Friday excerpt from S'mothered. Eleven year old Johnny Orlando's first day at work

"I started working just after the war broke out. I should say I thought I started working. I wanted to be a caddy at the County golf course so I went there one morning and asked the Caddy Master if there was a test I had to take or forms to fill out.

He looked at me as if I was retarded and said “no tests kid and no forms, just sit there until I tell you I have a bag for you. Are you sure, you can carry a bag? You look like a runt.”

I replied in a shaky voice “I’ve never carried a bag on a real golf course for a real golfer but I have carried my Uncle Sal’s bag around the yard.”

My Uncle Sal was a great amateur golfer and had won some County Tournaments. I told the Caddy Master my uncles name and pretended he sent me here to get a job caddying.

He sarcastically shot back, “Listen kid I don’t care if your Uncle is Bobby Jones as long as you can carry a bag when I get you one, so shut up and go sit in the caddy shack until I need you.”

I was puzzled why he referred to my Uncle Sal as Bobby Jones and wondered who Bobby Jones was.

As for being called a runt, I had been called a lot worse than that by my own relatives, so why should I care if a stranger called me that?

My cousin Larry had started caddying here a few months ago and I thought maybe I should mention his name to the Caddy Master but decided to quit while I was behind. I should have asked Larry about the terms they use here. Like what did they mean about getting me a bag? I thought golfers bought their own bags. My uncles did.

Well I waited two or three hours and it was time for lunch. Grandma had made me a spiced ham sandwich on white bread with mustard and put it in a brown bag with a banana. I bought a coke at the refreshment stand and started eating the sandwich.

A caddy was coming off the course and asked me if I had gotten out yet”

I didn’t know what “gotten out” meant but answered “yes.”

“How many bags you carried and how much did the cheap skate pay you?” he asked.

I could see I was getting in over my head now so I changed the subject and offered him half my sandwich.

He could tell I was new and helped me interpret the golf lingo they used here.
“The main thing ,” he said “is to watch where the guy hits the golf ball. Most of the golfers will put up with anything except if you lose their ball. You lose their ball Johnny and they will have a shit fit.”

Oh boy, I thought to myself, this job is going to be tougher than I imagined it would be.

After lunch, I sat around and waited for another two or three hours but the Caddy Master never did call my name. I walked home somewhat dejected, I had already spent what I going to earn. At least in my mind I had spent it. I needed a new tire for my bike after getting three flats in two weeks. The tube was made of more patches than rubber by now. On top of that, I needed fifty cents for the Captain Marvel club dues.

Anyhow, the next day Larry went with me to the course. We signed up with Jack, the caddy master. I was impressed Larry knew his name. We went to the shack and waited, shot some marbles and played a game with our penknives.

Two hours passed and Jack called Larry’s name, he used last names so he shouted out, “Villani, get over to the first tee, you got a bag, ask for Mr. Giardano, get a move on, quick!”

I figured Larry had seniority since he worked here a few months already. I assumed my turn was next and sat down. Two hours later I ate my lunch, a baloney sandwich, except my Grandma forgot to put mustard on it. After lunch, I resumed waiting and when it was 4:00 p.m. I realized I was not getting any bags again. Since it got dark at seven and a round of golf took at least four hours, no golfers would tee off after four o’clock.

I walked home alone. Larry was still caddying for Mr. Giordano. When my mother got home from work, she asked how much money I made.

When I told her none, she said “how come Larry brings home five dollars every time he goes to caddy and you bring home nothing Johnny?”

By now I had figured out how the system worked, the Caddy Master picked caddies by age first, then seniority and then strength or height and then finally he would pick the runts.”

So I answered my mother sarcastically, “I guess it’s because Larry’s Mother gives him milk and cereal for breakfast and I get soda.” I was really telling the truth although in a flippant sort of way. We never had milk in our house and the only cereal Grandma ever made was pastina, which I hated.

My Mother never yelled at me or threatened to hit me, never once in my life. She hurt me with words instead and I learned to reply in kind. “Well junior,” she said.” that isn’t my fault, I go to work every day and give Grandma money every week for food. Anyhow, what’s that got to do with caddying?”

I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of finding out I was classified as a runt at the golf course so I walked away, cursing under my breath.

Finally, on Friday, my third day of being a gainfully employed caddy, the course was very crowded. Every available caddy had been used. I was the last one left.

Jack called out “OK, Orlando you got a bag, get over to the tee and ask for Mr. O’Hara. Look for a big heavyset guy, any questions?”

“Nope” I said back to him, and ran over to the first tee, which was up a very steep hill. When I got there, I asked another caddy to point out the golfer I was caddying for. Mr. O’Hara turned out to more than heavy set, he was obese. When I went up to him, I was out of breath from running up the hill.

He noticed it and said “what’s the matter kid.We haven’t started yet and your out of breath. You ever loop before?”

Larry had clued me in on the golf terms the previous day, so I knew “loop” meant 18 holes. I thought of lying but figured he would know by the end of the first hole that this was all Greek to me, so I told him “no, Mr. O’Hara, but I’m a fast learner.”

He smiled and said “I’m not worried about you learning kid, all you have to do is stay out of my line of sight when I’m swinging and then carry my bag to where the ball lands, you don’t have to be Albert Einstein to be a caddy, just don’t lose my ball. What I am worried about though is if you can carry the bag? How much do you weigh?”

I exaggerated a little and said “one hundred and five.”

I could tell by the way he looked at me that he didn’t believe me. He joked, “well the bag weighs more than you do so good luck.”

I didn’t believe he could even swing the club, that’s how fat he was. He got up on the first tee, put his ball on a wooden tee and sunk it into the ground. Then he swung so hard he almost fell down.

I was so fascinated with watching him swing the club; I forgot to watch the ball. I had absolutely no idea where it had gone. “Oh my God,” I said to myself; now I was in trouble. I thought quickly, I’ll just walk behind him and follow him to the ball.
No such luck, he hadn’t seen it either and asked “where did it go kid?”

I looked the other way so he couldn’t see my face, meanwhile thinking, what do I do now? I figured it could have gone left or right so if I just guessed, thinking I had a 50 per cent chance of being right.

I said, “it went left Sir.” We walked down the left side of the fairway. He couldn’t see his ball and neither could I.

I thought even quicker now and told him “it went into the rough.” When you hit a ball, in the rough where the grass is quite high, the player doesn’t hold the caddy responsible. I was off the hook for now.

The other three golfers in the foursome came over to help us look for the ball. Mr. O’Hara said his ball was a brand new Wilson. The five of us searched for the ball for about 10 minutes with no luck. Just as he was putting another ball down to hit from where his lost ball should be, one of the other caddies called from across the fairway.

Your ball’s over here Mr. O’Hara, a Wilson right? Damn, I said under my breath it’s all the way over on the right side of the fairway. I should have said right.

He gave me a dirty look and said “look kid, you keep this up and I am kicking your ass off this course and the Caddy Master’s as well. Why in hell does he always stick me with the runt of the litter?”

Oh boy, I whispered, there’s that damn word again.

Well I may be a little slow on the draw, but when I start concentrating, I pick things up fast, as I had proved the past year in school. I watched every shot the rest of the loop and, being blessed with great eyesight, I never lost another ball.

At the end of the 18 holes, he said “good job, kid, you had me a little worried at the beginning but you’re not bad.” He handed me a five-dollar bill and said “spend this on food and put some meat on those bones.”

With the most money I had ever earned in my pocket, I practically floated home to tell my Mother. I could tell she was impressed but she didn’t say anything.

I said nothing about the first hole, to her, or to Larry, or to anyone else in the town, state or country."

Whats up? There are forty nine male authors in this top 50 list and only one woman?

A recent survey by Modern Reader listed the top 50 novels of all time. The results are listed in a box further down this page.

There is only one female author listed, Virginia Woolf.

That is astonishing. There are forty nine male authors in this top 50 list and one woman?

Please understand that I am not a chauvinist male. I am not posting this list to demean female writers or females of any profession. I feel women are every bit as good,if not better than men in every art,craft or skill I can think of.

I am as puzzled by this oddity as I think most of you readers are.

I have pondered this for a very long time. As a voracious reader of classical literature I have deliberately sought out books written by women, to try and spot some shortcoming which would explain this.

Some of the authors I have read in this project are very well known, Ann Beatty,Ann Tyler,Gertrude Stein, Virginia Wolfe, Flannery O'Conner,Joyce Carol Oates,Toni Morrison,Marilynne Robinson,Alice Walker, Willa Cather, Louise Erdrich,and Nadine Gordimer.

They are great writers, no doubt. I enjoy some more than others. Flannery O'Conner would rank as my favorite except I feel she overuses the N word for no useful purpose.

It is hard to explain why none of these excellent writers qualify among the top 50.

Here is what I have concluded and I hope I do not offend anyone, particularly women who write novels.

I find the work of all the authors mentioned above to be entertaining,informative and sometimes quite exciting.

For some reason, however when I finish these books I feel something is missing.

I am almost sure it is because of the endings.

I think women write as well as men from start, to almost, but not quite the end. They leave this reader feeling somewhat cheated.

I also suspect that women who read these authors do not have the same reaction. I believe most male readers do.

