Again...everybody in the water...woof!
Dinner last night: Had a big brunch so nothing really.
Monday, June 10, 2024
Sunday, June 9, 2024
The Sunday Memory Drawer - Hit Traffic?
On whatever highway I was on, the traffic was heavy. You go. You stop. You go. You stop. Your foot hits the gas. Your foot hits the brake. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. I mean, when you're stuck in traffic, you want to see a good reason why. Maybe a SUV on fire. Chalk outlines in the pavement.
But, nothing. It was just volume.
As I sat there at times motionless and, at other times, a slow creep-along, I suddenly was awash with reminders. Another tsunami of memories from my childhood. The truest sensory perception.
When was the last time I had sat in Sunday summer traffic heading out of Long Island?
And how many times did this happen when I was a kid?
I can't answer the former, but I know the response to the latter.
A whole freakin' lot.
It seems like that's all my family ever did on Sundays during the summer. Go out to visit somebody in Long Island. Hell, don't we know anybody where a bridge toll isn't involved??
This process killed me all the time. During those days, I wanted to be home for the day. Curled up with a New York Mets doubleheader on the television. I'd put up a stink. Can't I stay home and watch baseball? Either parent came back with the same retort.
"You can watch the Mets there."
Groan.
So we'd pile into the car. My folks and sometimes Grandma and even my beagle Tuffy. We'd head down Baychester Avenue in the Bronx on our way to either the Bronx Whitestone Bridge and the Throgs Neck Bridge. Stopping briefly so I could throw two quarters into the toll basket. (I noted the toll now is $7.50!!) And, once on "the other side," we'd be up for a day of fun and frivolity.
Or, as I would often prefer, a fork in the eye.
There were a bunch of places we could be headed.
Maybe Floral Park where my parents had friends, Joe and Dotty, with three or maybe four awful kids. I've written about this form of waterboarding before. Joe was the guy missing some fingers. Enough said.
Or New Hyde Park. My parents had another set of friends there. Mike and....wait for it...Dotty. From what I was told, my folks and those two were like the Ricardos and the Mertzes before I was born. They went everywhere together and I saw the photos for proof. Now they had a daughter, Joanne, who I had zero in common with. And, to make matters worse, Dotty was now in a wheelchair. Another cry for an explanation that always went unanswered. I never found out how she wound up there.
Or we could really travel and wind up at Lake Ronkonkoma. I can still spell that correctly to this day. My parents had old neighborhood friends from Mount Vernon who had recently moved there. A couple of Greeks named Nick and Eppie. They had two kids who I had....wait for it...zero in common with. Their names were George and Effie. The names alone killed me in this house. Meanwhile, their old Greek grandmother lived with them. She was always dressed completely in black and hadn't altered this fashion statement since 1943. They called her "Ya Ya."
The problem with this set-up was that the old lady had the only television in the house. So, when I attempted to tune into the Mets, I had to ask for her permission.
"I don't think we get Channel 9 here."
You're in the New York metropolitan area, Granny, not Athens!
The fight would always have me losing because everything with Ya Ya was "No No." She'd make another offer.
"Don't you want to watch the Ted Mack Amateur Hour? He always puts on a good show."
Kill me now.
So I'd wind up with the two kids play acting in the yard. George had his own issues. No matter what we were enacting, he wanted me to kill him in our little playlet.
"Okay, so now you shoot me dead...."
"You come save Effie and stab me in the heart..."
"Let's pretend you push me into the BBQ grill and I burn to death..."
Even the sunniest days in Lake Ronkonkoma were as dark as night.
Of course, our most frequent trips to Long Island were to my mom's loopy sister and that bunch in Deer Park. There, I had two cousins, Patty and Bobby, who were my age. Plus they'd had a backyard pool so there would be endless fun. Eventually, I'd put Tuffy in a plastic boat and push her around the pool until it inevitably tipped over and she would dogpaddle herself out.
I'd still want to know what the Mets were doing, but there was no luck in this home either. At some point, I'd go into the house where the television was being guarded by my Uncle Bob, who was a huge Yankee fan and might have even slept with Mickey Mantle at one point. I'd ask very politely if I could check for the Mets score.
