amazingly patient with me, as sleep deprivation and searching for the perfect word, slowed my end of the conversation to almost a standstill.


It is certainly easier in life to talk online and via email. You have all the time in the world before you hit "publish post" or "send" to find the appropriate word or quote. It's a whole lot different in real time. If any of the Bloggers Three tell you that they're much more boring in person, they're just disarming you with their words, just like the jab of Larry Holmes. They'll knock you out with their words if you're not to careful.


"The Bloggers Three" from left to right: Coaster, Becky, Chelene, and the guy on the right is some a**sh*le that jumped into the picture at the last second.

"The Bloggers Three" and that a**h*le again. Coaster judo-flipped him a millisecond after this photo was taken and it's a good thing, as he was trying to put fliers for Appleby's in Becky and Chelene's purses. Not pictured: The Missus, Procrastinator Junior, Poor George, and Write Procrastinator, who helped to subdue the Appleby flyer-bearing menace!

Let me just say that it is rare to meet four people with such heart. Let me also say that if I were to base it solely on that day, Poor George has quite a future in comedy. Procrastinator Junior says he's way better than Letterman. If this were a blogging Algonquin Table, Poor George would be Mrs. Parker and that says a lot, as Bloggers Three could hold there on with any crowd.

Travelogue The Sequel Part. II

"Are you talking to me? I'm the only Donkey Felcher, here!"

"So we flew Delta...why? I guess we never learn our lesson. It's not that the flight crews of Delta that are bad, it's everyone else. The baggage check-in people are indifferent at best and whomever schedules the flights so closely together that they're bound to never run on time, are direct descendants of the Marquis DeSade and Aileen Wurnos."

Um, the Missus has been reading the blog and she pointed out that it wasn't Delta on the way over after all. It's a long story, involving me coming home late and one frying pan to the head, too many. Anyhoo...

We landed in J.F.*. and now the adventure begins, as just finding the Town Car that was sent for us was a big one in itself. American, does you just like Delta does at La G**rdia...except there are no bowels in J.F.*. to negotiate. At La G**rdia, they make you go up and down and up and down. Then through a series of mazes and you pray there isn't a minotaur by the time you get to the baggage carousel.

The American Airlines Domestic area for J.F.*. is much the same, except you go up three stories and down three stories. The baggage carousel is still rather far away, but it's a fairly straight shot. I did see a dude that had very minotaur-like features, though I doubted with the current security situations that he was packing anything, much less a halberd.

The Town Car driver wasn't there with a sign nor was he within the airport property. To be frank, I'll bet he wasn't even in Queens, but I'm just guessing to his whereabouts at the time. There was lot of calling back and forth to the in-laws, the cab company, the in-laws, the cab company, and so on. This exacerbated by the traffic and noise of this place, where you have to shout just to hear yourself think. Don't get me started on the gypsy cabdrivers, that were trying to hustle us for a fare without getting caught.

Finally the cab company tells us to call the driver ("what, you kidding me? Yuri, don't smush package!), as we eye every Town Car that drives by for a sign with our surname on it. He tells us to walk to Pickup Area "B" and we were at Pickup Area "D." So we had to negotiate the luggage carts that were set up like slalom cones and the people that were being herded to the taxi stand.

Imagine five-hundred or more people jammed onto a thin concrete isthmus that had a fence running down the middle of it. That's right, it's Frazetta painting time again and instead of Conan swinging a sword or an axe, you get me, the Missus and Junior swinging luggage at the marauding horde. We finally got there, but how was he to get to us? You have cabs, gypsy cabs, people that were actually there to pick up people, and it's like Midtown at rush hour.

After about forty-five minutes after when we first walked out of the airport's door, there's our driver. At least, we're fairly certain it's our driver. It was hard to tell when he's four lanes away, holding up a sign where our surname is misspelled. Sigh, we haven't sought alternate means of transportation because the Town Car was already paid for, including the tip.

We walked over to the donkey felcher, er Town Car Driver and he was reluctant to open the trunk because this is New York, after all. I told him that he misspelled our name and he said in an entirely too fast manner, that he had nothing to do with it. He didn’t get out to help us with the luggage or open the doors because he didn't want to get a ticket. If you know my temper , you know damn well that I didn't say word one to him, until I had to tell him where the house was.

To his credit, he drove like a demon from hell...probably because he was one. Twenty-four minutes later, we were home. The in-laws fed us well and we went to bed.

"The Judas Search Engine"

The next day, I had to catch up on my emails and finalize the plans for the great Manhattan Blogger Dinner. The thing is, I had to do it on the in-laws computer and while I'm very respectful while I use their Internet access (I wasn't even considering looking at pron. I mean no Weeklies or blogs with tons of cuss words and dirty pictures), there's something on here that makes things more embarrassing than my Internet surfing actually was.