What I am trying to say, probably in a convoluted manner, is that women unconsciously write for other women.

Observe two women carrying on a conversation and two men doing the same. One women very seldom has to completely finish her thought before her companion interrupts her and says "I know just what you mean." The variation of that phrase used so commonly today is "know what I mean?"

A man,meanwhile, most of the time doesn't know what in the heck the other guy means and asks him to repeat his thought.

So, isn't it fair to conjecture that female novelists assume they do not have to spell out the conclusion of their writing? Male authors seem to just naturally assume they won't be understood unless they do.

Lets take an example and compare how two great authors, Toni Morrison and Charles Dickens each ended one of their most celebrated books.

Morrison ends "Beloved" twice and has drawn criticism from both blacks and women for the ambivalence of the endings.

As one respected critic,Mary Paniccia Carden, said in her review in 1999, "Beloved ends first with the construction of new domestic arrangements at 124 Bluestone Road, and then with the deconstruction of Beloved.

"That these two endings with their contradictory movements--coming together and flying apart--sit so separately together indicates the novel's ambivalent investment in the heterosexual couple as the site where history assumes its shape and meaning."

I am easily confused by these type endings. I leave unsure whether the focus of the novel was why black women have historically been secondary or invisible.

Or was the focus on the projection of a happily-ever-after romance scenario for Sethe and Paul , with possibilities for both resistance and re inscription of the gender role expectations that have consistently failed them ?

Consider on the other hand, the ending of Charles Dicken's novel "Hard Times"

Mrs. Sparsit and her arch rival, Mr. Bounderby confront each with a climactic, scathing discussion which leaves little doubt in the reader's mind where each stands.

The next to last page bids farewell to Louisa, Mr. Gradgrind,Rachael. Dicken's uses the literary goodbye to each character to sum up their pasts and presume thier futures.

So, I feel male authors choose eiither a happy ,sad or tragic ending, but always a conclusive finish. Women writers leave some loose ends.

I am just theorizing about this puzzling list along side of my post, I concede however, that your guess is as good as mine.

Or maybe not?

"Flaky, Ignorant Demagogue." ???

I agree with Carl Bernstein who is one of the most reputable newsmen in the country; the man who broke the Watergate story.

However I don't think he went far enough. He said McCain committed an "unpatriotic act" when he selected Sarah Palin as his VP running mate last year.

Bringing this person to an office one heartbeat from the Presidency is not merely unpatriotic. Desecrating our flag is an example of an unpatriotic act. What John McCain did borders on treason.

Sarah Palin is a dangerous person. Let's examine the terms Bernstein used.

Flaky?

This is obvious. Just watch her stomp up the steps, pounce on the microphone, click her heels,and lick her high gloss lipstick. Before she utters one word we know we are in the presence of a flake.

Ignorant?

One question from Katie Couric forever stigmatized the former Governor as spaced out. This makes her more, rather than less, dangerous. To understand that ambiguity you have to understand conservative white American men. They find vacuous women fascinating.

Demagogue?

A demagogue is one who appeals to and manipulates mass prejudice.

Palin appeals to the whole spectrum of the prejudiced, Those who cannot tolerate the existence of Non-whites,. Her followers don't trust non-Alaskans or gays,. They would stuff religion down our throats. They are gun toting fanatics,and detest those who would let women decide on their own whether they want to have an abortion.

Actually she cannot manipulate anyone because manipulation is an art or a skill. Palin has no skills. She is gorgeous and she is dumb and that is where her great appeal originates.

This is a Capitalistic society. Wealthy white men of influence run it. These men love dumb beautiful women.

Typically these men are very insecure about their sexuality. The Sanfords,Craigs, Foleys, Spitzers, Maddoffs,Haggards see the Sarah Palin type as non-threatening to their macho natures.

She it too dense to manipulate anyone, but she appeals to these dumbed down Kool-Aid followers..

So there you have it. Finally a man of great substance,Bernstein, this morning, stepped up and told the truth.

Millions of influential Democrats feel the same about Palin but you won't see them offering their remarks for publication. They must protect their own hides at all costs.

This is how we live these days.

"See no evil, hear no evil ,speak no evil monkeys," running the Zoo, while the really dangerous animals run wild.

HOMELESS VETS.TRULY, A NATIONAL DISGRACE!

The latest estimates of homeless veterans range from 230,000 to more than 750,000, about two-thirds of whom served since the beginning of the Vietnam era.

Let's own up to the truth.

It was mostly the poor and uneducated who were drafted to fight the Vietnam War, it should come as no surprise that so many are now on the margins of society.

Admittedly, the Veterans Administration provides many benefits, including educational assistance, job training, disability compensation, pensions, readjustment and job counseling, housing loans, and medical care. But few of the homeless veterans receive all the benefits they deserve or need.

The situation is going to get a lot worse and soon. Thousands of Iraq vets will soon be swelling the homeless ranks. It usually takes a year or two before the returning troops suffer the delayed shock of what they have seen in this horrifying war

I voted for Obama but I am getting very discouraged on this issue. Barack, the candidate made a big point of the Veterans problem, terming it "intolerable and unacceptable." McCain said much the same thing as did G.W. Bush and Bill Clinton.

The cruel reality is our leaders do very little to address this situation after they are elected. Why?

Because it flies beneath the radar. Bank bailouts,unemployment etc, all legitimate concerns, grab the headlines. It does not fly beneath my radar. Every time I see a homeless vet I get a lump in my throat.

I served in the Korean War. The nation at the time was tired of wars since the War to end all Wars had just ended a few years earlier. Still, while there were no parades for returning Korean vets, their reception can in no way be compared to what has happened after Vietnam and what is happening to the returning Iraq vets today.

THIS IS A DISGRACE !

Saluting these men and women on July 4th, Memorial Day and Veterans Day does not cut the mustard. Its almost like the people who call themselves spiritual because they don't beat their children. Heck, animals do that.

Veterans deserve more than we can ever give them because without their service those who never served could not be enjoying what they have today.

Two homes,one for each season, bowling alley size master bedrooms, home theaters in the basements and four cars and 5 dogs in every family. We spend more on our dogs and veterinarians than we do on veterans. I have no figures to back that up but I know I'm right.

Wake up America , veterans make up 11 percent of the adult population, but they make up 26 percent of the homeless according to a National Alliance report report. That's insane.

Wake up Mr. President. Fly out to San Diego this week and talk to these homeless vets gathered there for 3 days to receive their annual dental checkups from a volunteer organization called Stand Down. The military term, stand down refers to time out from combat to allow rest and re-equipping.

Stand Down started 21 years ago here in San Diego and is duplicated on a smaller scale in other cities. It still draws a preponderance of Vietnam-era men, many fighting alcohol and drug problems.

''Vietnam veterans have never been able to resolve the questions that a person needs to answer to have a healthy psyche, like, 'What did I do that for?' and 'What was the fighting about?' '' says Michael Leaveck, a spokesman for the Vietnam Veterans of America. Jeers Instead of Cheers

Leaveck goes on to say that the war left many veterans with alcohol or drug problems, or the mental illness called post-traumatic stress disorder. According to the organization, one-third of the homeless veterans have substance abuse problems and another third have mental or physical disabilities.

We need dramatic efforts and legislation to bring this sad story on to the front pages.

Specifically, our veterans should not have to get their health care from volunteer organizations. They should receive lifetime coverage equivalent to what our Senators receive.

EVERY VETERAN WHO LOSES A LIMB should receive 1 million bucks from the govt; 1 million for each limb lost. In other words a quad amputee would receive 4 million and so forth.

Every vet who is emotionally crippled by post traumatic stress syndrome should receive a lifetime pension which would keep him or her from living on the streets.

And every single vet who served in Iraq itself during the past 7 years should receive a free home,minimum of 3 bedrooms. Their can be absolutely no rational reason why any of these brave young returnees should ever be homeless!

Not in a rich country like this. No way!

P.S. Tried google and other search engines for photos of amputee vets. I could not find any for this article. Amazing how even our search engines protect our sensitivies. We all choose to buffer ourselves from reality when it shames us.

Friday excerpt from my autobiographical novel,S'mothered

These were some of the things I reflected on, as I stood shivering, my hands almost frost bitten, eyes tearing and nose numb, at the corner of Colfax and Seaton avenues on December 8, 1941. The previous day was of course a fateful one for America, but I was too young to realize how much the happenings of the past 24 hours somewhere half way around the world, would influence the rest of my adolescence.

The Japanese invaded Pearl Harbor. The same night, President Roosevelt announced our country was now at war. I knew what a war was. I had toy soldiers and I lined them up against my friend’s soldiers. He tried to kill my soldiers, and I tried to kill his. Even at the age of ten I understood the war the President talked about was a lot more serious than our make-believe wars.

During the next few years, four of the remaining males in my life served in World War 11 on various battlefields thousands of miles from Rose Point, my Uncle Sal, Uncle Pat, Uncle Frank and my stepfather Hank. I missed them all but when Uncle Sal left, I cried.

Patriotic fever was beginning to erupt, even in our small ethnic community in New Jersey as just about all the able-bodied men marched off to war. Bands played and women wept with pride as each week some additional young men left their jobs, schools or businesses to fight against booted fascists and yellow, sneaky, cowardly Japs.