"We don't watch the Mets here. This is a New York Yankee house."
Persecuted for my beliefs and I wasn't even ten years old.
I'd hang around and wait in the living room because the way Uncle Bob guzzled beer, he'd have to empty the bladder soon enough. While he whizzed away in the bathroom, I'd quickly change the channel and hope that Lindsey Nelson would give the score of the Mets game in the next minute and thirty seconds. As soon as I heard the flush, I'd switch the TV back to Channel 11 and the guys playing in the Bronx.
Logistically, the town of Islip was just a short drive from Deer Park and that's often why Grandma came along on these trips. You see, we had some distant relatives there. They even had our same last name but, to this day, I have no clue how they were related to us. There was a couple there that were my parents' age, Ruth and Lenny. Yes, he had the same name as me. Plus his mother lived with them and she also had been dressed in black since the days of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Grandma liked to go over and spend time with this lady. And I still never understood the connection.
I went along when she would drop Grandma off for an afternoon visit. The old lady also had a TV here. Can I watch the Mets game?
"Channel 9? Oh, that always comes in with a lot of snow."
I would smack my head in disbelief.
Now, my namesake in this house was a bit of a screwball. Probably because I never saw him sober. I once saw him run headfirst into a tree trunk. Meanwhile, I would wander into the kitchen where my mother was often seated with a completely frazzled Ruth. And she would always be saying the same thing.
"I can't take it anymore. I want to divorce him."
Who the hell were these people and why do I care?????
So, regardless of where I was in either Nassau or Suffolk County, I could never catch a break. Or find out the score of the Mets game. But, as every summer Sunday on Long Island would wind down, I, at least, had the solace of going home for my weekly television tradition.
I could stay up till 11PM and watch my two favorite Sunday night shows. "Candid Camera" and "What's My Line?"
The only problem was that the folks liked to linger wherever they were. My shows started at 10PM. We were still in Deer Park at 830PM. Can we go? NOW??????
Because I knew what the rides home would be like. No matter what road you drove on. Northern State. Southern State. Long Island Expressway. They were all clogged with people headed back to New York City. The trips home could often last for two hours.
Meanwhile, in the back seat, my grandmother did her usual brand of torture. As soon as we would get into the car for the trip home, Grandma would immediately reach into her pocketbook and take out her back door keys. She was ready to be home. Of course, she would fumble with these keys for the entire ride. Even though I was staring at the back of my mother's head, I could see her eyes rolling in disgust.
Dad would stop and start the entire trip. Tuffy would be sound asleep up on the back window of the car. Of course, my father would have to slam on the brakes at some time and this would send the dog flying from the window to the floor of the back seat. It's a wonder she would live to the age of 18.
Dad, bored by the traffic, would start fiddling with the radio. He'd stop on a news station. My ears would perk up.
"And, today, in the sports world...."
My father would hit another button and suddenly it was Vic Damone on WNEW-AM.
The disc jockey would give the time. 9:42PM. Damn, no Mets score and now maybe no "Candid Camera." I'd be lucky to salvage "What's My Line."
It seemed like a weekly eternity before we would be safely across whichever Bronx bridge we used that Sunday. Heck, I might make it home in time. And, then, my mother, silent for the whole trip except for some loud "tsks" about Grandma's door key twirling, would make the dreaded announcement.
"We better stop at the candy store. I'm down to my last pack."
And I'm down to my last nerve.
Another summer Sunday on Long Island. Final score? Universe, one million. Len, nothing. I'd get home just in time to hear...
"And this is John Charles Daly saying goodnight for 'What's My Line'......"
As I sat there at times motionless and, at other times, a slow creep-along, I suddenly was awash with reminders. Another tsunami of memories from my childhood. The truest sensory perception.
When was the last time I had sat in Sunday summer traffic heading out of Long Island?
And how many times did this happen when I was a kid?
I can't answer the former, but I know the response to the latter.
A whole freakin' lot.
It seems like that's all my family ever did on Sundays during the summer. Go out to visit somebody in Long Island. Hell, don't we know anybody where a bridge toll isn't involved??
This process killed me all the time. During those days, I wanted to be home for the day. Curled up with a New York Mets doubleheader on the television. I'd put up a stink. Can't I stay home and watch baseball? Either parent came back with the same retort.
