I could have been tech savvy years ago. I was living in San Mateo, California, near San Jose. I was managing restaurants and my neighbor was working in San Jose. He said to be, “ I got this great sales job and you would be great at it!” I asked what was the job, he replied, “selling chips.” Now I’m thinking chips that was a great job back in New York, if you can get a chip route it paid good money. So I ask, “Lays or Pringles?” He explained micro chips was the latest invention for computers. This was 1988, Silicon Valley was yet to be established. I miss the boat and I never ate potato chips again.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4dsbmKs07I

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARClE4zCUl8https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARClE4zCUl8

A homily early in Advent last year at St. Paul’s in Tampa, reminded me of a similar homily I heard years ago about prayer. There was a flood predicted and one man refused to heed the warning of the local authorities to vacate before the flood arrived, his answer was, “I will be fine I am praying to God.” Some hours passed and the flood worsened, the sheriff sent a boat to the man’s house to rescue him, “I am fine I am praying to God.” The boat left only to return three hours later and the man still refused to leave. Finally, the man was on his roof praying to God for help when just then a helicopter arrived to save him, still he refused, and he drowned.

When the man was greeted by God at the pearly gates he asked God, why He didn’t help him after praying so hard, God said “ I did help you I sent the sheriff, a boat and a helicopter.” The moral of the story is God answer prayers, maybe not the way we want, but He answers them.

I know God answers prayers, I don’t know how? I have prayed and prayed for things in my life, these prayers were not answered right away. If my prayer wasn’t answered, so I thought, it really was answered and the answer was “no.” God will give us the tools to help ourselves, we have to be aware of them and use them accordingly. I always pray, I wake up and pray, a prayer is constantly going through my head, and so many times the devil enters to trip me up with the words, he wants me to trip and fall so he can help me. It may have worked at one time, not now, and that’s the reason I am writing this story.

I pray to Padre Pio, “pray, hope and don’t worry,” that was Padre Pio’s mantra. I wear a St. Benedict medal attached to my crucifix to keep the devil away. For the last few weeks I have been wearing a Immaculate Mary medal on a black leather bracelet. I was never in the habit of praying to Mary, I do now and it works. My worries and troubles have not changed, but praying to Mary has eased my mind and prepared me for the future with a clearer head. This past Advent I prepared myself for the arrival of Jesus, and I have never felt so serene and so joyous. I know my prayers are being answered. In the end of this life I fully believe that praying has made a difference in my life. Pray!A homily early in Advent last year at St. Paul’s in Tampa, reminded me of a similar homily I heard years ago about prayer. There was a flood predicted and one man refused to heed the warning of the local authorities to vacate before the flood arrived, his answer was, “I will be fine I am praying to God.” Some hours passed and the flood worsened, the sheriff sent a boat to the man’s house to rescue him, “I am fine I am praying to God.” The boat left only to return three hours later and the man still refused to leave. Finally, the man was on his roof praying to God for help when just then a helicopter arrived to save him, still he refused, and he drowned.

When the man was greeted by God at the pearly gates he asked God, why He didn’t help him after praying so hard, God said “ I did help you I sent the sheriff, a boat and a helicopter.” The moral of the story is God answer prayers, maybe not the way we want, but He answers them.

I know God answers prayers, I don’t know how? I have prayed and prayed for things in my life, these prayers were not answered right away. If my prayer wasn’t answered, so I thought, it really was answered and the answer was “no.” God will give us the tools to help ourselves, we have to be aware of them and use them accordingly. I always pray, I wake up and pray, a prayer is constantly going through my head, and so many times the devil enters to trip me up with the words, he wants me to trip and fall so he can help me. It may have worked at one time, not now, and that’s the reason I am writing this story.