These were exciting, proud, almost euphoric days and weeks in the little town I lived in. The radios blared forth songs like “Lets Remember Pearl Harbor” and at the one movie theater in the town, almost overnight, every picture playing showed soldiers, sailors and marines fighting monsters like Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito.

It all seemed surreal. The headlines in the daily newspapers, which I couldn’t wait to read each morning, were bold and black and twice the size as usual. The radio bulletins interrupted regular programs to announce news of the Allied Forces advancing and then retreating as they bombed large cities and ports. Foreboding photos of captured troops in prisoner of war camps cast a pall on life. Each night I listened to F.D.R talking on the radio about fearing fear itself, infamy and victory.

I guess the most serious report was when a rumor floated throughout the state, in the newspapers, and on the radio about a German U boat being sighted off the new Jersey coast. The possibility the Nazis were about to invade us was now pervasive. Soon we were having mandatory, twice weekly, practice air raids. A loud, scary, wailing alarm sounded for a full minute. We were told it was a minute, but it felt like much longer. Everyone was ordered into his or her homes until the all clear alarm sounded five minutes later.

Ironically, amid all this tumult and turmoil, my life seemed calmer and more peaceful. There was less shouting and fighting both inside and outside the house and around the neighborhood. The war had initially sparked passions of pride and pomp, but as reports of casualties started to slowly filter back to the home front, a sense of fear and anxiety developed. I could feel it.

People were talking to other people more often as they shared their reactions and vulnerabilities. Some neighbors, Mrs. Fanning, the butcher, Mr. Cutrafello, and the scary old woman known as the "Calabrase Lady,” occasionally expressed concern about my sister and me.

I noticed this also among the adults milling around outside of Sabio’s and at the gas station. I felt closer to my peers both in school and while playing. I think our common fears drew us closer to each other. The school bullies picked on me less and the normally aloof older kids were more approachable.

This new atmosphere of serenity was temporarily and harshly shattered one morning in January, when I was awakened by the sound of police sirens. I jumped out of bed and ran outside as did everyone else in the house except grandma. I saw Larry across the street talking with some high school kids. I ran over and asked “What happened, Lar, what’s going on?”

Larry hesitated to tell me. He knew how scary I was and didn’t want his mother yelling at him later for spilling the beans and getting me all stirred up. I kept pulling at Larry’s sleeve.

Finally he gave in and said “don’t spread this around but Tommy Manning killed him self last night. He laid his head on the tracks and it got cut off.”

What, what,” I shouted, “you’re kidding, you know you’re kidding. What a sick joke, Larry. Why are you trying to scare me, you dirty bastard?” I hardly ever cursed but was so mad the words exploded out of me. The thought of someone who I actually knew, and in fact, had been kidding around with a few days earlier, not having a head, freaked me out.

Larry grabbed me by the arm and told me to shut up. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” he said angrily,” you’re a brat, I wouldn’t make up something this serious, you jerk. Tommy Manning is dead, He committed suicide. He’s dead. His body’s in his house. They found his head. They’ll be coming to get him pretty soon. Now move away from here, Johnny. The cop just told me we all have to get away from here.”

We slowly shuffled back across the street and sat on the curb in front of our house.

Tommy Manning was a seventeen-year-old senior at Rose Point high school, a star safety and punter on the football team, with a blond, cheerleader girl friend. I had a crush on her and never missed a chance to run outside if I saw her coming down the block. Actually, at that stage of my life, I had a crush on any blond as long as she had one head and two legs.

We learned the full story later. Tommy had reacted with horror to the Japs' surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and told everyone who would listen, he was going to join the Infantry, as soon as he graduated. He was going to wipe out every "yellow livered cruddy Jap" he could find. His face always would turn deep scarlet when he talked about the Japs, his eyes almost popping out of his head. He would crouch and hold his arms and hands in a position as if he was holding a machine gun. He would fire imaginary shots “rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat.” Shouting as fast as he coul. In his mind he would kill hundreds of Jap soldiers

That evening, I learned from my Uncle Jimmy even more of what happened. Tommy Manning had gone to the army recruiting center in Westfield, N.J. the previous morning to enlist. He couldn’t enter the army until he graduated in June, but the recruiters wanted him to sign up early so they could give him some written tests and a physical exam.

Well, would you believe it? Tommy failed the physical! He was suffering from malfunctioning adrenal glands. Anyhow, he was rejected and reclassified 4f, or, not fit for service. The 4f classification had a stigma attached to it since the start of the War. The newspapers said we needed all the men we could get. Only down and out bums or disabled people were being turned down.

Tommy came home that evening after apparently wandering aimlessly all afternoon. He said nothing to anyone and when his girl friend called about 9:00 p.m., he told his Mom to tell her he had gone to bed early.

Evidently he didn’t feel well. His father, a light sleeper, heard him slip out of the house just before midnight. The police investigative unit theorized what happened next as there were no witnesses.

Tommy, utterly dejected about not getting into the army and feeling totally humiliated, took a six pack of Ballentine beer out of the ice box and walked the hundred yards to the tracks directly in back of his corner house.

The police figured he drank all six beers in about 20 minutes, then laid flat on the ground on his belly and smoked a cigarette. His head rested just over the outer rail of the tracks. The westbound Silver Streak Express, originating in New York City and bound for Miami, neatly severed Tommy’s young beautiful head from the rest of his seventeen-year-old body.

I laid awake until 11 o’clock, replaying the horror of that day. I imagined Tommy, sneaking out, walking across the field where my friends and I played baseball every day and laying down with his head on the track. I pictured Tommy’s body, his head with the cigarette still dangling from his lips, as it slowly rolled away down the embankment, the very same embankment where Larry and I had sledded a month earlier during the snowstorm.

I sat upright in my bed, crying and shaking, and wished my mother was in the next bedroom instead of three thousand miles away.


keywords, paltrow,erin andrews,helicopter crash,tour de france,clunkers,janke,tequila,solange,spurrier

What causes your P.C.to creep, crawl and then crash?

In one word, MAINTENANCE.

A personal computer, be it a laptop or a desktop can last you as long as a Volkswagen if you regularly perform some simple tasks.

My suggestions are based on my own personal experiences. I taught myself how to operate a PC in the earliest days of the Internet. I learned the hard way after repeated freezes and crashes. In those early days there was no google to go to for advice. The only way out of the simplest problem was to reboot. There were no preventive maintenance programs.

1.Do not trust the protection promised by your Internet Providers,Cable or Phone Company DSL providers or any other third party program. The "Lord helps those who protect themselves" is a good motto when you are dealing with millions of hackers who get their jollies from destroying your equipment.

Invest in a good top of the line software package and do not skimp on the price. Most are ineffective and a complete waste.

Besides the anti-virus feature they should also provide anti-spam, network security,anti-phishing,id protection, a two way firewall, anti-tracking devices,Internet worm protection, browser protection,intrusion preventions and web site authentication.

My personal favorite is the Norton Internet Security package. It is simple but incredibly effective. Run the scan feature at least once a week to see where your problems originate and delete the suspect programs. Once you have Norton installed you won't even know what horrible things are going on in the background because Norton cuts 99% of them off before they ever cause a critical problem.

Scan and delete the programs causing them anyway. Eventually they will wear your PC down much as an engine running with 2 year old engine oil in the crankcase of your car.

If your DSL constantly slows down until you would be better off with the old dial-up, be advised it is most likely a virus problem. Your DSL repairmen whether they be from Direct TV,Time-Warner, or Verizon will not tell you this as they understandably have to to justify their jobs.

The answerman tells you right now that almost all slow-down problems ruining your cyber experience are related to hidden infections you know nothing about!

Buy and install the Norton programs or equivalent software packages from reliable manufacturers. The times you are suddenly logged off will virtually disappear.
The Norton pkg costs about $89.00 at Staples, Best Buy etc.

2. Get a good Malaware program like Malwarebytes. Copy and paste this link in your browser window and then click on go:

http://www.malwarebytes.org/.

This program scans your hard drive for worms, bugs,viruses etc which are already on your PC. It identifies them by name, Vondos,Trojan, etc and removes them with a quick reboot and restart.

Dell customer support showed me where to get a free download of this program but you might have to pay for it if you find it on your own.

3. Use the chkdsk feature, monthly. Run it at night while you are sleeping as it can take hours to complete:

Follow these instructions very carefully.

Click Start and then click My Computer.
Right-click the hard disk drive to scan, and click Properties.
In the Local Disk Properties window, click the Tools tab.
Click Check Now.
In the Check Disk Local Disk window, click to select the box next to Automatically fix file system errors.
note

It is advisable to select "Scan for and attempt recovery of bad sectors" to physically check the surface of the hard disk. However, this step increases the time it takes to complete the scan. What do you care? You will be snoring away.

Click Start. A prompt may appear to perform the scan the next time the computer restarts. If so, click Yes. The computer restarts and runs Checkdisk and you go to bed.

That's it. Actually its not as difficult as it sounds.If my instructions confuse you, ask the manufacturer of your PC to help you or google check disk.

There is an optional program, DEFRAG which you can also use but I don't think its that important.