"You can watch the Mets there."
Groan.
So we'd pile into the car. My folks and sometimes Grandma and even my beagle Tuffy. We'd head down Baychester Avenue in the Bronx on our way to either the Bronx Whitestone Bridge and the Throgs Neck Bridge. Stopping briefly so I could throw two quarters into the toll basket. (I noted the toll now is $7.50!!) And, once on "the other side," we'd be up for a day of fun and frivolity.
Or, as I would often prefer, a fork in the eye.
There were a bunch of places we could be headed.
Maybe Floral Park where my parents had friends, Joe and Dotty, with three or maybe four awful kids. I've written about this form of waterboarding before. Joe was the guy missing some fingers. Enough said.
Or New Hyde Park. My parents had another set of friends there. Mike and....wait for it...Dotty. From what I was told, my folks and those two were like the Ricardos and the Mertzes before I was born. They went everywhere together and I saw the photos for proof. Now they had a daughter, Joanne, who I had zero in common with. And, to make matters worse, Dotty was now in a wheelchair. Another cry for an explanation that always went unanswered. I never found out how she wound up there.
Or we could really travel and wind up at Lake Ronkonkoma. I can still spell that correctly to this day. My parents had old neighborhood friends from Mount Vernon who had recently moved there. A couple of Greeks named Nick and Eppie. They had two kids who I had....wait for it...zero in common with. Their names were George and Effie. The names alone killed me in this house. Meanwhile, their old Greek grandmother lived with them. She was always dressed completely in black and hadn't altered this fashion statement since 1943. They called her "Ya Ya."
The problem with this set-up was that the old lady had the only television in the house. So, when I attempted to tune into the Mets, I had to ask for her permission.
"I don't think we get Channel 9 here."
You're in the New York metropolitan area, Granny, not Athens!
The fight would always have me losing because everything with Ya Ya was "No No." She'd make another offer.
"Don't you want to watch the Ted Mack Amateur Hour? He always puts on a good show."
Kill me now.
So I'd wind up with the two kids play acting in the yard. George had his own issues. No matter what we were enacting, he wanted me to kill him in our little playlet.
"Okay, so now you shoot me dead...."
"You come save Effie and stab me in the heart..."
"Let's pretend you push me into the BBQ grill and I burn to death..."
Even the sunniest days in Lake Ronkonkoma were as dark as night.
Of course, our most frequent trips to Long Island were to my mom's loopy sister and that bunch in Deer Park. There, I had two cousins, Patty and Bobby, who were my age. Plus they'd had a backyard pool so there would be endless fun. Eventually, I'd put Tuffy in a plastic boat and push her around the pool until it inevitably tipped over and she would dogpaddle herself out.
I'd still want to know what the Mets were doing, but there was no luck in this home either. At some point, I'd go into the house where the television was being guarded by my Uncle Bob, who was a huge Yankee fan and might have even slept with Mickey Mantle at one point. I'd ask very politely if I could check for the Mets score.
"We don't watch the Mets here. This is a New York Yankee house."
Persecuted for my beliefs and I wasn't even ten years old.
I'd hang around and wait in the living room because the way Uncle Bob guzzled beer, he'd have to empty the bladder soon enough. While he whizzed away in the bathroom, I'd quickly change the channel and hope that Lindsey Nelson would give the score of the Mets game in the next minute and thirty seconds. As soon as I heard the flush, I'd switch the TV back to Channel 11 and the guys playing in the Bronx.
Logistically, the town of Islip was just a short drive from Deer Park and that's often why Grandma came along on these trips. You see, we had some distant relatives there. They even had our same last name but, to this day, I have no clue how they were related to us. There was a couple there that were my parents' age, Ruth and Lenny. Yes, he had the same name as me. Plus his mother lived with them and she also had been dressed in black since the days of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Grandma liked to go over and spend time with this lady. And I still never understood the connection.
I went along when she would drop Grandma off for an afternoon visit. The old lady also had a TV here. Can I watch the Mets game?
"Channel 9? Oh, that always comes in with a lot of snow."
I would smack my head in disbelief.