I pray to Padre Pio, “pray, hope and don’t worry,” that was Padre Pio’s mantra. I wear a St. Benedict medal attached to my crucifix to keep the devil away. For the last few weeks I have been wearing a Immaculate Mary medal on a black leather bracelet. I was never in the habit of praying to Mary, I do now and it works. My worries and troubles have not changed, but praying to Mary has eased my mind and prepared me for the future with a clearer head. This past Advent I prepared myself for the arrival of Jesus, and I have never felt so serene and so joyous. I know my prayers are being answered. In the end of this life I fully believe that praying has made a difference in my life. Pray!

Having your driver’s license in the 1970’s was the coolest time. All the muscle cars were available. Chevy SS, GTO, Camaro, Vets, Mustang and Firebird. All the GMC cars during this time had similar bodies. I guess my favorite was the Camaro. I remember when friends came back from Viet Nam, the Camaro was the car of choice. My first car was a 1964 Olds 44, a monster car, it cost me used $400 in 1971 and the Insurance $440 a year. Still I always dreamed of the Camaro.

As kids we worked on cars ourselves never going to a mechanic. We went to the auto store on 14th Stret and Avenue C in New York. One time my friend had a broken ball joint and his car sat in front of my building for weeks until we figured out how to fix it. I still dreamed of my Camaro.

Years passed and I never owned a Camaro, until one day at an airport I decided to rent a Camaro. I thought I was in heaven, finally I can drive the car of my dreams. There was one problem. The years that past added weight to my belly and I could not bend over easy enough to get in! I returned the Camaro with tears in my eyes and rented a mini van which was more suitable.

Stepping Into an Honored Life

I am an old, wheel-worn pair of shoes that sit in a box in the back of a closet. I am just a reminder of days past. My owner takes me out of the box and slides his feet into me every so often. We aren’t going anywhere; he stares down at me like an old friend.

I worked manual labor for ten years, mostly concrete work. I am caked with cement and water. My leather is well worn; talk about an old comfortable pair of shoes. A good part of me built my owner’s house, my laces have been replaced dozens of times. I originally started out dark brown, but now I am more tan from the sun.

I have poured foundations, climbed high on scaffolds, and worked in the cold of winter until I began to crack. I never complained in the great heat of the summer when the temperature was over 100 degrees. I fought the rain during construction; although water-logged, I still worked. I gave comfort and support to my owner.

He is a good family man who cares for everyone. I can recall walking in 5K races for charity – who else would he wear except me!

When I was first purchased, I was young and inexperienced. I needed time to get broken in. In the beginning, I heard I was painful but mellowed as time passed. Over the months, we both adjusted to one another. My owner’s toes conformed to my length, his arches molded my shape, and his soles sat deep within me. I know all the bones in his feet. At times, I felt the entire weight of the world on me, yet I never wavered and stood tall. I never faltered, tripped, or fell. I am a living part of this man.

When my owner injured his ankle, I was there to help change my shape due to his limp, so he was able to continue working. His ankle was so swollen he could barely tie my laces, but we still continued to work.

I am often pulled out of the closet to perform the dirty job of working with cement or paving the driveway. This is not what I thought retirement was about. At times I am used for “dress up,” a game with his grandchildren, an honor, I suppose.

For some reason, I have been moved from my nice and cozy closet to the steps entering the house from the garage. My days may be numbered, or I may be put back to work.

When the grandchildren come to visit, they run to greet me. They have heard the stories of construction. Part of this new project will be a man-cave for the owner, adorned with his trophies and awards. I’m not sure what part I am playing in this new venture.

The new construction has started! I sit idly by, waiting for instructions. I am not being used, but I’m ready for work! Put me in coach; I’ve still got some life left in me. My owner bought a new pair of construction boots, and I am deeply saddened. They are black and shiny. The work continues with pouring a foundation, and I eagerly want to work, but no one needs me.

The work is done, the man-cave is great! A bookshelf is built into one wall that will display all the items near and dear to my owner. Some weeks pass, and a large cauldron is brought into the garage and placed alongside me.

