https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QnX3awAX1z0

Is the bird flu really here, or is it COVID-19 in disguise? The strain is HSN1, another flu strain, and each year they are getting worse, or are they really? In 2013, 900 people contracted the bird flu, and more than half died. Is this enough to be a pandemic?

Farmer workers and ranchers are at the highest risk of coming down with HSN1. I was unable to find where the 900 people got sick. I’m almost certain they worked on farms and ranches that lacked regular monitoring. Mostly found in meat and dairy, bird flu arrives and, voila, the price of eggs goes up, which has happened in the past few years.

I was amazed at the death statistics for flu deaths during COVID; there weren’t as many as previous years. I think all the flu stats were compiled together with COVID to make COVID worse. Thousands of people die of the flu each year, but not during COVID years. It was once called Trump’s flu.

With the election this November what will this flu be called, will CDC call it a pandemic? Or will it be a political stratagem? Biden Bird Flu, Biden Goodbye Flu, Trump’s Flu II. Both parties will cause chaos and come to the rescue, too bad the public will suffer.

It’s time to stock up on toilet paper and common sense.

Gov. Ron DiSantis just passed a law in Florida, forbidding the release of balloons. The balloons are a danger to the wildlife along the beaches. So, if you have a beach party and lease balloons to celebrate you may be arrested or fineD. However, people under 6 years old are exempt from this law. What do the police do when a child’s age is questionable? “Hey pal pull over and show me your ID.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtNXHqWf8BE

I write many posts and I am beginning to realize that AI lacks a sense of humor. I know someone will answer me with an AI response explaining what AI is, I am ready. Can AI tell me a joke to make me laugh, or just explain what a joke is?

Have you seen the commercials for HIMs and HERS? I must be missing something; I thought we were sensitive to the non-binary society? When pronouns are used like XIR or MX, I’m in a fog. Is it a certain code that only non-binary people get? Everyone wants to be identified as something. We wear T-shirts that have a message: we want to be labeled as someone unique. Why? Aren’t we happy being what God intended? How is it that today, when a child is born, the parents can name them non-brinary? Is this predestined?

I know I can rant and rave about genders; my question would be, “What does the non-binary person, {I can use person, right, I’m not offending anyone, am I?}

What happens if a HIMS takes a HERS? Or a HERS takes a HIMS? Hair growth, stronger sexual desire?

Will there be a THEMS or an ITS? Please help!

I grew up in a concrete jungle, with buildings everywhere and playgrounds of cement. There are always rules regarding playgrounds: no jumping from slides or see-saws, etc. Beyond those rules, there are street, unspoken rules that must be followed. The inner city game is basketball. I’ve played on many teams and coached my son through elementary school and into high school. We had park rules and home court rules. I was never that good a basketball player; I had white man’s disease; and I can’t jump. On a good day, I could touch the rim. The first rule was that whoever was on the court first had to play in every game until they lost. I’d get there early to call “home court,” hoping the guys that should be up were good and I could continue my possession of the court. Even if you played in the South Bronx or Harlem, these rules were adhered to.

Greenwich Village has a main subway stop: West 4th Street. The cross street is 6th Avenue.

One block south is West 3rd Street, where there is a basketball court. Guys, professional players would travel downtown to play ball. I remember Dick Barnet of the Knicks, and Kareem Abdul Jabar was a local boy named Lew Alcindor. He went to Power Memorial Academy High School.

I tried my strategy early one Saturday morning on the West 3rd Street courts. Everything went fine the first few games; our team won the first two games, and that was it. When the big boys arrived, we were wiped off the court. To this day, the Saturday basketball games are a tourist attraction. They have also formed a league, “West 3rd Street Basketball League.” Teams have sponsors: Nike and Pepsi. I would have to wake up pretty early to play in that league.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwbZq5MlXMM

What do you think will happen if Kamala Harris picks Michelle Obama as her vice presidential runner mate? Old Joe will be 81 come November, do you really think he will run again. It ain’t gonna happen! Liberals control the west coast from San Diego to Seattle. Why place liberals in charge to continue control in these area plagued by homelessness and crime? They believe that housing is a “God given right and the government should furnish these homes. This is called “West Coast Liberaism.” California and Oregon lead the way with homelessness. Is their answer to supply homes to these people? Drug overdose is on the rise.