In their tool bar, a search engine randomly grabs words and puts them up there. Sometimes it will place something in there when you copy a sentence and also when you don't want a Catholic household to see something that could be misconstrued out of context, like "Personal Jesus lyrics." I'm surprised that it didn't put the word "motherf*cking" up there when I typed the last post at the In-laws, the f*cking Judas search engine.

So I didn't sleep the first night, with the kind of humidity that makes you use your deodorant eight times a day and take cold showers for several minutes, hypothermia be damned.
Nothing remarkable happened that I could blog about when hanging out with my in-laws other than I'm very proud of nieces and nephews.

Plus, someone has been feeding they dynamite, because they are gigantic. Also I saw my first red ant attack in person at a field near my sister-in-law's house, as they ran across my middle sister-in-law's feet like hungry Delta passengers.

The youngest sister-in-law tried to hijack Tuesday's dinner just like last year, but unlike last year, I told her that we already had plans. I don't blame her, she lives in Jersey and like she said in her own words, no one wants to come to visit us there, because of the distance. So she tries for some of the family's Manhattan time and I'm all right with that, I understand that they get to see the Missus only once a year.

"If I Can't Here, I Can't Eat Anywhere, Francis Albert"

Monday the 9th, found us back in Manhattan and yes, if I can't eat here, I can't eat anywhere. We're talking one of my favorite restaurants, Little Poland in the East Village. We're talking about on one single plate: Stuffed cabbage, bigos, four pierogi, and real kielbasy (the one that is almost like blood sausage). Plus a wonderful spinach soup to start with. The Missus had meat blini and a stuffed cabbage. Procrastinator Junior had a burger and fries because, yes they have American food for kids that are "selective" about what they eat.

"One Foodie Loss And One Gourmet/Hipster Gain"

Our favorite milkshake shop on St. Mark's Place was gone, but right not too far from its former premises was an automat. Yes, they brought back the automat, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiller and though the Wiki has one picture of it, I have four.

Pink, isn't it?

The East Villiage probably has the highest hipster quotient than anywhere else, though they don't seem to be faking it. That, or they're so damn good at faking it that they've fooled this City Boy.

Cauliflower samosas with mango? I love New York!

These poor Russian tourists never knew what hit them...


Мать Бога, спасите нас от этой злой собаки! Aiiieee!

Or, "Mother of God, save us from this evil dog! Aiiieee!"

Travelogue The Sequel Part. I

"No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn, er, Long Island"

So here we go again, from one coast to the other and it's not like all you wonderful people in the Midwest and the South don't count (because you actually do), so much as the New York trip always eats up all of our vacation dollars. This occasion was extra special because the Mother and Father-in-law were to celebrate their Fiftieth Anniversary. Not to mention a bloggers dinner that was scheduled for the Tuesday before the anniversary.

So we flew Delta...why? I guess we never learn our lesson. It's not that the flight crews of Delta that are bad, it's everyone else. The baggage check-in people are indifferent at best and whomever schedules the flights so closely together that they're bound to never run on time, are direct descendants of the Marquis DeSade and Aileen Wurnos.

Let me preface this by saying, I get little or no sleep before I fly. I'm not afraid of flying in itself, you either die or you don't. It's completely out of your hands as a passenger, so I don't even dwell on that. I don't like waiting around all day before the flight and I don't like being herded in there, to be "smushed" like so many grapes under the feet of an irritable vintner.

Delta had warned us in advance that we would have to buy our meals before, or settle for whatever they wanted to give us on the plane and pay for the toejam that they could scrape together. Procrastinator Junior is "selective" about what he eats, so we had decided to buy him an overpriced burger from a grill at the airport. Apparently we had decided right. It had fresh ingredients, it was perfectly cooked and an aroma that drove all the surrounding passengers crazy. Though I didn't get to taste it, Junior said it was perfect and he knows his burgers.

The Missus decided to take her chances on the airline providing decent food and I'd listen to a Hillary Duff album a hundred times before I'd do something as crazy as that. So I hit the sushi place for a pre-flight meal. Some seaweed salad, a dragon roll and a humongous bottle (750ml?) of Japanese green tea. Good stuff and the sushi was for the inevitable heightened blood pressure, while the green tea was to calm my nerves in general.

Little did I know that was all for naught, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. In the meantime? I tried to make reservations at one of the nosiest Manhattan eateries ever. How noisy is it, Johnny Carson? Let's just say that the woman taking my reservations couldn't hear me on her end despite my shouting. Yet on our end? Everyone in the three closest Delta gates could hear my name and telephone number.

Who were the reservations for? An Algonquin table of bloggers, though you are going to be very surprised just to who is Mrs. Parker.

"No, It's Crazy Plane, Ozzy"

"This is the Captain and we're on the road to nowhere, David Bryne. Abandon all hope, all ye who have seen the flight attendant's smile." That's not quite what he said, but what's the difference?