I have no clue what it is here for. They pour some metal into the large pot and begin to heat the pot. The fumes are sickening, and I am worried I will be destroyed! I am placed inside; I can’t believe that this is my demise. After minutes in the pot, I began to sweat; the heat is unbearable. Finally, I emerge as a pair of bronzed shoes; I am not dead. The owner then places me on his bookshelf next to the bronzed baby shoes of his grandchildren. I have become immortal. The owner places a beautiful plaque next to me that reads:

“To my loyal friend. You stood by me as I built this life and family. It would never have been possible without you.”

Being Italian and I learned how to cook by watching my family. They didn’t write recipes, and to this day I don’t use recipes. All I want to know is how long and how hot to cook the protein. So, here is a quick pasta dish that requires no recipe. Cacio E’ Pepe. Five ingredients; past, preferably a linguine or bucatini, a good parmigiano cheese, like a Reggiano or Pecorino Romano, butter, salt and pepper. Boil pasta al dente, drain, reserve a little water, return to pot and stove. Add butter, salt, pepper and pasta water, stir and serve. Cacio means cheese and Pepe means pepper, so season accordingly.

I had the pleasure of being one of the contributing writers.

Exeter, Olyphant just two city name that claim the best pizza. In fact Old Forge, Pennsylvania lauds as being the “pizza capital of the world”, along with kielbasa. I have eaten pizza all over Italy, John’s on Bleecker Street, Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, Patsy’s in East Harlem. I even eaten pizza on a grill created by a culinary student from Australia, feta cheese and olives. Love them all! My favorite pizzas from Northeast Pennsylvania are: Angelo’s, Sabatatini’s and Arcaro and Gennel. Next time you are traveling through NEPA stop for pizza, and don’t forget the kielbasa.

So this teacher decides to give her 5th grade class an essay assignment. She asks the class, “What would you do with a million dollars?” All the kids start scribbling sentences, when off to the side sat this young just staring ahead. The says, “ Linda, did you not understand the question?” The girl responds, “ yes, ma’am I did, I’m waiting for my secretary.

What do you do if your taco truck tips over? You call: 9-Juan Juan

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPMa4YgZWNQhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPMa4YgZWNQ

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

A slice of New York pizza should be folded so you can walk with it. If the oil is not dripping down your arm you are eating a slice of New York. This is a real slice!

My parents weren’t that strict when I was growing up. Nowadays when a child is acting up the parents respond, “ He only acting out to find himself, his inner being and eternal soul.” If that were my mother of father that would slap me up side my head to realign my karma, chakra and aura in two seconds.

If you are going to live in the mountains, you must learn a few things to survive. I lived in Lake Tahoe in the Sierras for nine years, one of the most beautiful places in the world. It’s a continuous battle with nature. Moving to an area where wildlife rules, one must adapt to their surroundings. The bears and coyotes have been there forever, and we are the trespassers. Snow can appear ten months out of the year. The only month it didn’t really snow at Lake Tahoe was in July. I camped at Eagle Lake in July at almost a 10,000 foot elevation. I woke one morning to 6 inches of snow which melted quickly. I was the snow-plow king of my neighborhood. There weren’t many neighbors living out in the country, in fact, my street was the last for the city to plow. If you live out that far, you must depend on yourself to survive, hence, a four-wheel drive Jeep with massive studded snow tires.

Firewood was a big deal; I hated buying wood. So I decided to drop pine trees for my neighbors; I was allowed to chop any tree 6 inches or less in diameter. After dropping the trees, I would bundle them up and store the dry rounds for the next year. I would need at least two cords a year. One year I stacked the wood too close to the house only to discover the mice preferred wood piles in the winter; I ended catching eighteen mice that year.

Coyotes, by far, are the smartest of all creatures! When I would come across a coyote in the forest, I would stand my ground and yell. The coyote would back up a few feet only to turn around and glare at me to see if I were serious. I never had a problem with them, though.