Comments and topic suggestions welcomed and appreciated.

BETH WANTS A BABY! IS THE KING OF ALL MEDIA FIRING BLANKS?

The answer? It sure looks like it.

Howard Stern at age 55 has everything, almost everything.

Megalomaniacs are never satisfied unless they have absolutely everything.

They must constantly reaffirm their virility.It's a power trip.

Former United States Senator Al Amato this weekend publicly urged Howie and Beth to have a "little one." and implied it would help their marriage. Stripped of his machismo by scandals, Amato should know. His wife, who is decades younger than Senator Al, will give birth within days. The once powerful Senator can now feel like a man again.

The Stern marriage is doomed if Howie cannot deliver.

I predict Beth Ostrosky will leave Stern if he cannot get her pregnant by their second anniversary. She desperately wants a child and her time clock is running out. If she does depart she will marry a man at least 15 years younger than herself.

This is a truism; women who marry sugar daddies, sooner or later transmogrify into Cougar gals.

Howard has reiterated, almost daily on his radio show for the past 7 years that he does not want children The opposite is closer to the truth.

Never, ever believe what Stern reveals on-air about his private life.In fact, to know what is really going on, assume the opposite.

For twenty years,the lovely, ultra intelligent Allison Stern, phoned into the show several times. The loving banter between Howie and Allison was both entertaining and heartwarming. We loyal and rabid fans were duped.

Who knew he was at the time contemplating divorce from the mother of his three daughters?

Who knew 10 years ago, between marriages,that he was sleeping with Angie Everhart and Robin Givens?

Now ,Stern has to prove that he is still capable of having children. It is an obsession. There can only be one rational reason why Beth is not pregnant yet.

Of course they are both consummate actors so you will never hear confirmation of this fact from either of them on-air.

After all, why would this self-obsessed genius want to burden himself with raising a child now?

What burden?

Howard makes 25 million a year. He can hire a full time live in Mom to raise the child and pay the "Mom" 1 million a year. The only time he would have to see the kid is when he or she is handed to him for a photo op.

If this guy did not want a child he would have a vasectomy in one minute.

He is one of the cleverest men in the country. Has effectively buffered himself against the charges of sterility, but Daily Question has daily answers.

Howard has run out of solutions to his dilemma.He could have Beth inseminated from a sperm bank or from John Stamos and then announce it is his child.

Sure, and how does he explain when the baby comes out with a normal nose?

So the answer to today's question is yes.

What is the worst movie musical you have ever seen. When and where did you see it?

MAMMA MIA ..................SUNDAY NIGHT PREMIERE ON HBO

MAMMA MIA MAMMA MIA!!!!!!!!!!

For those of you who are not of Italian extraction or not married to one,"mamma mia" is what we say when we can't believe what our eyes are seeing, be it a catastrophe or a miraculous vision of the Virgin Mary.

Mamma Mia, the title, could not be more fitting and Mamma Mia, the movie could not be more catastrophic.

First of all I have no idea where it was shot, supposedly on a Greek island, but it looks more like Lake Hopatcong in Hackettstown, New Jersey.

There is not one redeeming feature or character in this movie. None of the characters can sing and none of them, and I mean not one of them, can emote!This is a movie you will find yourself paying to see again and again... at a midnight performance on Halloween. It is destined to be a cult classic of the Rocky Horror Picture Show genre.

Meryl Streep's career took such a hit from this movie that she entered a convent (DOUBT.) Why would such a great actress take on a role like this. They stuffed her into coveralls three sizes too small for her matronly figure and she same out looking like Ma Yokum in the long ago musical version of "Lil Abner."

Meryl has obviously had one too many face lifts because the face of a thousand moods is now frozen in place. It's hard to describe, sort of a semi smile or a smirk. The plastic surgeon responsible, most likely photoshopped images from every movie she ever made and morphed them into an irreversibly, set in stone, visage.

Plastic surgeons know that this will be the final result of their work so they try to sculpt a final expression that fits any situation but invariably fit none.Sort of like Michael Jackson or Cher before or after being embalmed.

Hollywood and its drug addled writers and directors can never rest on their losses so like drunken sailors in a casino, they stumble on and on. In this case it wasn't enough to totally miscast Ms. Streep so they also had her sing. Julie Andrews or Carol Lawrence, this woman isn't. George Constanza's TV mom she might be.

James Bond, the 20th, also stars(?) in this fiasco. To watch Pierce Brosnan play opposite Meryl, after seeing him running away from supermodels in the Bond films is hysterical,an all time casting blunder.

Colin Firth and Stellan Skarsgård have to be out looking for new agents. Together with Brosnan as the three dads they look as goofy and as outdated as the Pep Boys, Manny Moe and Jack

Run to see this movie with several friends and see who can guess which of the three goons invited to the wedding is the real father. Then see if you care.

The girl who plays the bride to be is not miscast, she is mis-careered. Her soon to be groom could play Tony in West Side Story.

Darn, this was a premiere I looked forward to. Premiere you say? Yes, a movie today has 3 premieres, 3 opening dates.

The first of course is when it opens in theaters, The second is when the DVD makes it's debut. And the third and final one is for the Social Security set. We SS members can't afford either of the first two options so we wait until the film opens on HBO. This can be as long as 18 months after the theater opening.

For Mamma Mia the time frame was compressed into 6 months. It opened,opened again and this weekend opened for the final time.........or at least until midnight on Halloween.

Can we walk and chew gum at the same time?

Can we drive a car and text a message to a spouse or friend simultaneously?

Multitasking is in the news on all fronts this week, especially in the Sinday N.Y. Times article on how 70 MPH texting is comparable to drunken driving.

There are superheroes like Tiger Woods, Hillary Clinton and Lance Armstrong who seemingly thrive on overextending themselves. The great majority however are swimming and sinking at the same time.

Josh Waitzkin,for example, was an eight-time National Chess Champion in his youth. He holds a combined 21 National titles in addition to several World Championships in martial arts. He now trains hedge funds consultants and other companies in high-end learning and performance psychology. His cross-transfer of skill acquisition is incredible.

In his book, "The Art of Learning" he describes his thoughts while he was watching his former college professor,Dennis Dalton, deliver his final lecture before retiring. For 39 years,Professor Dalton has been inspiring Columbia and Barnard students with his two semester political theory series that introduces undergrads to the ideas of Gandhi, Thoreau, Mill, Malcolm X, King, Plato, Lao Tzu. Waitzkin considers Dalton the most influential person in his life.

The iconic professor was delivering a riveting 75-minute discussion on the birth of Gandhian non-violent activism. Waitzkin describes his inability to stay focused on his idol's words:

" I found myself becoming increasingly distressed," says Waitzkin,"as I watched students cruising Facebook, checking out the NY Times, editing photo collections, texting, reading People Magazine, shopping for jeans, dresses, sweaters, and shoes on Ebay, Urban Outfitters and J. Crew, reorganizing their social calendars, emailing on Gmail and AOL, playing solitaire, doing homework for other classes, chatting on AIM, and buying tickets on Expedia (I made a list because of my disbelief).

"From my perspective in the back of the room, while Dalton vividly described desperate Indian mothers throwing their children into a deep well to escape the barrage of bullets, I noticed that a girl in front of me was putting her credit card information into Urban Outfitters.com. She had finally found her shoes!

"When the class was over I rode the train home heartbroken, composing a letter to the students, which Dalton distributed the next day. Then I started investigating. Unfortunately, what I observed was not an isolated incident. Classrooms across America have been overrun by the multi-tasking virus. Teachers are bereft. This is the year that Facebook has taken residence in the national classroom."

Students defend this trend by citing their generation’s enhanced ability to overachieve. Recent scientific studies refute their claims. Apparently the human mind cannot multi-task without drastically reducing the quality of what it is processing through the cortex. Proficiency is cut in half when the brain tries to absorb visual and audio input at the same time, according to Waitzkin.

Actually multitasking, the current research reveals,is the fastest way to mediocrity.If you want to do great work concentrate on one task at a time.

The Sunday Times article explored the misconceptions about multitasking, particularly as regards driving while texting.

The article cites the story of a very nice young man, Chris Hill,20. Mr. Hill,a diligent student with a reputation for helping neighbors,also took pride in his clean driving record. “Not a speeding ticket, not a fender bender, nothing,” he said.

Last September ,Hill was so engrossed in a cell phone call that he ran a red light and didn’t notice Linda Doyle’s small sport utility vehicle until the last second. He hit her going 45 miles per hour. She was pronounced dead shortly after.

The Times article cites a 2003 Harvard study estimating that cellphone distractions cause 2,600 traffic deaths every year, and 330,000 accidents that result in moderate or severe injuries.

However, the article suggests that Americans have largely ignored that research. "Instead, they increasingly use phones, navigation devices and even laptops to turn their cars into mobile offices, chat rooms and entertainment centers, making roads more dangerous."

The definitive book about this modern day problem is:

The Myth of Multitasking: How "Doing It All" Gets Nothing Done
Dave Crenshaw
ISBN: 978-0-470-37225-8
Hardcover
144 pages
August 2008, Jossey-Bass

Some excerpts:

"There is an illusion. The illusion is that technology, cell phones, e-mail, faxes, text messaging and whatever else is curently "latest-and-greatest" makes us more productive.The reality, though, is that these things will only make us productive if we take control of them."

