Old Cape Cod

If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air, Quaint little villages here and there
You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod
If you like the taste of a lobster stew
Served by a window with a ocean view
You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod
If you spend an evening you’ll want to stay
Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay
You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod

My family and I just came back from a mini-vacation on Cape Cod, and the whole time we were there, the above song kept playing in the back of my head. You may recognize it. It’s called “Old Cape Cod,” recorded by Patti Page in 1957. The song speaks of some of the Cape’s charm; the sand dunes, salty air, little villages, great seafood. These are some of the things we love about the Cape, but Patti left out some of my daughters favorite things.

While driving through Providence, Rhode Island, on the way to the Cape, it has become family tradition for my wife and I to point out the giant insect that sits atop the New England Pest Control building. The bug has become a New England landmark, and my daughters can’t wait to see it. Sometimes the pest control people dress it in a Red Sox uniform or a pair of sunglasses. This year it was naked but my girls loved it all the same.

When we arrived at the Wellfleet Motel and Lodge, the first thing my younger daughter did was run and smell the soap. We've stayed at this motel several times before, and to her, the smell of the motel soap harkens back to fond memories of summer vacations past. We all think she's a little strange for sniffing the soap, but she doesn't care what we think. She loves it. This year in fact, she hoarded seven bars to take home with her. She's hoping it will get her through the long Connecticut winter.

After my daughter was done sniffing the soap, we threw on our bathing suits and ran to the motel pool and hot tub for a dip. It's one of our favorite things to do. I keep telling the girls that someday we'll get a hot tub to call our own. That someday hasn't come...yet.

Our days were spent at the Cape Cod National Sea Shore. Here my daughters begged me to go body surfing with them in the icy cold surf. I did my best, trying to be a good father and all, but the ocean was way-way too icy and cold. We all retreated back to our beach blankets where the girls whined that they wanted to go back to the motel pool. I whined because I had spent $15 on beach parking.

At night we went to the Wellfleet Drive-In Movie Theatre. It is conveniently located right across the street from our motel. Going there is like travelling back in a time machine and the girls have a blast. We always bring pillows and blankets and stock up on junk food as we watch the nightly double feature. On Wednesday we watched "Monster House" and "Click." Friday we saw "Pirates of the Caribbean II" and "Shaggy Dog." The girls thought that these movies were pretty good, but they can't compare to their favorite movie... the "Intermission" film:

Intermission Time


Perhaps Ms. Page can update her song:

If you're fond of Insects atop pest control buildings
Quaint intermission movies at the Drive-In
If you like the smell of the soap in your motel bathroom
Afternoon dips in a indoor hot tub
You're sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod

Shrink Rap

No, I didn’t have Sigmund Freud on the train, but I do sometimes wonder what he would have to say about my obsession with celebrity.

I picture myself lying on a chaise lounge in his office while he sits in a chair, crossed legged with a cigar in one hand, ("sometimes a cigar is a just a cigar!") and a quill pen in the other. He begins to speak as he jots down some notes:

“Und celebrity obsession es very commune” he might say, “Und dis obsession inflates your male ego and makes you feel more important. Dis coupled vit da fact that you veren’t breastfed as un child explains it.”

“Wow Dr. Freud,” I might say, “ That makes a lot of sense. Now if you could only explain this recurring dream I have. Every night I dream of my train going into a tunnel...”

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet."
--From Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)


Last night I worked with an engineer that I had never met before. After introducing myself in the sign-in room in New Haven, I asked him what his name was.

“John,” he replied.

I was surprised that I never had seen him around before, and I wondered if I might know him by his last name

“John what?”

“John Smith.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah!”

“What did you do, rob a bank or something?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you’re in the witness protection program then?...
I know! You’re in the mafia and you’re on the lam?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” (Of course. What else could he say?)

“Don’t tell me?... You’re wife’s name is Jane Doe.”

“No,” (now looking a little perplexed.) “Her name is Claudia.”

I really wanted to explore the whole Pocahontas, Captain John Smith angle, but he didn’t seem to want to play along, and it deflated my enthusiasm.

Tonight I worked with an engineer by the name of James Joyce, and the same thing happened.

“Written any good books lately?” I asked.

“NO!”

He said NO, curtly, as if he’d been answering this question all his life. (Which he probably has.)

Although, John and James might have it bad, they can’t hold a candle to my fellow conductor…Ronald McDonald (Swear to god!)

When I met Ron, the first thing I noticed was his name badge. It read R. McDonald.

“Please tell me that your first name isn’t Ronald?” I pleaded.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“EGAD MAN!” Can’t you bring your parents up on abuse charges?

“I'm afraid not. You see I was born in the 1950’s, long before the restaurant clown with the white face and red hair.”