I love the west coast, I spent 24 years there, some areas are absolutely breathtaking. I watched as liberals gave everything away. When Arnie, the governator was in office, life was bearable. Gun violence is down due to stringent gun laws, the few people arrested for gun issues are moved through the courts and released through the liberal system. Oregon leads in mental health unawareness.

This is a possibility, I believe liberalism will hurt people more then help them. If the “West Coast Liberalism,” is allowed to spread, it will spread across the country like wild fire. Some states will never accept this form of government. Mostly Northen states and Southern states wont comply with the mandates, don’t mess with Texas! I read a story about a kindergarten school in Oregon installing condoms in both and boy’s and girl’s restrooms. Do we really want this?

“Best Rate: Call Now” “No Hidden Fees” “4% Interest With Our Lender.”

We have all seen the ads for mortgages. How do you know who to choose? Quicken Loans made everything sound so easy and appealing when refinancing, until you got the final documents and they overcharged you on closing costs. My wife and I had been shopping for a new home since last June. We found a great realtor who was honest and had our best interests in mind. Next was to find a lender; we did, but something came back negative on our credit report that couldn’t be disclosed. We were denied a mortgage, and this baffled us. We sent for credit reports over the next few months, but nothing was resolved. We applied again and had the same initial results at first. This time, we applied through Gustan Cho Associates. He noticed right away what the problem was. Instead of turning us away, he and his team worked diligently to get a resolution. It was a nightmare; we had a time share at one time and sold it back. The deed in lieu of foreclosure was documented. Somewhere, somehow, the time share listed us as a foreclosure. Gus sorted through everything and signed us with his company, and that was not an easy task.

Since Gus and I have become good friends, our love of dogs and fellow men has forged a friendship. Knowing I was a writer and knew a lot about food and wine, he asked me to help with his forum. I accepted since he had been so instrumental in our mortgage. Over time and in conversations, he explained his philosophy of business. I listened at first the best I could to all the topics about finance and loans, which were all Greek to me. He explained every step, and soon I began to learn.

His foundation is solid. After losing a fortune, gaining a fortune, and losing again, he learned the very first lesson. Try again! Einstein said, “The sign of a true idiot is someone who does the same thing over and over again with the same results.” Gustan had to reinvent himself. Gustan’s mantra is “failure is the best teacher.” When Gustan reestablished his mortgage business, he did what no other lender would do: he gambled on people with low credit ratings and gave them a mortgage and a chance at life. He cared about each person.

This was the start of building a new foundation. The first building block was trust. Although Gustan had trusted in the past and had been wrong, he continued to follow his heart through humanity. His philosophy was to believe in the people, not the process. The second building block was transparency. No confusion in contracts; everything is out in the open.

When my wife and I were looking at new homes, I called Gus and told him a builder was offering 4.5% on a mortgage, and he responded, “Be careful, Peter, there are a lot of hidden costs, and if they can offer you a better deal, take it.” Of course he was right; there were many hidden costs. Gus was looking out for me, the person.

Family values were the third building block. Belief in family and God may be the foundation for all of us. Honesty is another building block. Do not lie; it will only catch up with you later. Integrity is always important, as is doing the right thing. And I think the most important building block was having his workers, whom he calls his team, take ownership of the business. He has the respect of his team. Work smart and streamline; make everything clear and transparent.

Enjoy what you do, or don’t do it.