Now, my namesake in this house was a bit of a screwball. Probably because I never saw him sober. I once saw him run headfirst into a tree trunk. Meanwhile, I would wander into the kitchen where my mother was often seated with a completely frazzled Ruth. And she would always be saying the same thing.
"I can't take it anymore. I want to divorce him."
Who the hell were these people and why do I care?????
So, regardless of where I was in either Nassau or Suffolk County, I could never catch a break. Or find out the score of the Mets game. But, as every summer Sunday on Long Island would wind down, I, at least, had the solace of going home for my weekly television tradition.
I could stay up till 11PM and watch my two favorite Sunday night shows. "Candid Camera" and "What's My Line?"
The only problem was that the folks liked to linger wherever they were. My shows started at 10PM. We were still in Deer Park at 830PM. Can we go? NOW??????
Because I knew what the rides home would be like. No matter what road you drove on. Northern State. Southern State. Long Island Expressway. They were all clogged with people headed back to New York City. The trips home could often last for two hours.
Meanwhile, in the back seat, my grandmother did her usual brand of torture. As soon as we would get into the car for the trip home, Grandma would immediately reach into her pocketbook and take out her back door keys. She was ready to be home. Of course, she would fumble with these keys for the entire ride. Even though I was staring at the back of my mother's head, I could see her eyes rolling in disgust.
Dad would stop and start the entire trip. Tuffy would be sound asleep up on the back window of the car. Of course, my father would have to slam on the brakes at some time and this would send the dog flying from the window to the floor of the back seat. It's a wonder she would live to the age of 18.
Dad, bored by the traffic, would start fiddling with the radio. He'd stop on a news station. My ears would perk up.
"And, today, in the sports world...."
My father would hit another button and suddenly it was Vic Damone on WNEW-AM.
The disc jockey would give the time. 9:42PM. Damn, no Mets score and now maybe no "Candid Camera." I'd be lucky to salvage "What's My Line."
It seemed like a weekly eternity before we would be safely across whichever Bronx bridge we used that Sunday. Heck, I might make it home in time. And, then, my mother, silent for the whole trip except for some loud "tsks" about Grandma's door key twirling, would make the dreaded announcement.
"We better stop at the candy store. I'm down to my last pack."
And I'm down to my last nerve.
Another summer Sunday on Long Island. Final score? Universe, one million. Len, nothing. I'd get home just in time to hear...
"And this is John Charles Daly saying goodnight for 'What's My Line'......"
Dinner last night: Hot dogs at Yankee Stadium Audi Club.
Saturday, June 8, 2024
Classic Newsreel of the Month - June 2024
Yep, this happened 80 years ago this week.
Dinner last night: Grilled shrimp at Hudson Social.
Friday, June 7, 2024
Isn't June An Arresting Month?
Popeye's bastard son.
Dinner last night: Chopped salad at Sardi's.
Thursday, June 6, 2024
The Hand Up The Back
Speaking of which, let's give Ron a big round of applause for morphing into a documentarian and providing us with some very recent and compelling films of that genre. There is no smarter film maker at work these days. Kudos.
But, in the case of this particular film, it's all Jim Henson all the time. You follow his career one felt puppet at a time. From local TV to Sesame Street to movies to...well, you name it.
Now if you are looking for salacious stories about Jim Henson, this is not your venue. His kids are very much involved and you won't get idle gossip about the guy, even though he was allegedly a marital philanderer. Nope, this is as white washed as it comes.
I would also have liked to know more about his untimely death at 53. Supposedly, he was one of those people who didn't see a doctor for religious reasons. If that's the case, I would have liked to have known more.
But if you are looking for a step-by-step creation of the Muppets, this is the movie for you. It is totally entertaining, even though it's slightly lacking for yours truly.
LEN'S RATING: Three and-a-half stars.
Dinner last night: Korean fried chicken at the Cheesecake Factory.
Wednesday, June 5, 2024
This Date in History - June 5
70: TITUS AND HIS ROMAN LEGIONS BREACH THE MIDDLE WALL OF JERUSALEM IN THE SIEGE OF JERUSALEM.
And the status of the outer and inner wall is?
1257: KRAKOW, POLAND RECEIVES CITY RIGHTS.