One day, at my kids bus stop, I saw a white wolf, an amazingly beautiful creature. Black bears were everywhere! When I first moved there, I spotted a bear cub in a tree, which means mamma bear is close by. I am certain the same cub would visit my dog and me; I could tell by the bears’ chest blazing as a way to identify bears. I’d be splitting wood, and the bear would come by the wrought iron fence and peer in. My dog would be nose to nose with the bear. If they ever learned to use their thumbs, we would most certainly be in trouble. They can open a car door or jar of peanut butter. They thought humans kept their food in ice coolers, so they would break into your car for the coolers. One night, my New York City sister visited with her friend and stayed at the cabin across the street. When I walked her home late that night, a bear walked right past us; we felt and sensed his whoosh! You can smell a bear if they’re that close.

If you are hiking and encounter a bear or a coyote, do not run because they will think you are prey. Stand your ground, try to make yourself bigger, wave your arms, act crazy, and they will go their own way. They do not want confrontation. Bears climb trees, and they will only try to enter your tent if you have food inside. Most campgrounds have bear bins which are metal with latches for food storage. They have learned to adapt to us humans and how to pilfer our foodstuffs. We have to try to adapt to them because they were here first.

When I lived in Sonoma County, I was an amateur winemaker. I decided to travel down to Apple Valley, about 60 miles south, to purchase some grapes. I trucked them back to Tahoe to begin the process. The grapes were crushed, and fermentation was starting. The bears arrived and tore through my wooded fence to enjoy the grapes that very first night. I heard the crashing of the fence and bounded outside just in the nick of time to save my wine. I moved the grapes to a friend’s house the next day. Who knew, grape jelly, bears?

Garbage is a great temptation for bears; you just can’t leave your garbage can out all the time. If you do, they will party every night. What you need is a 600-pound bear bin that is set in cement with rebar. I purchased one for $800 but before I able to cement and rebar, the bears arrived and pushed it over. They knew that food came in these bins. The next day cement and rebar were installed, and before the cement settled, the bears came by again and pushed it over. They knew which were the garbage nights, and they would continue push over the bin. I tried motion lights, anything I could think of to deter the bears. Finally, I decided to think like a bear. Every night when the sun went down, I would urinated around the perimeter of the bear bin. Viola! It worked; no more bears in my garbage. They respected my scent and moved on. I adopted to their lifestyle. Just don’t let the neighbors catch you!!

Baseball and sports.

I am a baseball fan a Yankee fan for life. I grew up in the days of Mickey Mantle during the sixties. Of course, I played football and lots of basketball. I didn’t play hockey, but my wife being a huge hockey fan, I had no choice but to cheer her team on. Out all the afore mentioned sports, baseball is the only one to start on time. The only game with a clock keeping time, starts on time. First pitch is 1:04 for a day game,you could set Big Ben by the start of a baseball game. Football kick-off 3:20. No way! There first must be a half dozen commercials to air. Basketball same thing 7:20 tip off, not even close! Ads, ads, and ads.

Baseball just ticks away slowly, some call it the game for intelligent people. Like chess it moved slowly, watching a chess game is as boring as siting in the nose bleed bleachers in a baseball game without a radio. You can’t see the game or hear the game. Don’t keep started on watching golf or bowling!

Penalties in sports, sorta not fair. Kicking dirt on an umpire in baseball, you get throw out of the game. Fist fight in a basketball game, suspended two weeks, excessive brut force in football, four game suspension. Hockey all blown out boxing match with blood oozing. Two minutes in the penal box, next period you do it again.

On a recent family gathering with my granddaughters, grandniece, and grandnephew and various cousins. Age from 3 to 10, my wife and I thought it would be cool to have them write a book. We came up with an elephant as the main character, then asked the children ten questions: color of your elephant, name, favorite food, etc. When compiled the answers, and this is what we came up with.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNYY6-DMwOg

The Grapevine…

The last of the great generation.