I can’t imagine the harassment poor Ron has gone through and it made me think back to my own grade school days . Classmates would deliberately bastardize my name (McDonough). All I heard was McDoogle, McDoogie, and their all time favorite-McDonut. But poor Ron’s torment must have been tenfold.

We have some other interesting names on the railroad. For several years my brother Brian has been having fun at the expense of a fellow engineer named Jimmy Stuart (Stewart.)
Whenever Brian sees Jimmy, he breaks out into a spot-on impression of George Bailey, from “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Clarence…Where’s Mary?”

To mix things up, Brian sometimes opts to impersonate the older, feebler Stewart. This requires a lot of stammering and talking with his hands. Brian will sometimes go on and on about a 7ft imaginary rabbit named Harvey or he’ll tell the risqué joke that Stewart once told on the Merv Griffin Show.

Jimmy Stuart, (the engineer) always laughs along with Brian and takes the ribbing in stride. I wish the same could be said about my long time engineer-Bob Barker. For years Bob and I worked the late night trains together. When meeting at the beginning of each shift, I’d always greet him with a:

“Hey Bob Barker…COME ON DOWN!”

Perhaps Bob isn’t a Price is Right fan, or possibly he just got sick of me yelling, "COME ON DOWN." I'm not certain. The only thing I do know, is that one night he gave me a look.

It was the kind of look that said…ENOUGH ALREADY!

It was the kind of look that said…CUT THE CRAP!

It was the kind of look that said…I WISH I COULD HAVE YOU SPAYED OR NEUTERED!

Conductor to the Stars

As the reigning Conductor to the Stars, I am always looking over my shoulder. There’s always seems to be some upstart trying to unseat me from my throne. Conductor John Murphy is one example of a coworker attempting a coup d’etat.

One summer, a few years back, I hit a severe celebrity dry spell and John took much pleasure in my frustration. He always enjoyed reporting his latest celebrity sighting and we soon entered a game of chess where the celebrities were our pawns.

One day he told me that Whoopi Goldberg was in the head car of our train, but instead of being boastful, he seemed a little taken aback. He said that when he first saw her, he started, "Hey, aren't you...?"

Whoopi put her hand up, as if to stop him, looked over her sunglasses, and said, “Don’t say another word.”

“ Huh! Show folk,” I said, “Go figure!”

I told John that as a potential CTTS, these things are to be expected. “Take this as a learning experience," I advised. "Why, I once had disco queen Donna Summer on my train, and she treated me the exact same way.” I wanted to say, “Hey honey, I work hard for the money too.”

That summer, John was my assistant on the 6:55 pm train from New Haven to New York on Sunday nights. This train, for some unknown reason, was like an episode of the Love Boat, where long forgotten celebrities, ( i.e. Jessica Tandy, Shirley MaClaine, Mariette Hartley, Charles Grodin, David Groh, Sandy Dennis, James Naughton, Frank Converse, Larry from Three’s Company,) regularly made cameo appearances. This was much to the delight of John and me. We started a friendly competition to see who would earn the coveted title of Conductor to the Stars.

I believe I drew first blood when I collected a ticket from Get Smart’s Barbara Feldon. I asked Miss Feldon to play along as John approached.

“John,” I said, “May I introduce you to my good friend Barbara Feldon.”

John crossed his arms then touched his hand to his face, “Oh, Max!” he said in mock indignation, doing an almost perfect imitation of Agent 99.

The next Sunday it was John’s turn. He had just collected a red-haired woman’s ticket and he gestured to me with the wave of his hand, “Conductor to the Stars,” he said.  May I introduce you to my dear friend Marcia Wallace, you know Carol, the secretary from the Bob Newhart show?”

He thought he had me.

“Nice to meet you Marcia,” I said. “Oh, and John, did you happen to notice that Marcia is seated with Match Game’s Brett Summer?”

“Oh Brett,” John said in feigned embarrassment, “I didn’t even recognize you.”

“That’s why I’m Conductor to the Stars,” I said, “and you’re only the assistant conductor to the stars.”

Slick Willie

During the 1992 presidential campaign, then Governor Bill Clinton made a campaign stop in Grand Central. He was followed by a huge press corp, jostling cameras and carrying microphones. As I walked by the crowd I paused to see what all the commotion was about. Clinton saw me, a workingman dressed in full uniform. He paused (he knew this was a great photo opportunity,) and held his hand out to me. He looked me straight in the eye and firmly grasped my outstretched hand with his right hand as he clasped my forearm with his left. He made me feel as if I were the only person in that cavernous station, and I was not surprised when he won the election that November.