This is a lengthy post which I try to avoid. This is an important issue which has greatly affected my own life. I have a personal slant on it.

I believe seniors, especially super seniors (post 75) fall by the wayside because so many people who might normally be aiding them just don't have the time. The multitasking virus has taken control of their lives.

One the most difficult multitasking issues most human beings face at some time is the dual role of child and parent. While we raise our own children we are in fact still children who have parents. So by default we have a multi-task responsibility we wish we didn't have.

This issue floats beneath the radar right now but as the baby boomers inflate the ranks of the super aged a decade from now multitasking will no longer be an option.

No one ever said life was supposed to be easy.

PS: One of the most famous baby boomers,the indefatigable Tom Watson, did himself proud Sunday. I salute one of my all time heroes

WEEKEND REPEAT FROM ARCHIVES: SANSA FUZE VS. iPOD NANO MP3 PLAYERS

The Sansa Fuze 4g is a better MP3 player than the the vastly overrated iPod and costs about half as much.

Please bear in mind that this comparison refers to both products functioning specifically as audio MP-3 players.

The devil is in the details:

First of all the iPod is not a safe product for people with high blood pressure as it has more glitches than a weather forecast.

The iPod has a feature called syncing which can delete in one second 800 songs which it took you 10 years to accrue.

It is fragile; drop it and you better be standing on soft ground.

Most importantly you have to put up with the I-tunes application on your PC or your iPod is worthless.I-Tunes has satanic qualities. It can take control of your computer and your Windows media and reduce you to tears.

I lost my I-tunes from my laptop 6 months ago. Every day I searched for it and googled it and visited every geek store within a 50 mile radius. I followed every suggestion, no matter how absurd. I deleted it and all its files and all Quick Time files, bonjour and mobile device files and then reinstalled it. I must have done this at least 50 times to no avail. It would download but would not launch.

Finally I gave up and went shopping for a new MP-3 player, an "anything but iPod" Mp 3 player. I read all the reviews on the web, checked Consumer reports etc etc.

I finally decided on a Sansa Disk Fuze 4-g which is the equivalent in capacity to the iPod Nano 4g. It cost me $89.00 at Best Buy and it is one of the best purchases I have ever made. I have escaped from my I-tunes prison after 10 years of misery.

First of all the Sansa Fuze is better looking than iPod, sturdier and has a clearer screen. It is smaller than a credit card and thinner than a pencil.

It has FM radio with 20 preset stations.Why is this important. Well if you have satellite radio, Sirius or XM, you can set any FM radio in your home to 88.1 frequency and listen to Howard Stern through headphones on your Fuze.I happen to like Stern but i sure don't want my neighbors overhearing some of the language on that show. So now I sit on my patio and listen in private while they wonder what I am guffawing about.

The Sansa Fuze has a built in recorder so I can record reminders to myself of what I have to do on a given day.

It has a 24 hour battery life. Since I normally use it about and hour a day, I can go at least 3 weeks without running out during my morning walk, which happened constantly with my iPod.

It holds 800 songs but is expandable to 10g with the purchase of an inexpensive card.

To load new songs on to your player you simply click and drag your music from your computer's library into the Fuze file. This is a zillion times simpler than Apple's complicated, proprietary music file system.

To sum up, the iPod is more of a status symbol than a practical player. It can't hold a candle to the SanDisk Fuze. Don't be a snob, break free from the mob and light up with the Fuze.

The Friday excerpt from S'mothered

It was very windy and very cold, normal weather for New Jersey in early December. This was a new experience for me.I stood outside on a corner freezing,waiting for elementary school students to cross the street. My hair, straighter than any hair I have ever seen, and parted right in the middle of my head, looked better on a day like this, as it flapped in the wind. My gray mackinaw was zipped right up to my neck.

At the start of the school year last September, my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, selected me to be a crossing guard on the safety patrol. Each school day at 8:30 a.m. and 2:30 p.m.,I stood on this corner wearing a white band, which stretched across my waist and chest. I was short for a ten year old and skinny, but when I carried out this prestigious duty,I felt six feet tall. The responsibility of stopping the students when they got to my corner,so they could cross the street together,puffed me up.

My cousin, Larry Villani, one year older than I, patrolled the corner across from my station. He wore no hat and his jacket was much lighter than mine was, but he looked warm as toast. I always looked up to Larry but this morning, for the first time, I felt I was his equal. I could remember very few days in my short life when I felt equal to anyone. I never resented Larry; he was more like a big brother to me than a cousin. What I did resent was what he and most other kids in Rose Point had. They had a dad who lived with them.

My sister and I weren’t sure if we had a dad at all. We heard very little about him for the first 10 years of our life. About twice a year, there was this strange man at Grandma Orlando’s house in Elizabeth, but he hardly talked to us, just asked us how we were doing in school. He looked pale and gaunt. I guessed he was my real dad because he called my Grandma, “mom,” but he could have been an uncle.

This man’s sisters, our aunts, called him Johnny and from these visits I gradually figured out why everyone in his family; uncles, aunts and cousins called me Junior. It was strange because no one else here in my neighborhood or at school,called me Junior.I grew to hate that nickname.I grew to hate so many things about my childhood and adolescence.In those rare visits at Grandma Orlando's,however,it at least confirmed to me that this mystery man was my father.

My mother never told me anything about him. Once in a while she would explode in anger, referring to him as "that bum.” Her anger discouraged me from asking about him.

My sister always told me,"Junior you think too much," and sure enough here I was, waiting for my classmates and other school kids to arrive and instead of enjoying my new status, I was thinking too much.

So I grew up knowing very little about my father. He truly was a mystery man. Where did he live, what did he do all day and why wasn’t he living with us? By now,I certainly should have known more specifics. Other kids my age would have insisted on it At least I think they would have.

I guess the reason I didn’t pester my mother about him was because of some hazy images I had of her screaming while he beat her. I was afraid of him. I figured, the less I knew, the better.

Larry lived in the apartment directly under us. He had three sisters and a brother and I spent a good amount of time at his place. His father, my Uncle Joe, was kind of weird. He always wore a blue striped suit, usually with vest and tie, even on weekends. His carefully groomed mustache spooked me a little and he wasn’t a very warm man. He used to work in the same sportswear factory as Uncle Sal, but I heard someone say he was fired for getting into too many fights.

I didn’t think about him much, just when he was home which wasn’t often. Larry said his mother, my Aunt Lucy, was always screaming at his father about his girl friend. She never referred to her as a “girl friend” though. Instead he called her something like a “Gooma.” None of it made sense to me anyhow. I had so many uncles, aunts and cousins; I would have gotten dizzy if I started comparing them, so I didn’t.

Waiting on this corner on this icy day I began to think of happier moments.Each summer I spent a month, usually July, with the Orlando family. They lived only four miles from us, in Elizabeth, New Jersey, but on the bus ride to their house, it seemed more like forty miles.

Grandma Orlando had given birth in her fifties to her final child, Edward. He was one year older than I. Eddie, technically was my uncle, but because we were so close in age, we felt more like cousins or brothers. Whenever I was at Grandma Orlando’s house, we played together from morning until night.

Grandma and Grandpa Orlando seemed to me a mismatched couple. Grandpa worked evenings as a bartender and slept during the day. He would wake up about 3:00 p.m., have dinner and leave for work. I’m sure he must have smiled once or twice at some point in his life, but it certainly wasn’t when I was there to see it. I heard rumors from one of my relatives they were matched up by their parents in Italy.

When Grandpa was eating dinner each day before leaving for work, Eddie and I were normally outside playing. The only time I ever saw Grandpa Orlando was during Sunday dinner, but I never felt comfortable with him. Actually I was in awe of him. He seemed to me quiet, unapproachable and mysterious. I can never remember him reaching out to pat me on the head, ask me a question or show any other concern. Was it because he didn’t want his son to marry my Mom?

Nonetheless, I looked forward all year to the month of July, the time I would spend at Grandma Orlando’s. When I left my home in Rose Point, and arrived at her home, it was as if I was watching a black and white movie, and it suddenly turned to technicolor. My world was transformed from drab to dazzling.

It wasn’t the area they lived in that exhilarated me. It was Grandma Orlando.
Carmella Orlando was an incredibly loving woman, a creature from another world. To compare my grandmother with any other human would be ridiculous.

Each time I arrived at her house, she would have me stand in front of her. She would just stare at me for maybe two or three minutes, silently sighing, and then say with a beautiful smile on her face. “My, how big you got” and then after a pause, “how beautiful you are, my, how beautiful you are.” She said it with such sincerity and love in her heart. It made my skin tingle. Never in my life, before or since, have I felt such love from a human being, male or female.

Whenever I thought of her, I visualized a woman with big sparkling eyes, incredibly white teeth and a soft face. She was always wearing a spotless white apron, sitting on a very light cream-colored sofa in a bright, sun splashed living room with white carpeting. The carpeting was solid white, with no patterns, and no stains. The room always smelled of roses. In the spring and summer she always had some freshly cut, in a vase. At other times of the year she must have sprayed the room with a fragrance.