Make Cho your choice for a mortgage, Choose Cho!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NqQebl57Q1Q

A tree grows not just in Brooklyn but also in New Jersey. I’m nothing special, just a 60-year-old apple tree in Northern New Jersey, yes, the Garden State. The owner of the house planted me in memory of his dad, who was an apple farmer. My Golden Delicious apples are wonderful! Local folks know of my history and travel each fall to pick my beautiful orbs of sunshine.

Cider, apple pie, you name it, I can make it. I came up from a seed, just like my parents and grandparents. My great-grandfather led the way back in the 1930s. He and his siblings had the only producing orchard during the Great Depression. They were generous with their fruit as they gave to anyone who was hungry, not like that Wizard of Oz apple tree, grumpy and cheap. They fed everyone! I was planted as a reminder of when times were difficult.

Back in those days, the highlight of the week’s work was topped off by a fresh apple pie for Sunday dinner. When I was a lad, a seedling, too young to produce a crop, I was the playground for the kids in the neighborhood. As I aged, they would climb me, tie old rubber tires from my branches and make swings. I was loved and cherished. I can’t begin to tell you the satisfaction I had watching these kids grow up. Youth was innocent. Although dirt-poor, the joys of a simple existence may be gone in today’s culture. The anticipation all week of a hot fresh apple pie gave hope on Sunday as much as going to church.

At one time, the owner’s dad had a huge orchard, but as years went on during the Depression, he lost much of it. Bank foreclosures, unable to hire workers or till the land himself, his farm shrunk, and worries of feeding his family grew overwhelmingly. When the owner’s son planted me was no longer a farmer, he became a builder, swearing never to farm for a living after seeing what his dad experienced. However, I was planted as a symbol as to not to forget.

As the years ticked away, and I was a sapling nearing the juvenile stage of my life, I gave shade for summer picnics. I also gave shelter from the storms and allowed all birds to nest in my branches and give birth to new life. My roots never faltered, and I stored water when It rained.

My crop increased every year, and soon I was producing more apples than any other apple tree. I was a great landlord, never evicting anyone. They could come and go as they pleased. Sooner or later, most would return with their families and tell of my wonderful living conditions.

Soon after my sapling period, I’m not sure when though, kids started carving their names on my trunk. I hated this, destroying my beautiful bark with crude initials. The owner’s five-year-old daughter was the first to etch into me with her initials, DM. She was barely a sapling herself when she borrowed her older brother’s pocket knife. Boy, did she get a whooping! Her DM was carved so low on my trunk that it was hardly one foot above the ground. At first, I despised this, but in time I grew fond of the daughter and felt almost honored for her to “tag” me.

I aged quite nicely during my adult years, and each year my harvest increased, and suddenly I saw an increase in carved initials. DM’s etching led the way for many other kids. DM was now three feet above the ground, and below her were her four siblings and neighboring children.

My adult years were very fruitful, but old age is rapidly approaching. I turned 50 last spring, and I am showing signs of decline. I am considered an elderly tree. My apple crop, although tasty, is less and less each year. DM’s initials are now twelve feet above the ground, and she is nearing 50 years old. The owner who planted me passed away last summer, and I am beginning to feel useless. DM’s youngest brother is 35; PA tagged me when he was 10. He is a builder just like his dad. He now owns the house that has been passed on through the generations. I am now in the autumn of my years and reaching the snag phase of a tree; I’m near death.

He wants to replant the orchard! Wow! I didn’t see that coming, but he wants to chop me down! I do not understand why? The day has come, and I am being razed. It doesn’t seem to hurt. The owner chops me down, but my roots are saved. My root bulbs will be planted throughout the new orchard; I will live longer and prosper once again.

When they cut me down, they were extremely careful not to disturb the first 12 feet of bark. The bark was gently removed, planed, and sanded down. The 20 or so initials carved into my bark created a bench. Every child’s initials since 1950 can be seen on the backing off the bench.

An engraved metal plaque also reads, “You were there when we needed you, and your roots are now our future.”