Are the baby boomers the last of the great generation, perhaps? We were born after World War II. We all heard the stories of the war and the Great Depression. Our parents struggled, especially if they were children of immigrants like mine. They had nothing and gave us everything they didn’t have. How noble. They went from having nothing to giving us their all. I was content in a one-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village. There were five of us squeezed into barely 900 square feet of space. Living quarters were scarred after the war; all returning needed an apartment. My parents eventually moved into a 3-bedroom apartment in the 1960s. Others fled the city for the suburbs, giving us a better childhood.

That’s where it all started! I was spoiled with a basketball and baseball glove; I had it all! Growing up, we were all in the same boat, not having a lot of money. Our parents saved nickels and dimes for that down payment for a house—probably two grand for a twenty thousand dollar house. We watched and learned about the struggles; they stayed happy and taught us respect. Yes, sir; no, madam. They took us to church; we all dressed up for Easter, and we attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve. We traveled on holidays to see our grandparents.

That’s when we blew it! The eighties gave way to greed; corporations grew and grew. Finally, we had enough money for our kids, and we spoiled them. We started the problem that exists today; it is our fault. We were so focused on giving them a better childhood than us that we lost sight of the meaning of living. My wife and I have four children: a doctor, a teacher with a master’s, a Michelin chef, and a savant. We gave them all the tools they needed for a successful future. We thought we were doing the right thing. I love my grandkids very much; they have everything and more. How can a child possibly show appreciation when they have it all?

We shower them with love, affection, and lots of stuff. They forget, “Thank you; you’re welcome.” Respect is long gone. When a kid is bullied in school or cyberbullied, oh, give me a break and delete those unwanted messages. The bully and his prey are called into the principal’s office. “Bobby, you must not say those things to Jimmy; he is offended.” Offended, come on, when we went to school, you settled this stuff after the school bell rang. Outside, down and dirty, with fists blaring and noses bleeding. We coddled our children. I had two older sisters; sh*t, I was bullied right there; they told me I was adopted. When my first sister was born, my parents handled her like crystal. When the second sister was born, she was handled—maybe not like crystal but more like an expensive pair of glassware. By the time I was born, I could go outside and play in the streets at six years old. I played in vacant lots with tons of broken glass. I was on my own. I dodged cars and had strangers hold my hand to cross the street. “Have somebody cross the street with you,” my mother would yell from our fifth-floor window.

I wasn’t abused, but I was slapped for having a wise month by my parents. I needed only one slap to put my buttocks to keep me in order. I lived in constant fear: “Wait until your father comes home.” This scared the crap out of me, and looking back, my dad never hit me.

I realize it is ultimately the child’s responsibility to behave accordingly. You can have two children and spoil them identically, and they may have different results; one can be a spender and cry baby, and the other could be a minamilist.

I worked from the time I was fifteen, and my parents saved money for me. I was never much of a saver when I grew older, but I was taught to save for a rainy day. It was up to me to continue.

Family traditions: what happened there? Holiday meals with relatives—I know the younger generation is trying to establish their own traditions, duh. That’s not traditional. Why must everything be changed? Why? Because they are spoiled and bored. Our generation stopped a war by protesting at the colleges. They protest today because their feelings are hurt. Oh, please.

Wake up, or woke up! Spend more time with your kids; take them to the park. Limit time on devices. They made fun of us in the fifties when I had my plastic cowboy cap gun and holster. They said I would grow up and be violent. Now eight-year-olds are watching videos of mass military shootings, naked women, and who knows what else? Don’t get me wrong. I go to the gun range often and like naked women. I am an adult, so I’m told. I hope that my great-grandchildren, whom I will never know, come to realize that life is more than devices and possessions, so they can forge ahead and be the next great generation.

You heard it through the grapevine.

Getting Old

I know we all heard the stories about aging, aging gracefully. Fifties the new forties, sixties the new fifties and seventies the new sixties. I’m here to tell you its all bullshit! I just turned seventy, my mind thinks I’m fifty, until I get down on the ground with out having a plan on how to get up.