Howard Dean on the other hand did not impress me at all. It was after the democratic primaries but shortly before he had been named Chairman of the Democratic National Committee. He boarded the train and sat down right across from the train’s lavatory. Unfortunately, most lavatories on our trains emanate a foul barnyard odor. Smart commuters avoid the seats surrounding the lavatory like the plague. Even though there were several other seats available, he chose to sit right across from the lavatory.

Now I ask, if a man does not have enough sense to not sit across from a bathroom on a Metro North train, how can he ever hope to be the leader of the free world?

Dazed and Confused

As you may have noticed, I haven’t written much lately. It seems that my blog obsession has fallen by the wayside (for the time being,) and blogging has been put on my mind’s back burner.

The blog has, however, been replaced by two new obsessions:

1. My desire to drop 20 lbs.

2. My quest to dig myself out of debt.

In order to reach these new goals, I have been reading three books at the same time.

Having just finished phase I of the South Beach Diet, I occasionally refer back to the SBD book for guidance. At the same time, I’m reading Dave Ramsey's “Total Money Maker” book. This book is a step-by-step approach to getting out of debt. In addition to these books, today I found an old copy of “Make the Connection” by Oprah Winfrey and her trainer Bob Greene. This book really emphasizes exercise in addition to diet for maximum weight loss. I began reading it on the train this afternoon, and I’m already 1/2 way through it.

What have I learned from these books? You might ask.

I discovered that I could reduce my consumer debt by eating more fiber and running three miles a day with Stedman…

Err! Sorry that’s not it. Let me try again.

I discovered that I could lower my glycemic index by cutting up my credit cards and giving new cars away to my studio audience.

No, no, that’s wrong. It seems I’m a little confused here.

Perhaps I should tackle these books one at a time.

Grumpy Old Men

Tickets! Tickets Please! I shout, as I walk down the aisle collecting tickets on an early morning Metro North train. A gentleman with white hair and wild eyebrows touches me on the sleeve. “Conductor," he whines, “some genius just got off the train and left that huge duffle bag behind.”(This is New York pre 9-11, before errant bags and terrorism are a big concern.) He points to a giant black duffle bag the size of a Volkswagen that sits in the overhead luggage rack. Suddenly, I realize that I am talking with 60 Minutes' personality Andy Rooney. He looks smaller, older and feebler in person.

“Did you ever wonder?” he asks, as if doing an exaggerated impersonation of himself, “how anybody could leave something that big behind?”

No, I think, I misplace my keys, glasses, and cell phone on a daily basis, but I want to bond with an American icon, so I say, “ I can’t imagine how anybody could leave something like that behind.”

We chuckle, pat each other on the back, and congratulate ourselves for being of such superior intellect.

Pygmalion

My mother was an intelligent, well read women with a good vocabulary, but for some unknown reason, she had trouble saying words with the double “T” consonant in the middle of them. In my mother’s world, a bottle was a bot’l and the word little was pronounced lit’l. Herds of cows were called cat’l and the largest city in Washington was Seat’l. My sister Maureen and I found this very amusing, and we would intentionally ask her questions like:

“What do you call the metal teapot on the stove?”

“You mean the ket'l?” she’d answer.

We would then roll on the ground in laughter, and try to think up more questions to ask.
Occasionally we’d try and make up sentences with all of my mother’s most famous mispronounced words:

“Hey Ma!” we’d say. “Put the cat’l in the ket’l with a lit’l but’r or we’ll have a bat’l.”

“Don’t be fresh,” she’d say.

Some words that didn’t have a double “T” consonant were also a challenge. The word “turtle” comes to mind. She referred to all high-necked sweaters as turt’l necks and to this day I cannot look at one without thinking of my mother.

I came up with the idea for this post over this past weekend. I was at my brother Brian’s house, attending a high school graduation party for his daughter. After pouring myself a cup of coffee, I discovered there was no Splenda (the artificial sweetener) in the house. I knew that my wife (who is always prepared) carries extra packets of the sugar substitute in her pocketbook.

“Do you have any Splenda?” I asked my wife.

“Splender!” My ex-sister in law, Monique screamed.

Monique was married to my oldest brother Emmett. She has been part of our family for forever, and we’re all very fond of her. Since their divorce in the mid 80’s, Monique has remarried, become a grandmother and opened her own housekeeping business. She is a very sweet and intelligent woman and is always a load of fun to be around. This is why we still invite her to our family functions.

“Did you know, that if you have sugar ants on your kitchen counter you can kill them with Splender?” Monique said.

“You mean Splenda,” I said.

“That’s what I said,” she answered. “All you have to do is open a little packet of Slender and leave it on the counter. The ants take a few granules back to their nests and it kills the whole colony.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not Splender and it’s not Slender, it’s called Splenda.” I now spelled it, S-P-L-E-N-D-A. “Come on, you can say it,”

“Plenda” .