We started with a ten minute delay, then the pilot announced another five minute delay...and another five after that. One of the flight attendants resembled an ex of mine, except her name was different and the resemblance wasn't as dead-on, once she within five feet. The thing is, I'm not friends with any of my exes and I couldn't imagine being on a flight without drinking anything. Though there's a reasonable fear of being poisoned if she were indeed, the ex that I was thinking about. Trust me when I say I bring out the Borgia in women that have dated me more than once.

Then I started to pray that we didn't leave the gate, because I was thinking about that nine hour delay earlier this year and if we were going to break their record if we taxied on to the runway and left our spot at the gate. We finally taxied towards the runway, only for the Captain to tell us that we were "fourth in line."

What was exactly ahead of us in line? Ducklings? Blind hedgehogs? Snails? Oh, there we go, some estimated forty minutes late. I'm not entirely sure just how many minutes we were running late, as the Captain stopped mentioning the time we were running behind after the first thirty minutes and you know you can't have your cell phone on.

It was a good take-off and it took us awhile to climb. There wasn't an empty seat on the plane, remember that fact. Oh, here come the beverages and...that cart doesn't look like the one they have in first class...what the...no! No! No! That can't be right!

What? What do you mean you don't have any alcohol?! Don't toy with me, wench! I'm getting claustrophobia like a sardine in a can full of sardines, going through a trash compactor and you say you don't have any alcohol on that cart?! Slap! Slap!

Of course you realize the whole above paragraph was going on in my head, only, right? We don't want to be put any lists or we don't get to fly anywhere, except the razor-ribboned confines of Leavenworth. So I had to tough it out. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't read, I couldn't write. Wow, I could've been the Shrub, except they wouldn't give me pretzels or beer.

So then the food comes and it's a "pannino" that is decent, but you wouldn't serve to an actual Italian or they would declare war on you and all of your descendants. Of the three of us only the Missus partakes. Procrastinator Junior and I only have these biscotti that were probably colored chalkboard erasers recut to look like cookies.

So I can't get comfortable and neither can anyone on the plane. Everyone decides that the aisles are their own personal power-walking trails. Yeah, fun that, especially when my wide shoulders won't fit the seats, as is.

Then, there she was, David Bryne (two Talking Heads references!). Two-hundred and sixty pounds, minimum. She usually gets around with a cane but with the turbulance that we were experiencing, the cane wasn't a viable option. I forgot to mention the turbulance, didn't I? Well, Junior thought the rollercoaster-like ride was a blast and I didn't mind, as long as the plane didn't plummet four-hundred feet all at once (it didn't).

Then, there she was, Tina Weymouth. Large...because I didn't mention to you all that she was just 5'3", did I? So what was she using for a cane? The very seats that we were resting on...each...and...every...one...of them. That in itself wouldn't have been so bad, but she had a bladder the size of dime, people. The size of a motherf*cking dime!

That meant that everytime I did manage to get to sleep, she was pushing my seat back like a football player hitting a tackling sled. Not just me, everyone of us. I don't know how any of us managed not to go for the soft spot behind her knee and take her down, but we did it. Mostly because I guess we realized it wasn't her fault. Then the experience became somewhat amusing, because I didn't have to actually look for her, but the passengers getting their own, individual cases of whiplash.

Then it was the this middle-aged couple that were doing there power-walk and not going to bathroom, that were driving the Missus nuts. Between the three of them, no one slept on either side of the aisle for more than a few seconds. I have the alcohol waiver in effect by Procrastinator Junior and you can believe that I'm hitting the bar on the flight back!

Travelogue, Epilogue

I never knew what the word "epilogue," meant as a child, other than it seemed to be the fifth act in all Quinn Martin Productions shows. Most of you kiddies are too young to remember Quinn Martin shows in their first run or in repeats. Hell, most of you are too young to remember Quinn's offspring, Martha. She was on this channel called "MTV."

They showed music videos once. No, seriously. They showed music videos. What? You don't believe me?

Well, let's leave "Digression Town" and get back to the trip. The safe in our hotel room was too small and I wasn't sure that the thing wasn't layered with magnets. So I wound up schlepping the laptop everywhere we went. Usually when I carry it for more than ten minutes on the way to work, at work, and on the way home, I wind up with a pinched nerve in my neck.

This didn't happen during the entire trip. I believe it was because I use an entirely different set of muscles at work, as opposed those that I used on vacation. When I'm on vacation, my skin always clears up, too. Part of that is because my Mother-in-law makes sure that there is plenty of fruits and vegetables in the house. The rest of that is because there I'm not around the machinery and pollution that is present on the job, as well as the absence of stress.

I have found that I could live in Manhattan for the summer, seriously. The heat doesn't bother me...too much. I know my way around enough to get to the good restaurants in the Village, or around Broadway. Hell yeah, it's expensive, but San Francisco is not that far behind.