And was later a pitcher for the Chicago Cubs and San Francisco Giants.
1283: ROGER OF LAURIA, ADMIRAL TO KING PETER III OF ARAGON, CAPTURES CHARLES OF SALERMO.
Who was later taken over by Vinnie from Bayonne on WFAN.
1798: DURING THE BATTLE OF NEW ROSS, THE ATTEMPT TO SPREAD UNITED IRISH REBELLION INTO MUNSTER IS DEFEATED.
And what did the United Irish Rebellion have against the Addams Family?
1829: HMS PICKLE CAPTURES THE ARMED SLAVE SHIP VOLADORA OFF THE COAST OF CUBA.
Hold the HMS.
1832: THE JUNE REBELLION BREAKS OUT IN PARIS IN AN ATTEMPT TO OVERTHROW THE MONARCHY OF LOUIS-PHILIPPE.
Which is why the song goes "April in Paris."
1837: HOUSTON, TEXAS IS INCORPORATED BY THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS.
Long before it switched over to the American League.
1850: SHERIFF PAT GARRETT IS BORN.
Billy the Kid, watch your step.
1851: HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S SERIAL, "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," IS PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME.
It was a soap opera? Like sands through the hourglass, so are the slaves of our lives.
1879: REVOLUTIONARY PANCHO VILLA IS BORN.
Si.
1883: THE FIRST REGULARLY SCHEDULED ORIENT EXPRESS DEPARTS PARIS.
That trip is murder.
1883: ECONOMIST JOHN MAYNARD KEYNES IS BORN.
That adds up.
1910: AUTHOR O HENRY DIES.
How's that for a twist ending?
1915: DENMARK AMENDS ITS CONSTITUTION TO ALLOW WOMEN'S SUFFRAGE.
Which is why so many men went there to become women.
1916: LOUIS BRANDEIS IS SWORN IN AS A JUSTICE OF THE US SUPREME COURT.
I thought he was a college.
1917: DURING WORLD WAR I, CONSCRIPTION BEGINS IN THE US AS "ARMY REGISTRATION DAY."
Getting a little drafty around here.
1920: AUTHOR CORNELIUS RYAN IS BORN.
Interesting that his birthday is on June 5 since......well, you will see later.
1934: JOURNALIST BILL MOYERS IS BORN.
Journalist? Really?
1942: DURING WORLD WAR II, THE US DECLARES WAR OF BULGARIA, HUNGARY, AND ROMANIA.
Every war needs a couple of pushover countries.
1944: DURING WORLD WAR II, MORE THAN 1000 BRITISH BOMBERS DROP 5000 TONS ON BOMBS ON GERMAN GUN BATTERIES ON THE NORMANDY COAST IN PREPARATION FOR D-DAY, THE NEXT DAY.
Happy birthday, Cornelius Ryan. Now you have something to write about.
1947: THE MARSHALL PLAN - IN A SPEECH AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY, US SECRETARY OF STATE GEORGE MARSHALL CALLS FOR ECONOMIC AID TO WAR-TORN EUROPE.
Knock 'em down and then build 'em up. Ain't war grand?
1951: ECONOMIST/TV HOST SUZE ORMAN IS BORN.
I met her once. I still don't have a million dollars.
1951: JILL BIDEN IS BORN.
As inconsequential as they come.
1956: ELVIS PRESLEY INTRODUCES HIS NEW SINGLE "HOUND DOG" ON THE MILTON BERLE SHOW, SCANDALIZING THE AUDIENCE WITH HIS SUGGESTIVE HIP MOVEMENTS.
Meanwhile, Milton was even scarier when he dressed like a woman.
1963: BRITISH SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR JOHN PROFUMO RESIGNS IN A SEX SCANDAL KNOWN AS THE PROFUMO AFFAIR.
Wasn't that an episode of "Man from U.N.C.L.E.?"
1967: THE SIX DAY WAR BEGINS IN THE MIDDLE EAST.
The six day war now in its fifth decade.
1968: US SENATOR ROBERT F. KENNEDY IS SHOT AT THE AMBASSADOR HOTEL IN LOS ANGELES. HE DIES THE NEXT DAY.
"Let's go on to Chicago and win there."