“No Splend-AH,” I said, now trying to emphasize the AH sound.

“Slend-AH” She said.

“No! No! No! I was starting to feel like Professor Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle.

My mind wandered back to a day several years ago, when Monique said she was tired. So tired in fact, that she needed "tootpicks" to keep her eyes open.”

“Tootpicks? I asked.

“Yeh,” you know? She said, the little sticks they put in olives.”


Being young, I felt odd correcting her, but I wasn’t going to let it go now. I was a man on a mission. I cupped my fingers around her mouth, and helped her form the word.

“SPLENDA,” I said.

“PLENDISH” she said.

“SPLENDA”

“PLENDA” she said.

“SPLENDA”

“OH FORGET IT,” she said… “USE SWEET'N LOW!”

NewsFlash

My wife left this article on my homepage...HA! HA! HA!

http://www.comcast.net/news/health/index.jsp?cat=HEALTHWELLNESS&fn=/2006/06/26/421532.html&cvqh=itn_gay

You're so vain

A bridge on Amtrak’s Hell Gate branch got stuck in the upright position and our train was instructed to accept all of Amtrak’s passengers. As I stood in the ticket line in Union Station in New Haven, an Amtrak passenger who looked a lot like singer Carly Simon stood behind me. The woman was hidden behind a pair of big sunglasses. She had Simon’s wavy hair, large mouth and those familiar luscious lips that have graced so many album covers. I found it hard to believe that Ms. Simon would be hanging out in New Haven on a Sunday night so I turned around and said:

“Wow, you look just like Carly Simon.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I get that a lot.”

It wasn’t till she and her husband boarded my train that I realized that she was, in fact, Carly Simon. My brother Brian(who happened to be my Engineer that evening) walked back through the cars, checked her out and confirmed my suspicions.

“Aha! I said as I collected her ticket." You are who I thought you were.”

She just smiled and hid her face in a magazine. For the rest of the ride I had to resist the urge to sing, “You’re so vain.”

Raja and Me

I stopped by the local convenience store after dropping my daughters off at school. I poured myself a cup of coffee, picked up the newspaper and decided to order an egg sandwich from the deli counter. While my sandwich was being prepared, I chatted with the Indian family that owns the store. I regularly stop at this store, but I usually only exchange pleasantries with the family patriarch who mans the cash register. This day however, I conversed with his wife.

Me: Hey, I see by the name on your health certificate that your family name is Patel. I work with a woman from India and her name is Patel and her family also owns a convenience store. Come to think of it... almost all the Indian people I know are named Patel.

Indian woman: Yes sir. In our region of India, everyone’s last name is Patel.

Me: That must be confusing?

Raja, the woman’s 24-year old son, now took over the conversation.

Raja: Not really sir.

Me: Well if everyone’s last name is Patel, how do you tell each other’s families apart?

Raja: Sir…we just know.

I should have given up the inquisition here...but I was intrigued.

Me: How do you know?

Raja: Sir…it is just part of our culture. We just know these things. Everyone knows who is related to whom.

Raja then went off on a tangent that didn’t seem related to our conversation.

Raja: Sir… yesterday we had a 16-year old girl hiding out behind our store. She was a runaway. We had to hold this girl in our store till the police and her parents arrived. Now, such a thing might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is very foreign to our culture. No offense… but something like this would never have happened in India.
You see…cultures differ.

I finally got his point.

Me: All I meant to say, is that it must get a little confusing when everyone has the same last name. I didn’t mean to offend you, your family or your culture. I was just saying that it has to get confusing. That’s all.

Raja: Well sir…I did send my friend an Email recently. He had to write me back because he had four different friends named Raja Patel. He didn’t know which Raja Patel had written the Email.”

Me: Ha! So it DOES get confusing!

Raja: Yeh!…a little, sometimes.

aka Tania

A familiar looking woman got on the train in Green’s Farms. She looked like your average Fairfield County wife, decked out in preppy clothes and the mandatory blond bob haircut, but there was something very familiar about her. I collected her ticket and then it hit me. It was Patty Hearst, the kidnapped heiress and former member of the Simbianese Liberation Army. She looked a far cry from the bereted bank robber that the SLA christened as Tania.

Because my mind is full of useless trivia, I remembered that Ms. Hearst had married her bodyguard, a man whose last name is Shaw. Being the sensitive type, I didn’t want to draw needless attention to her, so I addressed her by her married name.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Shaw," I said.

There was no reply, but the look she gave me spoke volumes.

I momentarily felt embarrassed and continued on to the next passenger.

“Hey,” I later told a co-worker, “it wasn’t like I said, Yo Tania! Let’s go knock off the Bank of America.”