Procrastinator Jr. thinks it's just one big playground and he hasn't seen a lot to dissuade him from that opinion. He sees fifty times more homeless and crimes in the City than in the NY City, and that's no exaggeration. A lot of that is predicated on the fact that we will travel almost anywhere in San Francisco, but I don't know my way around the more marginal areas of Manhattan.

As of late, people in Manhattan tend to be friendlier than San Franciscans, when the fuck did that happen and why??? Is it because they have a higher native population than we do? And by "native," I mean people over thirty years of age that were born and raised in that city.

And for the first time in my life, I actually miss Manhattan. I wish I could describe in detail as to why, but it remains as intangible as the outer reaches of space.

On another note, to Angela, and all other fans of dragons and magical creatures:

The American Museum of Natural History will have an exhibition next year on mythical creatures.

Travelogue V

So Thursday was back on the L.I.R.R. or (“Long Island Railroad” to da resta ya) to Planhassettdomashington. Way back in the day, they even had drinking cars, or so I saw in this really bad Paul Newman movie that had him carrying on with Joan Collins. There is a distinct lack of trash and the occasional upchuck or urine, unlike the train we have here that goes to the East Bay. Yet, Long Island doesn’t have a Borders or a Barnes and Noble in every town, like we do out here. Is there a correlation?

Draw your own conclusions. Actually, that‘s not representative of anything, so, merely draw exploding stick figures in meetings like Dubya does. That night we did the bucolic-thing which you have to wonder why that bothers me to be a homebody in the suburbs or in the country, as opposed to one in the city. Still, I cannot equate myself living a “bucolic life” without the “c-o-l-i-c.” I can’t handle the suburbs.

Let me jump off this rant before I send myself around the moon. We went to the second youngest sister’s house for a big party that Friday and all the sibs were there. The In-laws have eleven grandkids altogether, six girls and five boys. Ages thirteen to five, and my Father-in-law has a small rolodex to keep the birthdays straight.

Now, with the this many grandkids and the fact that we venture out there only once a year, means lots of pictures. So many pictures, in fact, that you see leopards, “not dead people,“ Haley Joe Osment. Flash, after flash, after flash. The neighbors ask, "was that lightning?" And someone says, "no, that was Write Procrastinator's Sister-in-law."

“Oh, come on, just one more picture!” You hear that about sixty times a party. One of my nephews birthdays falls right around our visit time, along with the patriarch of the family, who hit the eight decade mark like he does mayors. So everyone in the family got to experience just what it was like to be stalked by the paparazzi, only the stalkerazzi will not serve you two kinds of birthday cake.

My oldest niece and oldest nephew are taller than one of my sisters-in-law, as well as the Mother-in-law. I dare say they will pass me up in the next two or three visits.

Saturday was a day of mixed feelings, we didn’t want to leave, but we also had exceeded the three days like that quote about houseguests and fish. The flight was nicer on the way back because a man was nice enough to give up his seat so that we could all sit next together. I typed my Friday flash fiction on the plane instead of this last installment, so a few things have been lost forever to jetlag and the joys of unpacking.

See? Now I just recalled a big event just before I put this post up. As I’m walking through first class, I see none other than Frank DeFord. You might have seen Mr. DeFord on ESPN’s “The Sports Reporters” or about a billion other sports or news talk shows. He tried to get a daily sports newspaper going, called “The National” up around 1991 and it was a damn good paper. He got the best writings I’ve ever read out of this one reporter (who now works for a San Francisco paper), so I considered Mr. DeFord to be both a good editor and motivator. I told him as much as he gave me his autograph.

Think about the best sports reporters that you have in your town, then forget about him or her because they aren’t qualified to be Frank DeFord’s pencil caddies.

The flight back home was uneventful, save for the landing. I can say that I’m disappointed that no one applauded our landing which was outstanding under the circumstances. There was a fierce wind whipping up and that was reflected by the churning waters on San Francisco Bay, so I thought that the pilots didn’t do to bad a job. I’m not afraid to laugh by myself or make an ass out of myself, but I won’t applaud by myself. Go figure.

We took Super Shuttle back home and unfortunately, the people that got out of the van just before us, accidentally took one of our bags. Fortunately, they called and I remembered where they lived, so we exchanged bags. Not only that, I got to eat at the restaurant that I wanted to because it was the closest. Literally, a block away.

The Missus and Procrastinator Jr. went to the school picnic today, I slept through and I’m trying to adjust my clock back to graveyard, Pacific Standard Time. The bums, the drunk UCSF students and people speeding through my neighborhood have been kind enough to make all kinds of noise, at all hours of the day. “Be it ever so humble,” right?

Travelogue IV

Before I get into the bounty that is Carmine's, let me tells youse about da best non-rollercoaster ride dis side of da countree. That's right, a good old New York taxicab. Buy some rubber shorts or live your fear behind, it's all out of your hands anyway.