Google suggests using a non-toxic glue to make cheese stick to pizza. That’s SLOP, the new SPAM. Yesterday’s article in the New York Times by Benjamin Hoffman writes how SLOB appears out of no where and looks legit. Tech companies are looking for new AI search engines. When you start a search the AI will give you, what it thinks you want. Overall its being represented as a bug that inverts what you are searching. You don’t know what’s real or not, they appear in emails and messages. Be careful of SLOP, you never know when it happens, is this post SLOP?

The two days out of the year when suddenly NO ONE is confused about what a man and woman is.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPBuOtUdm30

Kamala Harris, is it racism?

Who is Kamala Harris? A vice president who hasn’t achieved much. She is a heartbeat away from being president. If Biden doesn’t run in November, she may be running in his stead. Every time I look up information on her, all I find is the following: The first female African American to hold the office of vice president That’s her claim to fame, and I take issue with that claim. Also, what is she? Her mother, Kamil, is from India, which makes her Asian; her father, Donald, is, get this, Afro-Jamaican with Irish ancestry. I will assume she is a woman. Why isn’t she the first Irish-Jamaican-Asian? You list the adjective first: I’m Italian American. An American by birth, a Native American is what I am. Granted, she was born in Oakland, California, apparently of many different ancestors. Why does Africa come first? She’s barely African; has she been there? I’ve been to Italy many times. I don’t play it up; it’s obvious I’m Italian. My wife’s DNA states she is 2% Polynesian; she can’t relate to that; she’s Ukrainian and Slovak. Would my wife be Polish or Polynesian? My DNA says I’m 20% Greek. Southern Italians and Greeks have been screwing around with each other for a long time. Africa is just 30 miles from Sicily. I have black cousins! Are we Afro-Italianos? Everyone here is from elsewhere. The party plays the female race ticket; just give them a minority, and they will vote them into office.Kamala Harris, is it racism?

Who is Kamala Harris? A vice president who hasn’t achieved much. She is a heartbeat away from being president. If Biden doesn’t run in November, she may be running in his stead. Every time I look up information on her, all I find is the following: The first female African American to hold the office of vice president That’s her claim to fame, and I take issue with that claim. Also, what is she? Her mother, Kamil, is from India, which makes her Asian; her father, Donald, is, get this, Afro-Jamaican with Irish ancestry. I will assume she is a woman. Why isn’t she the first Irish-Jamaican-Asian? You list the adjective first: I’m Italian American. An American by birth, a Native American is what I am. Granted, she was born in Oakland, California, apparently of many different ancestors. Why does Africa come first? She’s barely African; has she been there? I’ve been to Italy many times. I don’t play it up; it’s obvious I’m Italian. My wife’s DNA states she is 2% Polynesian; she can’t relate to that; she’s Ukrainian and Slovak. Would my wife be Polish or Polynesian? My DNA says I’m 20% Greek. Southern Italians and Greeks have been screwing around with each other for a long time. Africa is just 30 miles from Sicily. I have black cousins! Are we Afro-Italianos? Everyone here is from elsewhere. The party plays the female race ticket; just give them a minority, and they will vote them into office.

Did your human give you half a treat and tell you it was a whole one?

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The weather in Florida has been 90 degrees everyday for the past two weeks. The good thing about it being so hot, that there is no one in the back seat of you car waiting to attack you.

The Mafia and LGBT

I am proud of my Greenwich Village and my heritage. Just before summer kicked in early June 1969, the Stonewall Inn riots occurred. I’m not sure how many LGBTs know of this riot on Sheridan Square in Greenwich Village. The cops had enough of the gays and decided to raid the gay bar. This was the beginning of the gay movement.