"THE MOVIE"

I was driving my daughters to school last week, when my daughter C said, Daddy...today we’re going to see “The Movie.”

“What movie is that?” I asked.

“You know?” She said, (now losing her patience with me) “THE Movie.”

“WHAT MOVIE?” I asked. I was still half asleep and I just wasn’t getting it.

“Dad,” my older daughter A chimed in. “You know THE Movie. The one they show all the 6th graders in health class?”

“Oh!” I said. “THE MOVIE!”

I now understood that C was talking about the movie about puberty that the health teacher shows at the end of the school year-- with both girls and boys present. It is one of the most talked about (and feared) events of the school year.

“Are you nervous about that?” I asked.

"No, not really," she said matter of factly.

When we reached their school, I wished my daughter A luck on her finals and then I wished C luck on watching THE MOVIE.

That night I called home from work and talked to my wife.

“How did the girls' day go?” I asked.

“Good,” my wife said with a chuckle. “Did C tell you she that she was going to see THE MOVIE today?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “How’d that go?”

My wife told me that the girls came home from school and sat down for a snack in the kitchen. Just as any other day, she asked them how their day went. That was when the topic of THE MOVIE came up. My wife nonchalantly asked C if she had learned anything interesting or new from the film.

“YEAH!” C said. “I learned that boys have problems too!” She had previously only heard about the problems that girls face at puberty, so this obviously came as quite a shock.

“Like what?” my wife inquired. (Not having the slightest idea of what answer she might hear, but keeping the conversation open and light.)

C scrunched up her face, eyes half shut...dangled her finger in front of her and then, with a rising whistle sound effect (like a firework shooting up on the Fourth of July) pointed her finger straight out and then skyward.

“Yup!" My wife said with a straight face, "They sure do have that problem...and you thought only girls had to deal with changes."

Brian's Song

On a Sunday afternoon in 1958, my parents piled their eight kids into their car, (this was before I was born) and drove up to Wallingford to visit my grandmother. After reaching Nana's house, someone noticed that my brother Brian was missing. Being that he was only about four years old at the time, my parents were quite concerned. My father jumped back in the car and sped home to find Brian sitting on his tricycle in the driveway and crying his eyes out.

Ever since that day, Brian has made sure that his presence be known.

When Brian was a teenager (in the early 1970's,) he and his friends used to hang out in a place they named "Flat Rock." Flat Rock was not as bucolic as it sounds, in fact, it was a just a clearing in the brush next to the railroad tracks that ran behind The Armstrong Rubber Factory. Hidden from parents and the local police, the boys would gather here and drink beer (undoubtedly purchased by an older friend or sibling at a minimal profit). With the smell of freshly manufactured tires heavy in the air and their vocals occasionally drowned out by passing trains, each boy would sing their own signature song.

Crow's tune was "Already gone" by the Eagles. All the boys would join in on the chorus:

I'm already gone
And I'm feelin ' strong
I will sing this victory song
Woo hoo hoo
Woo hoo hoo

The boys then sang a misogynist version of the 1950's hit "Duke of Earl":

Puke, Puke, Puke
Puke on girls, girls, girls
Puke on girls, girls, girls
Puke on girls, girls, girls

Soon it was Brian's friend Phil's turn to sing his anthem. He gave new lyrics to the Harry Chapin song "Taxi":

It was raining hard in Flat Rock
I needed one more beer to make my night

But the evening wasn't complete until Brian, or Big Mac as they called him, sang his signature song... "Tobacco Road."

I was born
Bun num! (All bystanders were required to sing this bass line)
In a dump
Bun num!
My mama died
And my daddy got drunk

Although several artists have recorded this song, no one has captured it quite like Edgar Winter did in his 1970 version (click here for sample) . This is the who Big Mac emulated when he sang:

And I love you
Because you're filthy
And I love you cause you're home

The highlight of Brian's song came when he'd hold an impossibly high note for what seemed like an eternity:

And I lo-oo-ooo-oooo-ooooo-ooooo-oooooo-ve you!

I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOU!

When Big Mac held this note, his face turned crimson red and his veins bulged from his temples. Legend has it, that after one such performance he gave himself a hernia and that he had to have surgery shortly afterward.

That's rock and roll baby!

Big Mac performed this song at his high school class night in 1973. At that concert he had all his classmates singing the bun num bass line, and at the end of the song he got a standing ovation. That evening, Brian... and his song, became part of West Haven High School legend.

Shortly after joining the railroad and becoming an engineer, Brian and some friends went on vacation(I forget where). He performed Tobacco Road in a honky tonk bar and the crowd went nuts. Before the night was over, a record executive approached him and gave him his business card. He told Brian that he was a talent agent for a major record label and that he would like to discuss a recording deal. Brian figured that the record executive was as drunk as he was and never made the phone call.