The first time I rode in a NYC taxi, I couldn't believe that the taxi we rode in, along with two others, all simultaneously made a left-hand turn into the same narrow one way street. As of our last trip, I've learned to just go with the flow and to leave my eyes open. You see, in Italy, they know what they're doing with their near misses and until last year, I realized that the NYC cabbies know what they're doing too.

If I could liken it to anything, I would liken it to "near-miss bumpercars" or "Super Chicken (not the cartoon)," because somebody always backs down at the very last second before they trade paint. And if you disagree with my rollercoaster analogy, all you need is a street that goes slightly up or down. Because the cabbie's gonna hit sixty in the middle of the night and you will either go airborne, or you will bottom out.

Just a block from the Museum of Natural History, an NYC bus pulled into the bus stop sideways, with its rump blocking the lane. That's illegal, of course, but buses lose time when they have to pull back out into traffic and no one will let them. Not to mention that there's isn't a cop or parking control officer in the world that will cite the buses for it.

So there we were, stuck in the intersection and the bus was blocking both lanes of our side of the two-way, four lane street. Waiting to make a left turn into the intersection we were currently stuck in, was a cab and he occupied the left hand lane of his direction. Behind that cab were some more taxis that were rapidly approaching.

Without a second thought, our driver backed up a few inches and he drove around the cab that was waiting to make a left hand turn. Of course we were going the wrong way in the right hand lane of traffic traveling in the opposite direction and the approaching cabs speed up as if to finish us off, once and for all. It was something out of the car chase scene of To Live and Die In L.A. Only, it was in Manhattan and none of us were moaned like a wussy, ala John Pankow. Hell, Procrastinator Jr. and I cheered the driver on.

Good stuff and cheaper than any Six Flags or Paramount attraction.

So after we hit Starbuck's, it was off on the subway to Carmine's, where the food is good and plentiful. It's right off Times Square and there's always a long line, for good reason. Not only is the food excellent, they let you stay and enjoy it, unlike other restaurants. You see, when you serve such monster portions, you can't actually roll everybody out of there. So, they actually let you digest your food.

We had garlic bread, baked clams and calamari fritti to start with. Let me tell you how good the calamari was, my nieces and nephews ate it too...of course we didn't tell them that it was squid or we'd have problems. Then, penne ala ragu and it was real ragu. Veal, pork and beef cooked for at least three hours.

Penne ala vodka with vodka and cream. So perfect and succulent that you didn't need to add parmasean cheese. Spaghetti and meatballs for the kids, with a porterhouse for Procrasinator Jr. because he didn't like the other dishes. Now, let me mention that this is "family style" dining, which means huge portions on a platter which everyone shares. In Italy, this would be "home style," as opposed to trattoria style, where the portions are not three times the size of American portions, as the former is.

A great meal and my brother-in-law, Frank, used his athletic prowess to wrestle the check away from us before we had the chance. Not to mention that he instructed the waiter beforehand not to give it anybody but him.

Everybody went home to the Island or Jersey, leaving the Missus, Procrastinator Jr. and me to take in Times Square. We hit Sbarro's because Jr. didn't like the blackened part of the steak, then to Jamba Juice as we always do, because Jr. doesn't like his veggies.

When we checked out the next day, the same non-hustling, hustler bell boy was still there (how's that lint filling your pocket, son?), but we got a new indifferent desk person. She didn't say "hi" or "bye," or even "thank you." What, is there someone with a gun pointed at them, ready to plug them in the gut if they're nice? Or will they be beaten to a pulp after their shift is over?

To provide a contrast, even at Burger King on Eight St. they said thank you. If the so-called "lowliest" fast food worker who are famous for indifference elsewhere, can say "thank you," why can't some in the so-called hospitality industry do the same?

Travelogue III

So here we are in the city that never sleeps. The city that’s so nice, they named it twice. Have you met anyone that calls it the “Big Apple” with a straight face? C’mon, be honest. There is no adult this side of 1990 who would in all seriousness, call it the “Big Apple.” I’ve heard “Big” along with all other kinds adjectives and expletives, but never with “apple” following the word “big.”

We hit Penn Station running…well, more like crawling because three hours of sleep can take this Procrastinator so far. We usually stay the at the Sheraton Manhattan, but they jacked up the rates through the roof, so we had to find another hotel in the NYC with a swimming pool. I’m taking the coward’s way out and not mentioning this hotel by name, but it rhymes with “byline” and it's on the edge of the neighborhood formerly known as “Hell’s Kitchen.”

They’ll figure out, but let’s hope they don’t figure out that “Write Procrastinator” and I are the same person, we’ll (family three, not royal "we") probably wind staying here next year. The hotel’s exterior is okay, but the lobby looks like the contestants of pizza eating contest threw up all over the lobby of a Best Western.