This was actually a big mistake by the local police precinct; the “boys” owned the bar. When I refer to the “boys,” I mean the Mafia. They owned all the gay bars in the village. Gays were an everyday, matter of fact, occurrence in the village. The Italians paid them no mind; they didn’t hurt anyone. Tea Roooms, as they were called, sprung up, “Black Rabbit,” “One Potato,” where I actually worked a couple of bar shifts; it’s a long story how I wound up working there. The manager’s name was Bunny. He was gay and connected to the “boys.” My sisters had gay friends in elementary school. Everything was kept quiet, all behind closed doors, until that night in June, when 1,000 protesters came out of the closet and supported the Stonewall Inn. Not all were gay; many straight Villagers joined the protest.

The cops were brutal with their batons. This was long before “The Gay Officers Action League” was born. The cops and the “boys” always got along until that night. I guess there was a “sit down” between the two, and as expected, the “boys” won the battle. When it comes to money, don’t fuck with them. I suppose the Mafia helped the Gay Rights Movement.

I have always enjoyed the Italian traditions passed down through the generations. Meatless Fridays is a Catholic tradition the Italians practiced. I still try and adhere to the meatless Fridays whenever I can, except during Lent, when there is no meat at all.

Fish was the usual choice on Fridays, and I’ve eaten a lot of good pizza on Fridays. The Campagna Region of Italy, where this dish originated, has abundant fish and lots of great pizza. I’m sharing my recipe for Bucatini Aioli e Olio, with hot honey-seared scallops.

Aioli means garlic and oil. Olio is also oil.

Cook your pasta al dente.

Add garlic, olive oil, salt, pepper, and red pepper.

Season according to preference

Cast iron pan Heat a little canola or peanut oil, not olive oil.

When the pan is hot, place dried sea scallops in the pan

Salt and pepper lightly.

Sear scallops for three minutes each side.

Serve along with the pasta on a bed of spinach

Two-ounce ramekins of hot honey on the side for dipping

Don’t worry if a little honey mixes with the pasta.

This creates an amazing by-flavor.

New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs are dry and loaded with lemon and grapefruit flavors.

The acidity will call the hot honey a little, if not a beer.I have always enjoyed the Italian traditions passed down through the generations. Meatless Fridays is a Catholic tradition the Italians practiced. I still try and adhere to the meatless Fridays whenever I can, except during Lent, when there is no meat at all.

Fish was the usual choice on Fridays, and I’ve eaten a lot of good pizza on Fridays. The Campagna Region of Italy, where this dish originated, has abundant fish and lots of great pizza. I’m sharing my recipe for Bucatini Aioli e Olio, with hot honey-seared scallops.

Aioli means garlic and oil. Olio is also oil.

Cook your pasta al dente.

Add garlic, olive oil, salt, pepper, and red pepper.

Season according to preference

Cast iron pan Heat a little canola or peanut oil, not olive oil.

When the pan is hot, place dried sea scallops in the pan

Salt and pepper lightly.

Sear scallops for three minutes each side.

Serve along with the pasta on a bed of spinach

Two-ounce ramekins of hot honey on the side for dipping

Don’t worry if a little honey mixes with the pasta.

This creates an amazing by-flavor.

New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs are dry and loaded with lemon and grapefruit flavors.

The acidity will call the hot honey a little, if not a beer.

Books that were never written:

“Running to the Outhouse”

by Willie Makit Illustrations by Betty Wont

I am a mirror on a wall in a lobby of a very exclusive, most posh, ritziest hotel in Washington D.C. I have been stared into for a long, long time, 75 years to be exact. I arrived some time before the end World War II. No one really notices me, I mean they gaze at me, but never see me, they look straight through me. The most powerful people in the world have looked into me, never realizing my true worth.

Many times each day I am sprayed and wiped down, this sorta tickles. My gold leaf border is dusted, and no smudges are visible. I weight over 100 pounds, imported from France, created by an artisan glazier for the hotel. I am a portrait mirror, you can check the polish on your shoes and prim your hair all in one look. Every guest must pass by me, either leaving or entering the lobby, you can’t miss me! I stand tall and proud.