Now that my brother is 52- years old, he finds Tobacco Road's high notes a little too hard to reach. His new signature song is 'Danny Boy."After a few beers and a little prompting (the amount of prompting depends on how many beers he's had) he'll make his way out to the dance floor and sing:

But come ye back when summers in the meadow
Or when the valleys hushed and white with snow
Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so

It's enough to bring smiling Irish eyes to tears.

A couple of years ago, Brian was running a deadhead train (meaning he didn't have passengers on board) from Stamford, CT to Grand Central. (This ride that takes about 45 minutes.) He had no one to keep him company so he kept himself amused by performing a little concert in the engineer's cab. With one hand on the throttle, the other hand was free to pound out a beat on the cab console. Brian sang from Connecticut through Westchester County, The Bronx, and Harlem. When he finally reached the end of the line in Grand Central, Mark, the chief rail traffic controller was waiting for him.

Brian knew something was up so he pulled down the engineer's cab window and asked, "What's up?"

Mark said that he, as well as the rest of the railroad, enjoyed his 45 minute concert but he was going to have to call in the mechanics to repair the stuck "transmit button" on his engineer's cab radio.

Opie

Actor/Director Ron Howard is usually on the top of other New Haven Line Conductor’s list of celebrity sightings and it had frustrated me that I had never run into him. I had spent most of my life watching him on TV and it felt as if we had grown up together. I was more than a little jealous that others had seen him before I did. Hadn’t we, I thought, spent many an afternoon skipping stones at the fishin’ pond with Pa and Barney. Oh, I’m sure, that while in high school, I shared fries with him, Potsy and Ralph at Arnold’s Drive In.

Then one fateful day while collecting tickets on the Stamford local, a thin red haired man in a blue baseball cap handed me his ticket. It was my old friend Ron. At first, I must confess, I was annoyed when there was no hint of recognition on his face. As I punched his ticket, I told him of the previous Thanksgiving when I had his brother Clint, (the kid from Gentle Ben,) on my train, but this didn’t seem to impress him much. I put his ticket in my pocket and stood in the vestibule to regroup my thoughts.

After our Port Chester Station stop, Ron gathered his things together and walked towards me. Finally, I thought, he remembers me, but he said nothing. At a loss for words, I noticed the Apollo 13 logo that emblazoned his cap.

"Is that your latest movie?" I asked.

"Yes it is," he said.

"What’s it about?" Asked one of the several pinstriped-clad Wall Street barons who were now standing around the vestibule area with suitcases in hand.

What’s it about? I thought. Isn’t that pretty obvious, but being the nice guy that Ron is, he proceeded to tell the cliff note version of the Apollo 13 story. Just as we crossed the New York/Connecticut state line he said, “Houston we have a problem,” and the movie credits rolled as we slid into Greenwich Station where he got off the train. As he walked down the platform I almost yelled:

“ Hey Ron, let’s meet at Goober’s fillin’ station for a bottle of pop,”

He turned on a dime!

I was collecting tickets on the train one afternoon when I came upon an old Irish gentleman. He perked up when he saw my company ID.

Old Irishman: Cheers Mr. Mac Donough!

Me: Cheers! I can tell by your brogue that you're from Ireland.

Old Irishman: Aye! Sure I am.

Me: Do you live here now?

Old Irishman: No laddie, I'm visiting me relations.

Me: I've never been to Ireland, but I'd love to go someday.

Old Irishman: Oh, laddie you must. In fact I'll meet you in the pub and we'll have a few pints.

Me: That sounds great... but I don't drink.

Old Irishman: (Now stern) WELL THEN...YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING IN IRELAND!

Breaking and Entering

While growing up, we never locked the doors to my mother’s house. In fact, none of us even owned a house key. Coming from a big family, it seemed pointless to lock the door, especially when we knew someone would be entering or exiting at any given moment. Guests would marvel at the traffic flow at her front door. It seemed as soon as someone left the house, somebody else would enter. They said that our house reminded them of Grand Central Station and that she should install a revolving door.

Shortly after I’d moved out, somebody broke into my mother's house. Actually more like walked in. Luckily no one was home at the time of the burglary and the burglar, finding little of value, escaped with a jar of coins and some of my mother’s costume jewelry. Her neighbors were in a state of panic. “How could this happen on Union Avenue?” They asked. The telephone lines burned as they called one another with news of the break in at Kay's (my mother) house. With the criminal still on the loose, the neighbors agreed to form a block watch and that everybody should be on the lookout for suspicious looking characters.