The desk people don’t say “hi.” Not to me, not to anyone. I took it as a “slight” slight, when they said, “which one of you has the reservations?” without so much as “hi” or anything resembling a greeting. No big deal, I figured, New York hospitality. But sure as we went on to our room, the people behind us were greeted in the same manner, or lack of manners.

The bellboy was equally as friendly. He saw that we had only two bags and he wouldn’t even show us to the back elevators, much less to our rooms. He said “go right, and then go left.” We weren’t sure what he meant since the elevators weren’t exactly in plain sight the first time you pass by them. You could easily walk past them and on to the next alcove, which we did.

So we went back and he said, “I told you. To the left and to the right.” He was much more interested in some Germans that had eight bags between two people. If the saying in Italy holds true, he got squat from the Germans, because they are allegedly very frugal when they go abroad. On the other hand, I would’ve given him a minimum of five dollars and a maximum of eight, depending on the attitude and whether he gave us relevant information. Oh well, more money for the family and pocket of lint for him.

The room itself was very nice and the bathrooms were better than the Sheraton. The view was pretty bad, a decrepit, gray monstrosity of an apartment high rise that looks like the horrid East German architecture that I’ve always read about. Still, you can’t beat the price or the location because right across the street, is “Desi Deli.” Samosas and chicken curry to die for, man! It’s all good because the Indians and Pakistanis eat there, and like I always say, “eat where the natives to that particular cuisine eat.”

Good stuff, cheap for the NYC and unfortunately, in walking distance. I got a bad case of the “hungries” (herb-free munchies) and I hit the place up. Unfortunately, when I thought I was getting “samosas,” it wasn’t just “samosas” that I got, but chana masala as well. That’s two meals in one, or a full-on dinner instead of a light snack. I cannot live within five blocks of this restaurant or I would weigh three-hundred, easy.

So Tuesday afternoon we were on our way to the Nintendo Center because it’s always on Procrastinator Jr.’s itinerary and on the way over, I was teasing the Missus with Papi Chulo talk in Spanglish. So she ignores that and while we get smoothies for the three of us at the Seattle Café, right by Worldwide Plaza, she nuzzles me. I say to her, “mira, now you wanna talk to me? Why didn’t you want to talk to me before?”

She said, “because I’m not a holler-back girl.” Heh-heh-heh.

So Wednesday early morning, three hours into sleep and she wakes me up again! Three nights in a row, I didn’t mind so much because at least this time, we had air-conditioning that we can run all night. She was basically sleepwalking and we talked it out. I hope it all works out tonight.

Wednesday afternoon, the Museum of Natural was the fun site and we met the Missus’ youngest Sister and our Sister-in-law, who is the wife of the Missus’ only brother. That’s five kids in all. In tow, ages ten to five and all with better behavior than any adult we crossed paths with. Even though I slept until 11:30am which added up to more than any time in the previous two weeks, I was in a zombie-like daze. We shuffled around the museum, then caught the 4:30 show of “Cosmic Collision,” a film narrated by Robert Redford.

This was a 3-D planetarium film, good stuff or what little I saw of it was good. I was out like a light after the first five minutes and the only time I woke up, was when there was a eight-five decibel collision celestial bodies. I loaded up twice on caffeine on our way to dinner, a bottle of Frappucino at a corner store, then at the Starbuck’s on 81st and Broadway.

Let me just say that all of your that frequent that establishment, either you were misrepresented yesterday, or you are the cheapest bunch of tightwads on the planet. The staff? Fast, friendly, efficient, and they get no tips! They went through the five people ahead of me with ease, took my order patiently (with me hesitating throughout because I was sure I had the order of one Sis-in-law wrong), and I looked down to the tip box. What did I see? One dollar and odd change.

Now, let me play Devil’s advocate and say that:
A) Maybe the staff was using the tip box as change.
B) Maybe the staff had just cleaned out the tip jar.
C) Maybe the customers of the Starbuck’s on 81st and Broadway are a bunch of cheap, unappreciative idiots.

I tipped large, because I’m representing the Yay Area and I called out everyone in that establishment, ‘cause they're fuckin’ cheap and they don’t realize how good they got it. I've waited so long at some coffee establishments, that I had to shave again when the order was ready.

Then, when my youngest Sister-in-law explained to me that I goofed up her order, I went back in and they exchanged my order with no problem nor did they add anything that wasn’t supposed to be in the cup. Then I called out all of the customers of the Starbuck’s on 81st and Broadway, AGAIN! I even told the cat that was standing right by the tip box that it was "empty, what are you doing? C’mon man, they work hard for you! Fill it up, man!”

Customers of the Starbuck’s on 81st and Broadway, whatcha’ gonna do? Show me that Californians are wrong? That New Yorkers understand that hard work could at least be rewarded a quarter or two? Prove me wrong? Not likely, because y’all too CHEAP!

West-side!

On the next travel posting, the culinary uniqueness and bounty that is Carmine’s.