1971: SINGER/ACTOR MARK WAHLBERG IS BORN.
The newest kid on the block.
1975: THE SUEZ CANAL OPENS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE SIX-DAY WAR.
And is still open as the war approaches its sixth decade.
1976: THE COLLAPSE OF THE TETON DAM IN IDAHO.
Look out below.
1977: THE APPLE II, ONE OF THE FIRST PERSONAL COMPUTERS, GOES ON SALE.
What version are we up to now?
1981: THE MORBIDITY AND MORTALITY WEEKLY REPORT OF THE CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL AND PREVENTION REPORT THAT FIVE PEOPLE IN LOS ANGELES HAVE A RARE FORM OF PNEUMONIA SEEN ONLY IN PATIENTS WITH WEAKENED IMMUNE SYSTEMS, IN WHAT TURNS OUT TO BE THE FIRST RECOGNIZED CASES OF AIDS.
A long sentence that could be reduced to four words. "This is gonna suck."
1993: PORTIONS OF THE HOLBECK HALL HOTEL IN ENGLAND FALL INTO THE SEA FOLLOWING A LANDSLIDE.
You wanted a view of the water? Now you got it.
1993: SINGER CONWAY TWITTY DIES.
Long before people would start sending daily messages in his name.
1998: A STRIKE BEGINS AT THE GENERAL MOTORS PARTS FACTORY IN FLINT, MICHIGAN THAT QUICKLY SPREADS TO FIVE OTHER PLANTS.
And they thought AIDS moved fast.
1998: LOS ANGELES MAYOR SAM YORTY DIES.
Next to Twitty, the second funniest name to die on this date.
1999: SINGER MEL TORME DIES.
I hear this guy was a real scumbag.
2002: SINGER DEE DEE RAMONE DIES.
Dee Dee Dead.
2003: A SEVERE HEAT WAVE ACROSS PAKISTAN AND INDIA REACHES A PEAK OF 122 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT.
In countries where there is no central air. Yeech!
2004: PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN DIES.
His casket drove past my apartment on this date. The closest I have ever come to a President, dead or alive.
2012: AUTHOR RAY BRADBURY DIES.
Talk about high Fahrenheit temperatures.
2018: FASHION DESIGNER KATE SPADE DIES.
They'll need one to bury her.
2023: SINGER ASTRUD GILBERTO DIES.
Buried in Ipanema Cemetery.
Dinner last night: Pork chops at Gianna's.
Tuesday, June 4, 2024
I'm Tired
I hear you loud clear, Madelyn. I still love your wonderful number from "Blazing Saddles."
And I feel your fatigue.
Cue up my latest pity partay.
Close friends know that I have endured two knee replacement surgeries within the last year. Progress on the first one was quick. Less so for the second one which still has me on a cane and moving slower than Uncle Joe at "Petticoat Junction."
But I have kept on the physical therapy and still trying to press on with life. One of the latter involved my current trip to NY. Specifically, last Saturday saw me scheduled for an anniversary brunch on Long Island and then followed by a nighttime wedding reception of a good friend's daughter in Rye.
Back in the day, this would have been a snapperaroo. But this year, in post surgical Len, not so much. The typical NY summer beach traffic on the Island saw me driving for 2 and a half hours to the brunch. Two hours later, I was back behind the wheel of my rental car and facing one hour and forty five minutes to the wedding.
That's four plus hours of driving. And keeping a conflicted right knee in one solid driving position which is a PT no no. By the time I got to the gorgeous wedding venue, I could enjoy nothing as I couldn't stand for more than five minutes at one time.
My legs weren't in pain. They were just plain....well, Madelyn...tired.
So much for spending time on the wedding dance floor, which is always something I love. I was Grandpa on the sidelines. And not happy.
More driving got me to my lodging and taking my suit and tie off was a chore.
I was still...tired.
I got to bed around one AM and the fatigue of my legs actually kept me awake. Indeed, I didn't fall asleep until we were approaching sun up around 530AM. And that found me sound asleep until....gasp...130PM. A wonderful day in NY and I barely left the apartment.
I know this situation will ultimately improve. Frankly, it has to. Because...
I'm still tired.
Dinner last night: SPO at Carlo's.
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