Her sparkling kitchen smelled even cleaner. Every pot, pan, cup and saucer glistened. I often sat and watched her as she hand dried and then individually polished each piece of silverware and each glass with a clean, cotton hand towel. Each evening before she went to bed, she got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the kitchen linoleum until it was spotless.

Every Saturday night during my summer stay, Grandma Orlando washed my hair. She scrubbed my head with the same gusto and love with which she scrubbed the kitchen floor. It hurt and I dreaded that part of Saturday nights. Later when I went to bed, she sat near me and we said the Lord’s Prayer together. Then she tucked me in and kissed me on the forehead.

For breakfast she made home made cereal; oatmeal, farina, cream of rice. A bowl filled with bananas, oranges and grapes was placed in the center of the table. One day she gave us freshly squeezed orange juice, the next, pineapple or apple juice.
Two or three times a week she made French toast, hot cakes or scrambled eggs with sausage or bacon. Everything was covered with melted butter and hot maple syrup. Nothing like this happened in Rose Point. I guess that’s why it seemed so special.
When July was over, and it was time for me to return to my black-and-white life in Rose Point, Grandma Orlando took me into the living room, stared at me for a few minutes the same way as when I arrived. She hugged me and cried. I left and didn’t see her again until Christmas.

Of course the other important person missing in my sister’s and my life was our Mother, Suzie Villani Chiego. She lived with her husband Hank Chiego, in Riverside, California and had lived there since I was seven. When she went away, she said she would send for my sister and me after she got settled. I guess she never got settled, because she never sent for us. Hank was a soldier on the army base where they lived.

I loved the pictures my mother sent of him in uniform. When I looked at them, I imagined being a soldier some day and driving to California to live with them. Of course, by then I’d have been too old to live with them. Even so it seemed like it would have been great.

The past three years had not been a good period of my life. I’d been sick almost constantly with colds, coughs, sore throats and painful bouts with poison oak. I was absent from school more than I was there.

One summer I stepped on a rusty nail while playing with kids in the back yard. I always had large holes in my shoes. The family was poor, the depression was still plaguing them, and the last thing they thought about was my shoes. The nail pierced the bottom of my foot. Grandma put iodine on the wound and bandaged it.

During the next few days the foot swelled up and started to throb. It hurt so much I couldn’t sleep or go to school. By the time a doctor was called a week later, the wound had become infected with tetanus. I missed ten days of school and became even more morose and withdrawn.

In November of the second year of my mother’s stay in California, one of my frequent sore throats was left untreated for weeks while a low-grade fever persisted. In and out of bed for weeks I missed a month of school. Grandma Villani didn’t believe too much in doctors and couldn’t afford them even if she did. I asked her one day, “Grandma, why don’t you like doctors?”

She stared down at me and replied dourly, “If doctors were free, I would like them, Junior.”

Therefore, she tried to nurse me back to good health with her homemade remedies from the old country.

Finally, Aunt Vera became concerned and took me to Doctor Mallas in Elizabeth, the same town where the man we thought might be our father lived, our dad, the man the Villani’s always referred to as the bum.”

The doctor found I had a bad case of a strep throat, which, left untreated for so long, had developed into rheumatic fever. He immediately put me on an antibiotic, scolded my aunt Vera and asked where my mother was.

Aunt Vera explained to him about her sister’s stay in California with her new husband. Doctor Mallas said he would send a report of this incident to the Union County Health Department and recommend someone periodically stop by the home to see if my sister and I were receiving proper care

After being put on the medicine, I made a rapid recovery and was back to school in a few days. The rheumatic fever left me with a heart murmur I read about in a health book at school. It apparently messed up one of my heart valves, but wouldn’t affect me until I was old. It would never go away.

I missed my mom. Grandma Villani never seemed to know we were alive and Aunt Vera had a new boyfriend, so she wasn’t home much. Grandma dressed all in black since grandpa died a year ago. She was always crying and grouchy. She didn’t even listen to her Italian soap opera on the radio anymore.

I will never forget the day I came home from school and heard grandpa had suffered a heart attack and died. I never really knew grandpa as he was seldom home during the day. I felt sad and scared. All my aunts and grandma were screaming, wailing, and throwing themselves on the coffin.

The wake was in the living room of the house grandpa built 20 years earlier for his large family, which still lived there

A photographer came to the house and took a picture of grandpa lying in the coffin, dressed in a suit, white shirt and black tie, his head lying back on a huge white spooky pillow. His eyes were closed and his hands clasped together with some beads tangled in them. He was pale as a ghost over most of his face and looked pretty dead but his cheeks seemed red.

I thought to myself that since he still had red cheeks, maybe he’s not really dead. I was only eight at the time. I didn’t know a darn thing about death, why people died and where they went when they did. My imagination ran wild.

I didn’t say anything to anyone. In the past, on occasions where I wasn’t sure of what really was happening I would start asking questions. Someone would either laugh at me or scold me. I learned to keep my mouth shut about a lot of things. The redness of my Grandfather’s cheeks bothered me. Why were his cheeks red?

On the night before the funeral, I couldn’t sleep thinking about him being buried and then waking up. It must have been very late because no one was awake. I sneaked in the kitchen, grabbed a half a loaf of Italian bread, shuffled as quietly as I could into the living room where he was still in the coffin, maybe dead, but maybe just sleeping.

What if he woke up in a few days, after they buried him under all that dirt? What if he was hungry? All kinds of weird thoughts raced through my mind. I knew I would never sleep again for the rest of my life thinking of that, so I tucked the bread under the linen sheet, which was all around him and ran back to bed.

They wouldn’t let any of us kids go to the cemetery where they buried him but I overheard them later say my grandmother threw herself into the grave when they lowered the coffin a little. They had to drag her off the coffin and out of the grave.

I once heard my Uncle Sal explaining why he would never get married.
Women smother men from the time they are born,” he said to Aunt Vera.
He was joking and probably said it to get her dander up, but it stuck with me. Was grandma still trying to smother grandpa even when he was being put into the grave? Maybe she thought he was still alive too? I hoped she didn’t find the bread. I never found out and was afraid to ask.

About six months later I was snooping around the house when I was sure there was no one home. I liked to rustle through the bureau drawers seeing what someone might have hidden, or just to smell the cedar. There was an old, faded brown, five-drawer chest in my grandparents’ bedroom with missing drawer pulls. It looked like it had been stored outside for a while.

In the furthest corner of the bottom drawer, under all kinds of clothing I felt a very large cardboard folder, about a foot long and a foot wide. I reached in and dragged it out, laid it on the bed and opened it. I screamed so loud I almost choked. It was the picture of my grandfather lying in the coffin! He was staring right at me and I swear his eyes were open. At that point, I was sure they had buried him alive.

I thought about all these kind of things too much for my age, but on this morning, wearing my crossing guard uniform, I felt pretty good.

WHERE IS THE RIGHT TO LIFE BRIGADE WHEN THESE POOR PREGNANT CONVICTS NEED THEM ?

Nowhere to be seen.

Look at the photo here closely. Does anyone see a sign condemning abortion? Do any of these demonstrators outside the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility last week look like they would be members of that advocacy group for pregnant mothers?

Of course not.

The women in the photo are protesting the treatment of pregnant female convicts inside Bedford Hills who give birth while wearing chains, cuffs and shackles. As they enter labor their legs are restrained and some are shackled to a bed rail. These are not violent offenders. Most are in prison for relatively minor drug offenses.

Some quotes from the Sunday N.Y. Times article by Jim Dwyer on July 12th.
Speaking of a former convict, Venita Pinckney as she left her cell last November on the way to the prison hospital to give birth, “a corrections officer wrapped a chain twice around her waist and handcuffed her to it. Then he covered the handcuffs with a locked black box to further limit her range of motion. Finally, her ankles were shackled.

“I told the officer he’s not supposed to shackle me,” Ms. Pinckney said last week. “He said he was just following procedure.”

Both houses of the N.Y.State legislature passed a bill recently which would bar the shackling of women in labor but it is still awaiting the Governor’s signature.

Another woman at the rally commented on the absurdity of chaining women in labor to prevent any possibility they might use the occasion to attempt escape from the Bedford Hills state prison. They are on the fifth floor of the hospital in scrubs and heavy boots. There are heavily armed guards outside their doors.

One woman said they freed her legs from restraints to allow the baby to exit her womb but as soon as her son was born, the guard shackled her to the bed rail. “I had to push the placenta out with the shackles on. That was the worst,” she said.
Another convict, about to give birth to twins, was cuffed throughout a lengthy C-Section procedure.

And we thought the Abu Ghraib torture could only happen in Iraq, certainly not in the United States of America.

This barbaric treatment has been going on for possibly decades. The article did not say, but the fact that just now, in the year 2009, the state is passing legislation to make it criminal, makes any civilized person froth at the mouth.

However, my anger is directed towards the right wing crazies who did not show up to demonstrate for the signing of this law, post haste. Could it be because most of the pregnant women involved are not white? Or because they are incarcerated?