Travelogue II

There's not a lot to say, other than that I've been missing out on all the fun because I can't sleep for shit. The Missus keeps waking me up in the middle of the night (no, not for that, we're staying at the In-laws, remember?) and then the heat keeps me awake. Not to mention I don't have the sounds of traffic, sirens, bums pushing shopping carts full of bottles and cans (and just clap your hands, Beck), drunken UCSF students, and the occasional Harley to lull me to sleep.

It's all crickets in this one horse town. Actually to borrow from one of my screenplays, it's not even a one horse town. They have to go to the next town over to borrow a donkey, just to call it a one horse town. They jacked the property taxes up all the way around, then the township permits only one cell phone tower for the entire area.

This means no wireless Internet for my computer unless I go up to the Starbucks at the train station. Mind you, this Starbucks is so small that it would give an ant, claustrophobia and carrying the laptop up there would give my neck a righteous ache.

Yesterday I found out the hard way that I didn't pack enough underwear. Okay, adapt to your surroundings, Procrastinator. The Mother-in-law took Procrastinator Jr. to the pool over in the next township, so I had no ride. I tried to find a men's clothing store, but they don't have any within walking distance on the North Shore.

I found a J.C. Penny's five townships over in the Yellow Pages and then I tried to call for a cab...

"We don't have any cabs in town, at the moment," claimed the only cab company listed in this town...twice. When the Mother-in-law got back, she said my best bet was the Stop And Shop some four blocks away. I get there and all they have is "tighty whities."

Tighty whities...ladies and gentlemen, contrary to what you learned in the history books, the Communists have won. When you don't have a choice in underwear and democracy is supposed to be all about choices...instead of tighty whities sticking to your backside in the NY heat. The Commies got the last laugh.

Then when I check out, it's a self-checkout. This goes against my roots as a checker and my union roots. I wanted to sabotage this abomination to man, but I didn't want to hold up the next person who didn't ask for that. Then, because it's an automated machine, I got carded because I was buying a hard ice tea that was mixed with hard lemonade.

The one person they have running the front, looks at my California driver's license. Then she flips it over. Then she flips it over again. She looks at it from just about every angle while flipping it. Now, I'm over forty and I look about thirty-two on a good day, but mind you, I haven't had any sleep. So I am looking my age, and then some.

Her flipping my license wasn't going to change the state of the license itself, geographically or metaphysically. That's right, one more half-turn and it will turn into a New York driver's license. But be careful because if you do a full turn, it will turn into a rabid, morbidly obese goat.

She gave it back after six revolutions, but the picture of me on the license was undoubtedly sea-sick by then...I was merely annoyed. The hard ice tea was just bad and it took three bottles to get the buzz of one Smirnoff Ice...once again, the Commies have won if you need three malt beverages to get the effect of one.

Now it's off to the NYC with three hours of sleep, but I should fit because everybody there is crabby like they've had three hours and five minutes of sleep.

Traveloogie, Er, Travelogue

By the time I edit this first chapter, I will do so from “the land of leaf blowers and bake ziti.” That’s known to you as “Long Island,” known to rappers as “Strong Island” (Chuck D. comes from Roosevelt Field, yo) known to my in-laws as “Lon-guh I-lan-duh.” I call it “the land of leaf blowers” because regardless of the season, someone, somewhere in every township, has a leaf blower going. Never mind the fact that it isn’t fall or there isn’t enough clipped grass to justify the two gallons of diesel or the cumulative loss of hearing that these contraptions cause, run it for half an hour more.

Oops, I missed a flower petal, looks like I’ll have to make another trip down to the gas station.

Maybe there’s a state-wide ordinance banning rakes, what do I know? Then, if it’s snowing? It becomes a “snow-blower.”

No it won’t take the place of a real snow blower and it won’t be effective, but it makes this really cool sound.

I don’t think it’s a question of trying to compensate for shortcomings like buying a Corvette, they just like the terrific racket that the things put up and (cue Robert Duvall) “the smell of diesel in the morning.” Don’t mind me, I’m just jet-lagged. No worries, go ahead and run it for another four consecutive hours, I’ll just sleep when I die.

It is also “the land of baked ziti” because that is what everybody feeds me, regardless of their ethnicity. With Italians, I can understand this. The Irish and Polish in-laws? They go to a particular place, because they don’t want to cook for the score of people that come to pay their respects to the Missus and Procrastinator Jr. where ever we go on the Island.