A few days after the robbery, I called my mother to check up on her. She said that she was still a little shaken and that she no longer felt the same sense of security. Now living alone for the first time in her life, she decided to start locking the doors. After days of searching junk drawers, she finally found the key to the front door. She then went to the hardware store to had copies made. She told me to drop by and she would give me one of the new keys.

My washing machine was broken, so the next day, I filled a big blue and white striped laundry bag with clothes from our hamper and headed across town to my mother’s house. When I pulled up, I noticed that somebody new had moved in next door in the house that once belonged to my grandfather. I pulled the laundry bag from the back seat of my Honda Civic and headed up the sidewalk to the front door. I instinctively twisted the doorknob and pushed, forgetting that my mother had started locking her doors. I knocked several times but nobody answered. I then remembered that she said she was going to the beauty salon and then morning mass with her friends.

I wouldn't be deterred, so I walked around to the rear of the house, dragging my overstuffed laundry bag, and tried opening the door to the family room. Again the door was locked. Surely, I thought, the cellar hatchway will be open, but pull as I might, it just wouldn’t budge. I then I had a brainstorm. I knew that if locking doors was something new to my mother, she probably hadn’t even begun to think about locking the windows. I congratulated myself for my brilliance, then climbed on top of a row of trash barrels and pushed the family room window open.

I momentarily thought of how my actions might look to my mother’s neighbors but then I figured that they'd known me all my life and that they would probably recognize me.

When I was half way through the window, I thought of the new next-door neighbor. They didn’t know me. Perhaps I should have gone over and introduced myself before climbing in the window. Too late now, I was already in the family room. I next grabbed the pull strings to my laundry bag and walked down to the basement and began doing my laundry.

After pouring the detergent into the machine, I heard the sound of squealing tires sliding on the pavement in front of the house. I walked back upstairs to see what all the commotion was about. As I peered out the front window, I saw what looked like two unmarked police cars parked at strange angles out front. Instantly, there was pounding on the front door.

It was “ The Fuzz!”

I opened the door to find a West Haven detective, his gun drawn and ready. He gave me a hard stare.

“I was afraid this might happen.” I said.

“You were, huh?...What are you doing in here?

“Laundry!” I answered.

I went on to explain that this was my mother’s house, and how we never locked the doors growing up and that I hadn’t gotten my new key yet and . . .I could tell that detective only half believed me. He raised his hand, as if to say STOP, pushed the button on his radio, and said . . .“Jimmy get in here!”

My brother Jimmy (then a West Haven detective) came running into the house from the back door. He also had his gun drawn.

“What the #$&*@ are you doing?!?! He demanded.

“Laundry,” I said. “The doors were all locked, so I climbed in the back window.”

“You’re an #*@$%&!!!” He shouted.

Jimmy then had to radio his desk sergeant with a report. The desk sergeant that day just happened to be my brother John.

“Yeah, it’s Bobby!” Jimmy said. “He wanted to do his laundry and the doors were locked so he climbed in the window out back.”

“What an #*$%@&!” John said.

It turns out that the new next-door neighbor just happened to look out her kitchen window and saw me prowling around outside. She then called Irene, another neighbor. Irene looked out her window and apparently didn't recognize my rump as it climbed through the window. They called the police immediately.

As they say, the rest is history! This story is now Union Avenue legend.

Renovations

If you’re one of my regular readers, you’ve probably noticed that I changed the template to this blog. It’s not that I didn’t like the old design, it’s just that I was bored and I started playing around, pointing my mouse here and clicking my mouse there and before I knew it, my site had a whole new look. It was simple. Now if only renovating the house could be that easy.

This got me thinking. Wouldn’t it be great if you could take a USB cable from your computer and attach it to the exterior of your home? You could then go to your PC, surf over to the Benjamin Moore paint palette, point, click and Voila’! Your green house is now red.

Imagine plugging a laptop computer into your car’s cigarette lighter. You could visit the Maaco or Earl Scheib website, point, click, and before you know it, you’ve pimped your canary yellow Camry into a metallic neon blue funk mobile.

Rob a Bank? No problem. The cops have an ABP out on a White Bronco but like a chameleon, you've turned your truck fire engine red. Now, if O. J. had only thought of this invention, he’d be a free man today. (Oh wait! He is free.)

Women could point and click to coordinate their Mercedes with their outfits. Tires would be designed to go with shoes and the car’s interior with handbags. All of today’s hottest designers would be recommending accessories to match your car’s trim and jewelry would be made of hood ornaments, (oh wait! They already do that.)

If we could only point and click our gray away, Miss Clairol would be on the unemployment line. Tanning Salons would be a thing of the past. Just imagine George Hamilton pointing and clicking his pale rawhide flesh, into a nice golden brown. Justin Timberlake’s epidermis would be a dark chestnut brown and Michael Jackson would turn his pale white (oh wait, he already did that.)