Why is it that the anti-abortion crowd is most vociferous about the first and second trimesters of pregnancy? As the woman gets closer and closer to giving birth they seem to forget her. What about when the child is two, three, or five years old; when the child is starving because her now ex-convict Mom cannot get a job because of her record. Ever notice that this is when these “holier than thou” advocates completely disappear.

And why did the New York Times.the newspaper of record, bury this extremely important story on page 24? Surely this situation deserved more exposure than the front page article they ran in the same edition on “concrete testing?”

Just asking.

Why are we still watching Seinfeld re-runs 11 years later?

Because it is far and away the best sitcom on TV with The Office the only other show in the same league.

How can this be? What was it and what is it that continues to make this show so special, so historic?

Is it that this show about nothing is a show about all of us? When we laugh so hard at the hum drum plots are we really laughing at ourselves? I am a piker compared to some hard core Seinfeld enthusiasts but I find myself getting hysterical about scenes I have watched at least 20 times over the years.

The show began in 1990 and was the top rated show for most of the next 8 years until the final episode May14,1998.

The non-secret of this series unbelievably consistent success is the cast. There has never been a cast this good and I doubt there ever could be.From the most insignificant role of the doorman to the 4 stars,Jerry,George,Elaine and Cosmo, every actor and every guest are perfect.

Newman,Jerry's mom and dad,George's insane parents,David Putty,Mr. Pitt,Susan,Uncle Leo,Kenny Bania,Tim Whatley,Jackie Chiles, the Soup Nazi,and Mr. Peterman. On and on, the dwarf rolling on the ground wrestling with Kramer,Elaine dancing at the Xmas party,the goofy girl who walked wihtout swinging her arms, the no fat yogurt which almost kills Rudy Guliani.

Jerry and George had different girl friends just about every week and all of them had some distinct character flaw which turned these "nothing" guys off.

I liked the episodes best when the 4 stars were doing something in unison, whether at the parking garage,in the Hamptons,in the bakery on the way to a party,and at the movies.

The producer,Larry David became a mega star in his own right a few years later as did Jerry Stiller who is a 100 times funnier than his son, Ben. Ironically Ben Stiller makes more in one movie than his dad did in his whole career.

When this show was still in it's first season, the critics doubted it would be picked up for a second season. I confess I wasn't watching it at the time. I didn't get it until late in the second season,wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a continuous,on going story ,or each week,a story in itself. Once I caught on I became addicted to it and I still am.

Click on the video clip below and enjoy again the hilarious Soup Nazi episode. I can never watch it just once.



Comment: You will note that yesterday's post on molesting priests has been pulled from the page. I hope to repost it today or tomorrow after I do some rewriting.

Who Is The Best "all around" N.Y. Yankee MLB Player, A-ROD or JETER?

Well the images suggest they both like to play off the field as well.Lol,I have no idea which is the better after the game "PLAYER".

However as far as the play on the field the answerman is going to shock most New York Yankee fans by going with A-ROD in a close battle.

Except for the post-season value,which is obvious,their stats make a pretty good case for either of them.

Here is the comparison of their career stats in some major categories:


PLAYER.............................JETER...............A-ROD
Games Played........................2065.................2098
Home Runs............................216....................568
Hits.......................................2642..............2453
On Base Percentage....................387..................390
Base on Balls...........................853.................1027
Strike-outs..............................1417.................1676
RBI's......................................1038.................1653
Fielding Percentage...................975..................973

Ok, so you can see that A-Rod has better slugging stats and Jeter has more hits.
The surprising stats I think is the OBP, where they are essentially even and the walks, where A-Rod is far ahead.

For a slugger, A-Rod has amazing OBP and Strike-out stats. The great sluggers of MLB history have always been all or nothing swingers but A-Rod breaks the mold. They are equally very good defensive players but I give the nod slightly to A-Rod.

Now for the intangibles:
How do the Yanks fare when one of these 2 players is out of the lineup for an extended time. We don't have to look far for this stat.

A-Rod missed the first 28 games of the current season recuperating from his hip surgery. During those 28 games the NY Yankees record was 13-15. In the 56 games since A-Rod rejoined the team on May 8th the Bombers record is 38-20.

That's the stat that jumps out at me and it is why I think A-Rod is the better overall contributor to the Yanks and not only is he a better player than Jeter but Alex Rodriguez is the best player in MLB history.

Here is where I really get in trouble. I love Jeter as a consistent great player but I think a successful team needs more than that. They need a guy who stirs the pot.

Jeter should not be the Yankee's team captain. It does not jibe with his staid, boring personality. A captain must not only be a great player but also a fiery presence.

That is exactly what A-Rod is. Everyone loves Jeter while about 30% of all fans truly hate A-Rod(more like envy than hate in my book)

Has Jeter ever in his life gone shoes high into second base? A-Rod has. Has Jeter ever dropped his bat and walked towards the mound in his life? A-Rod has. As Leo Durocher said nice guys finish last. I would not go that far but for the past decade, with a nice guy as captain, the Yanks have finished second as far as final season success.

And finally could you ever imagine apple pie Derek Jeter having his girl friend in the stands while he was playing? A-Rod did a few nights ago (Kate Hudson.)

I'll end there and get ready to duck.

A Friday routine. An excerpt from my unpublished novel, S'mothered

This week's excerpt is from an early chapter and takes place in November,1941,a few weeks before the Pearl Harbor attacks by Japan:


At the weekly Friday night dance at the NCO club, Suzie and Hank were dancing the night away. The club was only a few hundred yards from the residence quarters where they had lived since their marriage two years ago.

Both were excellent dancers, moving effortlessly and fluidly to the Glenn Miller “eight to the bar” recording being piped over the ballroom speakers. He was wearing his military NCO uniform while Suzie was in her brand new jewel-toned, ankle length satin gown.

“You look dreamy, Monkey,” Hank whispered, while nibbling her ear. The gown was covered with rhinestone jelly buttons which sparkled in the soft romantic lighting, The front was low cut showing her bosom, but in an appropriate way. “It looks expensive hon,” he said and immediately wished he hadn’t expressed it that way.

Suzie's impoverished upbringing made her sensitive to remarks about her spending habits.

She worked in the Base Commissary and the gown had only cost $5.00 after her employee discount. Money was an issue only because she sent $20.00 a back home to her mother each month to help pay for the kid’s clothing and school expenses. Hank never objected to any help they could send to his mother-in-law. Without her they could not be out here together.

They fully intended to send for the children soon. Suzie told her sister Vera and her mother this before she left home. She reiterated this promise when they made a emergency visit home a few months ago.

She was out here with Hank less than a year when she received word her father had died suddenly. He was only fifty-five. She was saddened but not shocked. He dealt with so many hardships in his life without once letting them affect him emotionally. He was a Rock of Gibraltar to his wife and his children. Inside his strong muscular, seemingly impregnable body his heart absorbed the stress which slowly weakened it. Before she left home, she noticed how easily he tired.

She remembered with sadness the night he approved of her plan to marry Hank and the agreement to take care of the children but “only until they were settled in California.” Hank now was her rock. Her Papa was gone. She sobbed in her new husband's arms the night she learned of his death

When they flew home for the funeral, Vera reminded her of the things she had promised their father before she left for California.

Suzie told her “we have been trying to get permission from the base Commander, Momma; it should only be a few more months.” She was telling the truth, but only partially. Because of rising tensions all over the world, Germany invading Poland and a threat of a conflict in the Pacific, the base Commander temporarily prohibited any children on the base. There was very little likelihood the ban would be lifted in the near future.

Suzie could not tell her Momma this right now. Rose Villani was in deep mourning over the loss of her husband of thirty-eight years, Suzie knew the right thing for her to do would be to move back to New Jersey and take the children off her hands. Many times, she faced similar situations where she let her mind overrule her heart. She no longer was capable of doing this, faced with a choice of staying with her husband or being with her children, she went with her heart.

Suzie was not a deep thinker.When she made a decision her heart told her was right she never brooded about the consequences. She was always aware of her shortcomings as a mother. She laid the blame for this directly at the feet of her own parents.

She did not have a normal childhood; her parents were not affectionate, did not provide her an adequate education, and never really treated her as a child.
She would never abuse her children or deliberately neglect them but she could give them no more, and no less than she was given. Society might consider her cold-hearted, so be it. She was a survivor and dealt with life with the cards dealt her. Society could go to hell.

The band had picked up the tempo and the man she loved was twirling her around the floor, she was laughing and jiving and New Jersey and her children were the last things on her mind.

“Monkey, were any two people ever happier than we are right now?” Hank whispered into her ear.

He had a nice voice and liked to sing to her when they slow danced. He smiled and began singing a song in her ear from the Broadway play they saw before he left for California:

“If they asked me, I could write a book, about the way you walk and whisper and look. I could write a preface on how we met. So the world would never forget, and the simple secret of the plot, is just to tell them I love you a lot. and the world discovers la la ...”

She looked up at him. Now they were both crying unashamedly, hugging, kissing and lost in each other.

They snapped out of their reverie when the band picked up the beat. She scolded him with a smile on her face “no more silly, sappy, weeping monkey, let's show these people how to have fun.” He twirled her around inhaling her fragrance, totally bewitched by her.

After an hour or more of wild dancing and two cocktails each, they now had enough and went back to their quarters. In their bedroom now, Hank waltzed her towards their bed and slowly, gently began to make love to her.