Things happen gradually, when someone asks you if you can remember your childhood phone number, you proudly recite it with that smug look. However, you can’t remember the password you created yesterday. Another sign of getting old is when you think you lost your glasses, and their on top of your head. Can’t find your phone, you borrow some else’s to call your number and soon realize you can’t remember your cell number, but you remember you childhood phone number which isn’t doing you much good right now. You hope someone calls your cell. Then you remember its on mute because of too many telemarketers.

Walking into a room and forgetting why you walked into the room in the first place.

Its not all dismal, you try to save money and clip coupons, which you never use. You buy BOGOs and forget you have enough paper towels in the garage to clean up an oil spill in the ocean.

My all time favorite is watching a movie I have already seen. Half way through the movie it hits me, I’ve seen this movie before, but can’t remember the ending. So, I get to watch it all over again, just like a new movie. You walk past a bathroom and figure, what the hell, I might as well go while I’m here.

My tip on investing when you get old, don’t buy green bananas.

Global warming, I never really bought into global warming and not all scientists agree of its existence. We are newcomers to the earth, things have been spinning around for years, warming up and icing up, hence The Ice Age. Kinda of like Florida, the people who have made this state home know how to adapt to the environment. Newcomers to Florida feel the wrath of summer. Currently, its the beginning of June and May has shown four days over 90 degrees, all in the last two weeks. How does a newcomer survive the heat? Personally, I don’t care if they survive, you didn’t plan ahead. More people have moved to the Tampa area in the past year then ever before. Housing values have doubled, everything is expensive. Some say its the next Miami. However, there are no beaches in Tampa and very little shore space in the county of Hillsborough. You have to travel to two of the most congested cities in Florida to reach the beaches. Clearwater Beach and St. Pete Beach are absolute beautiful and crowded. Parking is a nightmare, if you can find a spot.

No I am not going to be hard-hearted on new arrivals, I wasn’t born here, I am a transplant. But I will give some hints on how to survive the hellish heat. First thing, get a pool or have access to one, that’s a no-brained. Secondly when parking your car always park under a tree. If you don’t when to enter your car be prepared to enter a pizza oven at 900 degrees! You will melt, especially if own a black car. Need more tips, air-conditioning you will need one and a good repairman. Odds are when the temperature hits 90 degrees, your air conditioner will tank, it will be on a Friday during a three day weekend. Two questions I always ask when buying a house, are the age of the roof and the air conditioner. Buy a generator for when the power goes out and the air conditioner isn’t working.

The snowbirds from Canada have figured it out they arrive in October and leave in May, why? Hurricane season is from June to November. If you haven’t experienced a hurricane in Florida you will when you move here. By the way it rains most days. We have roaches the size of mice and alligators roaming everywhere. The humidity is awful. Lizards jump up and greet you and the mosquitoes can’t wait until dusk to suck a pint or two of blood. All in all Florida is my home and I love living here, once I figured it out.

My granddaughter

One lazy Saturday afternoon, I decided to catch up on some bills. I retrieved my checkbook, bills, and stamps to pay the bills. There were only four checks to write, so I thought I would just sit in the recliner, watch the ball game, and write the checks. My granddaughter, as usual on Saturdays, called her grandmother, my wife. They did ‘face time’ where both could view each other while talking. I wasn’t really paying attention to their conversation; my concentration was on math, not my best subject in school. I could hear them talking. My ears really perked up when I heard Melody say, Do you want to meet my boyfriend? She is only five years old! I know things move differently in Mississippi, so I’m not one to judge; however, she is only five years old! Nono, as my wife is affectionately known, started asking questions. The first question posed was, “How old are you, Kenny?” This deep voice can be heard over the phone—too deep for a five-year-old boy. “I’m not too old.” Immediately, my grandpa’s antennas went up; this kid won’t answer; I don’t like him. The next question my wife asked was, “What do you do for a living?’ Again, he did not answer. I’m thinking, “Who the fuck is this kid? Why is my wife having this conversation with this liar? Melody is only five years old! My wife asked the boy, ‘What’s your name?’ He answered Kenny, I now thought we were finally getting some where. He spoke monosyllabically—not many big words—and I began to think this kid was just full of shit. I continue to write the bills and watch the game, still not paying full attention to the phone conversation. Kenny spoke up and said, “Melody wants me to talk to Papi; that’s me. My bride hands me the phone, and I mime to her, “What the fuck are you doing? I don’t want to talk to this little shit.” Melody’s voice is heard: “Papi, talk to Kenny.” I’m resisting this; I don’t want to talk to this kid! Finally, I conceded to the powers of my granddaughter. I pick up the phone and meet Kenny; he’s a fucking doll! Ken from the Barbie set appeared, voiced by my five-year-old granddaughter. I am still laughing!