Spend money on lawn fertilizer? Fugettaboutit! Just bury your USB cable out in your lawn. Go to the Scott’s Lawn Products website, find the right color…say an Arnold Palmer Green, and Presto…. you now have your own golf course.

Even all your neighbors would be green…with envy that is.

You know? I might be on to something here.

Happy Anniversary Baby!

It's hard to believe that my wife and I have been married for 17 years. What's even more frightening, is that we started dating 25 years ago. It doesn't seem possible.

Every once in a while my daughters will pull out our wedding video for laughs. They always comment on how much hair I had and how much younger we look. Watching this video brings me back to that day:

(imagine screen getting wavy for flashback sequence)

Being a man, I was more than happy to let my wife deal with all the minute details of our wedding. We had dated for eight years before we got married (I didn’t want to rush into anything!) so my wife had plenty of time to dream and plan for our pending nuptials. Sometimes she'd run her wedding plans by me but I was more of a sounding board. She really wasn’t seeking my opinion but rather bouncing her ideas off of me.

My only real wedding responsibilities were to:

1.) Show up. (Something she wasn’t sure I would do since I was a known commitment phobic!)
2.) Keep my mother happy by getting a Catholic Priest to co-officiate the ceremony.
3.) Pick out the wedding songs.

Tasks one and two were simple. Task three proved to be more of a challenge.

I thought of all the songs I’d heard at other people's weddings over the years: i.e. Paul Stookey’s “Wedding Song (There is Love),” The Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun” and Dan Fogelberg’s “Longer”. These were all great songs but it seemed they had been used ad nauseam. I wanted to be an original.

I have always been a big Dan Fogelberg fan and I had remembered a song on his Twin Sons of Different Mothers album. It was a cover of an old Judy Collin’s gem titled “Since You’ve Asked.” I loved the lyrics to this song and as far as I knew, no one had ever used it at their wedding. I played the song for my then fiance and she agreed that it would be perfect.

Jean, our wedding singer, sang this song just after we exchanged our vows:

Since You've Asked

What I'll give you
Since you've asked
Is all my time together
Take the rugged sunny days
The warm and rocky weather
Take the roads that I have walked along
Looking for tomorrow's time
Peace of mind --
As your life spills into mine
Changing with the seasons
Filling up the world with time
Changing time to reasons
I can show you all the songs
That I never sang to someone before.
We have seen a million stars
Lying by the water
You have climbed the hills with me
To the mountain shelter
Taking off the days
One by one
Setting them to breathe
In the sun.
Take the lilies and the Lace
From the days of childhood
All the willow winding paths
Leading up and outward
This is what I give
This is what I ask you for
Nothing more.

Who says I’m not a romantic?

My wife and I paid for the wedding ourselves, so we were on a tight budget. We couldn't afford a band so we hired a DJ from a company called Rent-a-DJ. Our DJ, they told me, would be Darren Murphy.

Murphy! I thought, that'll be great. He'll probably play tons of Irish music. I was a little surpised on the day of our wedding when we walked into the reception hall and discovered that Darren was actually African-American. I don't mean to disparage him but his playlist was a little heavy on the R&B/Motown side (at least for a crowd of Irish Catholics and New England Yankees.) This was especially true when Darren spun the Jackson 5 song, Mama I Found That Girl for my mother and I to dance to.

Mama, oh mama, I found that girl

Mama, oh mama, I found that girl

My new bride and I, chose the Stephen Bishop song It Might Be You for our first dance. We walked out to the dance floor as Darren spun the record:

Time...

I've been passing time watching trains go by

All of my life...

Lying on the sand, watching seabirds fly

Wishing there would be

Someone waiting home for me...

Something's telling me it might be you

It's telling me it might be you...

All of my life...

You might think it strange that I picked a song titled, It Might Be You, my wife however, thought that it captured my non-commital spirit.

Besides, the song ends on a more hopeful note:

I've been saving love songs and lullabies

And there's so much more

No one's ever heard before...

Something's telling me it might be you

Yeah, it's telling me it must be you

And I'm feeling it'll just be you

All of my life...

It's you..

It's you...

I've been waiting for all of my life...

It's A Bird...It's A Plane...It's...

One snowy January evening circa 1993, actor Christopher Reeve came running down the platform of track 25 in Grand Central Terminal in New York. He was dressed in a parka and a wool cap. On his feet he wore a pair of oversized snow boots.

“Do I have time to run and grab a beer,” he asked.

“What are you worried about?” I said, “You’re faster than a locomotive.”

He smiled, looked down, pointed to his boots and said, “Not in this weather!”