He was an incredibly thoughtful and sensitive lover, always putting her needs first. She loved him for this but sometimes wished he would just take her. She never told him this. She had been too open about this kind of stuff when she was younger. The fewer men knew how much she needed them, the easier they were to keep in line. Any sex, any kind of sex, was better than no sex at all to her. That would never change.

Their weekends were idyllic, touring the wineries, a Saturday night movie and usually a leisurely late Sunday morning breakfast at their favorite cafe overlooking the river.

Their only conflicts arose when she caught him glancing at women. It was as if a
switch was suddenly turned off inside her, a bolt of lightening short circuited the lights and darkened her mood. She turned ice cold and stop talking to him for hours.

He first denied looking at anyone, and then minimized it as inconsequential.
Soon, his pleadings turned to begging, he assured her she was the only woman he could ever love. He would rave about how beautiful she was, cajole and implore her, but it was too late.

Immediately, the very instant she doubted for one second his faithfulness, she withdrew into a protective mode. Images of her ex-husband flashed before her; she despised the very thought of him. When she withheld from her new husband what he wanted sexually, she symbolically struck back at Johnny and all men.

Hank Chiego spent his days at March Air Field preparing to defend his country in the event the looming war became reality. He was in a pursuit squadron being trained to strike back at enemy forces in daring nighttime raids most likely in the Pacific Theater of Operations.

In his position as a tail gunner, his extraordinary night vision and dogged bulldog type patience would serve him well. His supervising Officers greatly admired how calm and yet alert he could be in the almost daily training flights.

These very same qualities kept the marital arguments and subsequent silent spells from escalating into major crises. The intensive physical nature of the routine maneuvers left him little time to brood over his wife’s petulance. He kept busy and did not overreact to her moodiness. Their relationship eventually returned to normal.

What happened on a dreary December Sunday a few months later was anything but normal. At almost the same moment Suzie's son, Johnny Orlando, Jr. was patrolling his 5th grade school patrol guard corner station in New Jersey, every siren at the March air Field was blasting loudly through the base speakers.

Pearl Harbor with all its gory forebodings was bursting rudely into the lives of all Americans and nowhere more spectacularly than at this large U.S. Army Air Corps Base.

Hank jumped from their bed and, while dressing, told Suzie he had to report immediately to a reassigned area. He knew something extremely serious had happened but for now could tell her nothing more.

She was terrified, started crying, and wanted to make him some coffee. There was no time for coffee. Before he left, he told her “Monkey, something is wrong and I’ve got to get to my position fast. I’ll try to get back to you later, give me a kiss quick. I have to get outta here!”

As soon as he left, Suzie turned on the radio and immediately learned why the alarms had sounded and droned on. An announcer, somberly, in a crisply enunciated tone, told the country of the surprise attack. Suzie didn’t read newspapers. The announcer’s mood, and the rapid departure of Hank, shocked her into hyperventilating. She sat down, poured herself a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette and tried to calm down.

Panic began to develop among the civilians later in the day. Rumors spread that Japanese bomber formations were headed toward the California coast. Hank finally called at noon and told her "Calm down Suzie,the reports haven't been confirmed.We are sure they are rumors. Our forces in the Pacific are already starting to respond. But Monkey the base is being put on alert and all dependents living on the base have to leave by the weekend.

Suzie immediately phoned her mother and told her what was going on and to prepare for her return the following week.

Rose Villani had predicted to Suzie two years earlier this would happen and warned she would not take her back this time. Once again, Suzie had her backed into a corner. Following the phone call,Rose slumped in her favorite soft, billowy chair and reflected.

She had given birth to nine children, immigrated to a strange land and survived a depression, illnesses and countless other challenges. Now,she was a widow with eight of her children still living under her roof. Another World War had broken out and she must absorb some of the consequences.

Scrambling through her handbag, she took out her rosary beads and silently prayed for direction to the Virgin Mary. Old Italian women seldom prayed directly to Jesus, His Holy Mother was their spokesperson. She was expected to intercede with her son on their behalf. Rose was raised in this manner by her mother who she never saw again after she sailed to America. The unspoken orders handed down from generation to generation for centuries, ordained women deferred to men but not in issues involving the raising of children.

Alone now, near the end of her life, she could no longer turn to her husband and have him tell Suzie to find her own place to live. She knew in her heart what his decision would have been.

“Rose, we can’t blame Pearl Harbor on Suzie” he most certainly would have argued.
Of course it also wasn’t Suzie’s fault Johnny Sr. was a bum and it wasn’t Suzie’s fault the base Commander wouldn’t let the kids live with them in California.
Whose fault was it Suzie hadn’t stayed in New Jersey? She might have saved her money and been able to afford her own apartment. It was never Suzie’s fault. Rose sighed resignedly. She knew she would take her daughter back in again.

It would be a chaotic home once again. Jenny and Gina would raise a commotion, try to talk her out of it and then grudgingly accept it. Vera was practically living with her boyfriend now and would wed him in the spring. Suzie’s brothers would be okay with their sister’s return and too concerned with their draft status to dwell on it anyhow.

Vera just came in from work a few minutes ago. Rose called to her “Vera, come in here honey, I want to talk with you, your sister is coming back to live here.”

With Sal and Suzie both gone, Vera had been a godsend to her. Especially with Junior. She didn’t know how she would have handled him without Vera.

Vera came into the kitchen and kissed her mother, “Momma I’m so glad. Since I heard about the bombings and maybe war breaking out, I've been worried sick about Suzie”

Vera’s main concern was the two children who had such a hard time adjusting to their mother’s absence when she went to live with Hank. She especially worried about Junior. He had been sick almost constantly since Suzie left, a strep throat, tetanus infection in his foot a horrible poison oak rash last summer. Her mother thought it was because Suzie didn’t breast feed Johnny and compared him to Jaycee who never missed a day of school

Johnny was doing so much better now, making friends, studying hard in school, hardly ever getting sick any more. He seemed happier and healthier than he had ever been. Jaycee would be happy to have her Mom back but she didn’t know about Junior.

“Vera, you helped me so much with Johnny,” Rose said, grabbing her daughter and hugging her, “but still, he needs his mother. I don’t understand how that girl can leave kids who have no father and go gallivanting all over the country?”

Johnny’s father was no help of course. He never called either of the kids. He sent an occasional message to her, or by letter to Suzie. He asked how they were doing, but in the past two years, even these infrequent contacts had ceased.

Vera had heard from a friend of a friend Johnny,Sr. was very ill and in a hospital but this was never confirmed. Rose felt he was too nasty to get sick, it was an old Italian superstition. Was he sick or just trying to dodge the draft?

Back in Riverside, Suzie was packing whatever she could take with her on the plane. Hank would ship the rest by rail. Since he was going to be deployed to an overseas base closer to the war front, they decided to sell any furniture they had purchased. When the war ended, they would buy a house and start from scratch.

Meanwhile, back in Riverside, Hank’s impending departure and the long separation they faced, bonded the couple closer than when they had wed. The unthinkable possibility he might never return at all, changed Suzie’s attitude completely. She realized now how deeply she loved him, and felt ashamed of how she had acted just a few days ago at the Sunday breakfast.

The evening before her flight back home, they dined at their favorite Spanish restaurant inside the Mission Inn and vowed to write to each other every single day.

He was stoic about the dangers he faced, but completely heartbroken over leaving Suzie. Her eyes, normally sparkling were misty tonight.

“I’ve been trying to describe your eyes to other people monkey,” he said,"and now I know the words I’ve been searching for. You have frivolous eyes, carefree eyes. They are not that way tonight though; they look lovely, but more serious. I hate to see them this way.”

They talked about how happy they would be when the war ended and they could start a family. “I love your children Suzie,” he said, gazing into her now tear filled eyes “and I’ll be good to them, but you know how much I want children of my own.”

She assured him they would have at least one child when they were back together again but would not commit to any more than one. "Sweetie," Suzie consoled him,"I don’t think I am made to have too many children.I’m too selfish to take on that much responsibility”

He knew this wasn’t the right time for this kind of conversation and changed the subject. “I’m being reassigned to a Bombardment Group, monkey. For a while, we will be staying here to patrol the coast in case the Japs have any ideas about invading, but eventually we will start training on this new plane, a B-24. Don’t worry about me, the plane is unbelievable and the Commander told us the enemy doesn’t have a plane anywhere near as heavy as this. Wish I could show it to you, but no way now. I shouldn’t even talk about it. Don’t mention it to anybody when you get home.”

Suzie didn’t understand most of the military terms he used but she loved how excited he got when he talked about the upcoming battles. He didn’t have an ounce of fear in him so she felt sure the war wouldn’t last long and they would be together again. It was better neither of them knew what was lay ahead. The next few years were horrendous.

Hank’s crew flew hundreds of extremely dangerous missions over the Marshall Islands, Wake Island, Iwo Jima, and Guam.

Suzie worked with her sister Vera in a rug factory recently converted to a munitions factory. Her brothers fought the Germans in Europe. Soon she would be trying to adjust to being a mother again. The War would affect everyone from children to aging parents.

Nothing would ever be the same again.