But my Korean sister in-law? I guess she got that from the family. I imagine if I were to visit some Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, Chinese, or Kenyans, they would give me baked ziti, too. My fear is that this will spread westward to the five boroughs of New York City. If I venture to the Village for Jamaican food…

Waiter: What will you be ‘avin’ dis time, Mistah Procrassteenator?
Me: Um, jerk chicken, please?
Waiter: No, mon.
Me: Escoviche and bammy?
Waiter: Not ay chance, mon.
Me: Peas and rice?
Waiter: Not ‘appenin’.
Me: Meat pies?
Waiter: No, mon.
Me: Jeez, well, give me whatever today’s special is, then.
Waiter: All right mon, baked ziti it is.
Me: You’re kidding, right?
Waiter: No mon, ‘tis da latest t’ing.
Me: What’s so Jamaican about baked ziti?
Waiter: Instead ‘a oregano, we put soma-da ganja, mon.

Is there a farm somewhere just west of the Hamptons that has baked ziti trees? Is there some secret tax break for restaurants that serve the stuff? Why is that from Queens, to all the way out to Shoreham, that there is this abundance of ziti?

When it’s not fresh made, pasta, more or less is pasta. Only with the cooking times and dishes require certain ingredients will pastas really vary, but what the hell is wrong with lasagna? Or baked spaghetti? Why not baked penne or macaroni?

The plane take-off from SFO was okay, Bob and Doug McKenzie. And by the time we were over the Fed Ex hanger, the fog had thickened. By the time we were over Brisbane, all we could see was the 101. There was just a trace of street lights poking through the fog when we flew over Procrastinator Jr.’s best friends house just north of Candlestick Park and by the time we got over San Francisco, it was just one big, illuminated blanket of cotton. Only the lights of the television tower on Mt. Sutro were visible.

The fog was gone just as we banked right, a few thousand feet past the Bay Bridge. I had my bearings pretty well until we got over the Central Valley. Procrastinator Jr. mentioned that lights below looked “just like a computer chip or something.” The Fresno and Stockton areas are like irregularly spaced lighted grids at night, or perhaps excess special effects footage from “Tron” or “Hackers.”

Nary a cloud was to be found once we got past the Bay Area and when we got past the Central Valley, there were hardly any lights at all. A light here and there from the house or farm out in the middle of nowhere. I could liken it to a fringe constellation in a pool of infinite darkness. Once you finally see a town or city after you’ve been in the black, Neil Young, you see that city planners have an odd sense of humor.

There, the central streets laid out in a grid pattern and the grid is occasionally broken up by the topography and/or rivers. Once you get out of the middle part of the town or city, you have streets that look like glowing intestines and lighted fish droppings that descend from one of those florescent fish from the deep. Then, both in the middle and outskirts of town, you have these streets that cut at such sharp angles that they both defy logic and hurt the eyes.

The city planners of America have also made sure that each town has at least one airport with landing lights that have to run on different patterns and sequences than the last town, as well as a baseball park that can be seen from 18,000 feet up.

My size forty-eight shoulders in the seats of the 757, gave Houdini and all contortionists a run for their money. At some point soon, I want to make enough money that I can fly the family first class for all the trips of two or more hours. Yet the one consolation that I could take was that on this crate of an airplane, the first class has one only restroom and that there had to be that one person that fouls up the toilet (so badly that even flies have to flip a coin as to whether they want to land on it or not) had polluted the single toilet beyond recognition.

This four-cell battery for this laptop ain’t cutting it. I wanted to spontaneously buy a twelve-cell at the same chain that the Missus bought my laptop at, but they don’t stock it in any of their stores, except online. So all the writing and movie watching that I wanted to do for this flight got sidetracked. Here’s a toast of Amaretto and orange juice to hindsight, salute!

The clouds were with us with a vengeance over Ohio and Pennsylvania, dark gray uncombed cotton blankets. Some of the formations looked like gigantic versions of the world’s hardest golf courses. All rough and no green, with a par three-hundred hole way down on the other end. The landing into JFK was a little stressful with the left and right wheel rear wheels alternately bouncing, like some drunk trying to find his footing when getting up from a bus bench.

The Parent In-laws live in Plan-hassett-dome-ashington. You’ve all seen it (them) in most of the exterior and car shots in “Meet The Parents,” which I did in real life way back in 1991, sans lie-detector tests. We even had our East Coast reception at the same restaurant that was in an establishing shot in the film, “Louie’s.”

I call it “Plan-hassett-dome-ashington” because even though I’ve been here over ten times, I still can’t tell where one town begins and the other ends when I go through the main thoroughfares. What doesn’t help is that I haven’t driven since September of 1991, as well as the fact that no one ever takes the same route going anywhere. Whether it’s the Mother-in-law, the Sibs-in-laws, the livery driver, or the taxis. Then compound that with the sameness of the North Shore Long Island and the fact that unlike California, there isn’t one mountain or a decent sized hill where you can get your bearings.

I do know that none of my in-laws will fulfill one of my main ambitions of the past ten years, which is to be driven to Hicksville where I will serenade the denizens of the unfortunately named town with a bullhorn amplified rendition of “Turkey In The Straw,” ala Mel Blanc imitating a buck-toothed derf.

Residents of Hicksville, you’ve had fair warning! En garde!