Most people look at me to, fix their tie, fluff their hair, smear their lipstick, presently, couples stand in front of me and take selfies, this disturbs me, the glare and the sometimes flash irritate my reflection. So what propose do I serve? I feed the ego, for one. Hundreds of people each day stare at me and wait for my reflection. Am I handsome, pretty, or just fooling them selves? I can recall many presidents checking themselves, they don’t see what I see. I can gaze right back and pierce your heart with MY stare. Politicians can be fake, fake smiles, fake teeth and fake hair. I see who they really are.

I see and stare their sadnesses and their joys, but sometimes their lie directly into me. I can still see truth. If you dyed your hair I can see the roots, if you spin and pirouette I can see all the flaws within you, there is no escaping my truth. The true joys are great to be a part of, the sadness makes me question the person. My heart aches for them, yet I must remain silent.

President Harry S. Truman was my first president. He would stare at me in wonder and awe, I soon realized he was looking for answers. He had to make the most difficult decision of any president, weather or not to drop the Atomic Bomb on Japan. The struggle for this poor man made me believe I was not only a mirror of your image, but a mirror to your soul. Harry would often dine with dignitaries at our restaurant and pass by me, I felt at times he’d wink at me like an old friend. I don’t make decisions, I show you who you really are. His guilt ran deep, but there was no other decision to make to safe our country and our boys.

I felt a part of me shatter when I heard the news of John F. Kennedy, a young man with unlimited potential who really loved America. His death started a decade of destruction. More death of world leaders, a war no one wanted. The Kennedy Family was the backbone of Washington politics. John and Jackie were the most elegant couple ever to grace the White House. When they dined at the hotel all heads turned, I must admit I was taken aback by their appearance. I almost blushed when The First Lady stared at me do adjust her near perfect hair.

Many presidents I have met through my years, my favorite was Jimmy Carter. The kindest and most sincere of all. To this day, and well into his nineties, he still gives his heart and soul to those in need. The Reagan years were a lot of funny, Hollywood moved in. John Wayne, Frank Sinatra, they all came to met and greet me.

Don’t get me wrong my tenure hasn’t been all dreary, I have made friends and there has been many joys I have shared. The countless married couples who have posed with is priceless. The fact that I can see sorrow, doesn’t mean I cant see happiness. Sadness always finds me, but I look for happiness constantly. One couple was married for 50 years. Nearing 80 years old, their reflection was awesome. The love for each other pierced through me like a bright ray from heaven. My fondest memory was when I first arrived at the hotel, it has been my fondest every since. A WW2 sailor and finance met before me just prior to his deployment. They vowed their love in front of me. The sailor swore he’d return and marry her. They set a date to meet again, June 1, after the war in my lobby. No matter where she was she would travel to Washington and patiently wait his return. The war ended and there was no word from the sailor, news travelled slow during the war, she never knew what happened to him. She would wait for a letter, hoping he was still alive. The couple of years passed and still no word. She would to DC every June as she promised. No one ever met her. Finally, in 1947 she received a letter from the US Navy stating he was alive , but a prisoner of war in a German Stalag. He had been seriously wounded and couldn’t get any communication to her. When he was released he was shipped to Oakland, California to a Veteran’s hospital for observation. The Navy’s communication where he was at was late in arriving. She stayed true to her vow.

The sailor was released and had no information where his fiancé was living. He travelled by bus one late day in May to DC. When he arrived on Memorial Day, a few days earlier then the planned date, he though she wouldn’t show up in the lobby. He had lost his leg and was wheel chair bound, barely able to use crutches he waited for days hoping to meet her again. He could not afford our fancy, expensive hotel, he sought lodging in a flea bag hotel several miles away. Over the next few days he would find his way back to our lobby. He’d sit in front of me and I saw his sorrow , same sorrow displayed by his girl when she was waiting. June 1 came, and he made camp in front of me. For some strange reason I didn’t see is sadness today, I saw joy! Just as he was began to wheel himself back to the flea bag, she walks in ! I have never and will never see such happiness in two people. Their love appeared in my eyes and I swear I began to cry. They radiated love! I stored their love in mind and think back over the years of all the sadness and love I had experienced. May their love be a reflection for all to share.