Every Memorial Day saddens me, not just because of the lives lost during our wars, also my father died on Memorial Day weekend. Is been 55 years since his passing. I mourn each year. Now think of all the family members who mourn their loved ones. I have a friend who posts a picture of her Uncle Patsy, who died in 1943 during World War Two. A relative she never knew who gave his life so we are able to have BBQ’s, camping trips, and picnics. Potential that will never be achieved follows all our lost soldiers. Some soldiers who returned are still battling their demons. Most of my proceeds from my book sales are donated to Wounded Warriors Program. Maybe instead of that extra case of beer over the weekend, make a donation to this program, or any other program that supports our soldiers. Remember they gave their lives for us, its not a joyous holiday. Enjoy your holiday BBQ’s and such, please remember the true meaning of the holiday. When having your first drink salute them for their sacrifice.

Florida the land of retirees, oranges and Mickey Mouse. For years Florida has been a safe haven for old folks. The weather is ideal once you get passed hurricanes and alligators. Every state requires acclimation. When I lived in the mountains the air was thinner so it took time to get acclimated. Water takes longer to boil. When I lived in the city everything moved fast. Florida you think moves slow, well let me inform you it doesn’t. Maybe back in the day, but lately the traffic is out of hand. The influx of norther people has changed the state. No longer grandma and grandpa, big corporation set up shop. During Co-Vid when we were isolated, working remotely seemed to be the answer. It’s true the weather is great in the south. But where is the south? The Mason Dixon Line actually borders Pennsylvania. I guess south Philly is really the south. Whereas Florida is really in the south, Key West being the southern most point of the USA. How about the Deep South? Alabama and Mississippi, you can’t get anymore south as far as culture. You know you’re in the south when you start saying, “Y’All.” The food is different, the music is also different. My big acclimation has been the bugs. Have you ever seen mosquitoes in Louisiana? They can swoop down and pick up a little dog. Being Italian and loaded with that wonderful aroma of garlic I thought I was immune. No way! Roaches as big as mice, you’ll always know when its humid, they suddenly appear everywhere. Rats, yep we got them too, fruit rats, sounds much nicer than sewer rats. Lizards are everywhere, they used to be a bright green color like the Geico lizard. Then black northern lizards moved in and ate the green guys, evolution? Housing prices have doubled in the past five years, gas and food are at an all time high. The cost of living is so high for us elderly that we see every mouth our savings dwindle. $500.000 for a shack, but it has location. I have been checking the prices of houses in Pennsylvania lately. Some Florida half million dollar shack is $250,000. Maybe I’ll trade in my suntan lotion for a snow shovel and retire up north.