Growing up in Greenwich Village during the 1950s and 1960s allowed me to be exposed to the melting pot of historical writers. Thomas Paine, William Sydney Porter. [O’Henry] Mark Twain and James Baldwin, just to name a few. They all lived in The Village and embraced the Bohemin life style. For many years aspiring writers have flocked there. However, there are also locally born writers plying their craft. Charles Messina, Alfred Caneccchia, Dom Perruccio and myself. I can say I have know Charles Messina since he was born on Thompson Street. Charles has written many screen plays and plays, his latest musical play soon to be on Broadway, “The Wanderer.” Based on the life of Dion DiMucci, Dion and The Belmonts. Al Caneechia has written many books, “Greenwich Village Vignettes,” the Village seen through his eyes. “When Greenwich Village Was Ours,” which I contributed a short story. My buddy Dom Perruccio, he and Charles wrote, “Stomping Ground, Growing Up On The Streets of Greenwich Village,” His latest work is a beautifully illustrated book, “The Adventures of Miss Canoli The Scamp,” a wonderful tribute to his dog.

We will never be as famous as the afore mentioned writers, their creativity has cemented a place in Greenwich Village for current writers and writers of the future. Growing up in Greenwich Village during the 1950s and 1960s allowed me to be exposed to the melting pot of historical writers. Thomas Paine, William Sydney Porter. [O’Henry] Mark Twain and James Baldwin, just to name a few. They all lived in The Village and embraced the Bohemin life style. For many years aspiring writers have flocked there. However, there are also locally born writers plying their craft. Charles Messina, Alfred Caneccchia, Dom Perruccio and myself. I can say I have know Charles Messina since he was born on Thompson Street. Charles has written many screen plays and plays, his latest musical play soon to be on Broadway, “The Wanderer.” Based on the life of Dion DiMucci, Dion and The Belmonts. Al Caneechia has written many books, “Greenwich Village Vignettes,” the Village seen through his eyes. “When Greenwich Village Was Ours,” which I contributed a short story. My buddy Dom Perruccio, he and Charles wrote, “Stomping Ground, Growing Up On The Streets of Greenwich Village,” His latest work is a beautifully illustrated book, “The Adventures of Miss Canoli The Scamp,” a wonderful tribute to his dog.

We will never be as famous as the afore mentioned writers, their creativity has cemented a place in Greenwich Village for current writers and writers of the future. Growing up in Greenwich Village during the 1950s and 1960s allowed me to be exposed to the melting pot of historical writers. Thomas Paine, William Sydney Porter. [O’Henry] Mark Twain and James Baldwin, just to name a few. They all lived in The Village and embraced the Bohemin life style. For many years aspiring writers have flocked there. However, there are also locally born writers plying their craft. Charles Messina, Alfred Caneccchia, Dom Perruccio and myself. I can say I have know Charles Messina since he was born on Thompson Street. Charles has written many screen plays and plays, his latest musical play soon to be on Broadway, “The Wanderer.” Based on the life of Dion DiMucci, Dion and The Belmonts. Al Caneechia has written many books, “Greenwich Village Vignettes,” the Village seen through his eyes. “When Greenwich Village Was Ours,” which I contributed a short story. My buddy Dom Perruccio, he and Charles wrote, “Stomping Ground, Growing Up On The Streets of Greenwich Village,” His latest work is a beautifully illustrated book, “The Adventures of Miss Canoli The Scamp,” a wonderful tribute to his dog.

We will never be as famous as the afore mentioned writers, their creativity has cemented a place in Greenwich Village for current writers and writers of the future.