“Okay class, simmer down, simmer down, this weekend’s reading assignment will be pages one through fifty in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Yes, Jimmy, you have a question?” Yes’m ma’am, my momma and daddy won’t let me read that book.” Why replied the teacher? “ It’s offense to my parents, it uses the N word.” Jimmy, go home and tell you parents it’s supposed to offend us. Banning books is like banning history, oh wait they want to change that, too because it offends people. You know what happens if you start banning books? Your freedom is challenged. First Mockingbird, next Huck Finn, and maybe the Bible, who knows? American Literature is a history lesson. When John Steinbeck wrote, “Of Mice and Men,” he depicted the era of Depression. Where else would we get a first hand lesson by an eye witness of the Depression. Not many people are still alive to talk about it. Was there a lesson? When Atticus Finch states, “ you will never know a person until you walk in their shoes.” Yes, a big lesson about racism. Huck Finn befriends Jim a slave. Message? Mockingbird and Huck Finn are called, “coming of age,” novellas. When a child starts on one path and sees the other path. A story of personal growth. Mockingbird, similar genre, only he is an adult. An attorney who finally debates racism. They don’t write them like that anymore. There are lessons people refuse to see. You can’t ban books, you are giving up your First Amendment. Next they will ban, “Old Man and the Sea,” because of animal cruelty. He killed a marlin. Oh, wait, the message, did he really kill a marlin? Or was their some other meaning to the story.

Procrastination is great, you have something to do tomorrow, and nothing to do today.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jd5PfO4P6g4

The Curse of the Sopranos

Most everyone has seen the Soprano’s, one of the greatest television shows ever. I was a late comer to the Sopranos when it started in 1999. I was working nights and didn’t have HBO. My sister in New York would call me and tell me about this new mafia comedy set in New Jersey. Of course I knew Jersey mobsters growing up, they differed from New York mobsters. Now, rasicm comes in all shapes and sizes. I was writing for a local newspaper and I was the food and wine editor. Some other writers, who studied journalism were on the staff. They never paid me any mind until the Sopranos, each Monday morning when the discussions should have been about current events, turned to discussions about the TV show, which I had never seen. Always asking me what do this mean, or what does that mean. One question which took me a while to figure out was, what does, “Maname?” I would answer I don’t know what you mean. Then one day I figured it out, “Madonna Mia.” Mother Mary or my mother was the answer.

My sister would still call and ask if I saw the show. I still never saw it. Yes, I am a New York Italian. Not all of us were in the mafia. If you want to piss off and Italian, put ice in your wine, and ask him about the mafia. We all knew who they were growing up. Suddenly, I was looked at as a once member. I tried to dispel this theory, but to now avail.

My sister would call and say have you seen the show and finally I did. It’s a friggin comedy! And the funny part all the ‘boys’ were comics in real life. I remember drinking with Ralph Gigante and he made me pee my pants. I recall when I was treated unfairly in a neighborhood business deal Ralpie spoke on my behalf. He said watch this, we walked into the shop of the unfair person took one look at Ralpie, “The Beast.” and cowarded on the floor pleading, “don’t tell Vinny, please!” The intimidation was a comedy act, like the Sopranos.

I was really perceived as a New Jersey mobster, I would say, “I’m from New York ,” it didn’t make a difference. Fast forward to 2008, I return to New York armed with incomparable wine knowledge. No New York restaurant would hire me, I was too New York and represented the mob. This was difficult to overcome. I was home and I didn’t fit in. Fast forward once again to 2022. My financial advisor shows up at my home one afternoon with real bad news. The first thing he says is, “don’t hit me, but I lose 20 percent of your investment, “please don’t hit!” What the fuck! I think, he’s watching too many Soprano shows. Yes, I am intimidating, I’m big with broken fingers from boxing, and I’m Italian! Now I get it! Okay lets fast forward one more time to 2023. My wife and I at the deli counter ordering cold cuts, that’s what we call them,not sandwich meat, cold cuts. I ask the deli man for a half pond of capicola. My wife asks what’s that, and I answer ‘gabbagoul.” Looking shocked she says, “that’s what Tony Soprano eats!”

The problem with racism is that the book IS judged my its color. Some parts may be true. One time my daughter was having a problem with a guy she worked with in California. Me living in Florida told her, “you know I’ll be on the next flight out, just to talk to him.” And I add, “tell him where I was born and show him a picture and ask him, “do you what to meet my dad?”

The guy never bothered her again. My own daughter was scared of my appearance, but she knew better, she knew me.

Please don’t fear me, and please don’t piss me off.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYNOeC7f0UY