Years ago when you worked 30 years for a company and retired they gave you a gold watch, a pension and a thank you for being a loyal employee. Today if you work for a larger corporation they give you a pink slip at 55. You are now too old for the company. They can hire two of you and save a bundle. At 55 your health becomes a concern, data shows you will get sick and it will cost the company dearly. No more loyalty, what are you supposed to do at 55? No one will hire you, you’re old. To me age is only a number a concept. If you stay healthy and avoid stress, stress is the big corporate killer, you may live a long life. Diet and exercise will help. I have my own theories of exercise. A rabbit hops around all their life and it lives many 8 years or so, a dog runs and jumps and lives to 12. Now a turtle sit on his ass all day and lived to 150. Be a turtle, no mortgage, no HOA and extremely mobile.

My latest novella about racial tension in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1950s.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mc6v51Nq6Rghttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mc6v51Nq6Rg

What determines rural living? Being raise in NYC anything with a lawn was rural. Suburbia was the country to me. When I moved west and worked in vineyards I got a better idea. I can sum it up in two words. “Dirt Road” unsaved, pebbles is my definition, and a septic tank.

Last Grapevine:

Last grapevine I mentioned truth in advertising; I am not done! Let’s start with organic. When organic was first introduced, it was great; although a little pesticide was used, parts per million, the produce was ugly. They never grew in a uniformed way. So they changed the meaning of the word, enabling them to use more pesticides. There will also be pesticides in fruits and vegetables because the farmer has to bring his crop to market and keep it fresh. Sulfur will always be used. If a farm is having an issue with certain bugs in damp weather, sulfur will be used to dry the crop and preserve it.

Vegan vs. Vegetarian: there are laws no that follow vegetarian and vegan. Marketing determines the guide lines, lately you will see, “plant based” Vegetarian or vegan cheese may contain rennet. This coagulates the cheese. It is actually a cow’s intestines. The cow must be dead before being used. It is an enzyme made from cows and is extremely appetizing. Read the label; it may contain rennet. No sugar added, or sugar-free. No additional sugar is added, which comes from fructose, which is natural in sugar but also a component of high fructose corn syrup. This causes diabetes, obesity, and some cancers. Here in the US sugar is processed with “bone char” to make it whiter. FDA says natural flavors can derive from a plant or an animal. FDA, spices are okay contains none of the afore mentioned.

Did you ever read the labels on candles? Tropidelic Clary Age—I guess that is the one Keith Richards uses. Tropidelic: does it contain LSD? Clary, sage, lavender, beetroot, and eucalyptus all contain herbal healing elements. If you believe in herbal medicines, Palo Santo, which means Saint Paul. Many cultures have used this wood for healing. A natural remedy for pain also comes in bracelet form. Why are these ingredients in candles?

If you are really serious about being a vegan or a vegetarian buy nothing in a package. Oops, apples are coated with ground beetle shells called, “black resin,” which is used in epoxy glue.

You heard it through the grapevine.

If you are looking for a quick, easy sauce for pasta, here is my recipe for Puttanesca sauce. Originally, from the Campagna region of Italy. Literally, Puttanesca means “prostitute,” a fast sauce made in between Johns. From the 19th century bordellos of Naples rose this simple dish that has become popular in the United States.

As I mentioned I don’t follow recipes only time and temp of the protein.

Vermicelli pasta, or any “Spa’getti,” a long, thin pasta.

Cook pasta,drain always reserve a little pasta water to add in. Preferaby cooked Al Dente, “to the tooth,” in Italian.

Add: Roma tomatoes sliced, olive oil, red pepper flakes, anchovies, black olives, and garlic.

The original recipe has capers, [I use olives] chili peppers, [I use red pepper flakes.]

You can add any amount of these ingredients depending on personal preference.

My wine suggestion would be a light, crisp, dry white wine, Pinot Grigio. If you need a little sweetness, try a German Riesling, they are dry with a slight touch of sweetness. Apricot is one flavor, in Riesling, the stainless steel aging of these wines created the fresh, crispness.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0trHQUkUTUU