Thai New Year's Traffic Festival 2015

When I was young, the radio listed the national traffic death toll on the holidays.

As a tribute to our nation's patriotism America scored the highest fatalities on the 4th of July. New Year's Eve and St. Patrick's Day were never close. These announcements were designed to warn the public about the dangers of driving drunk and thanks to draconian DMI-laws holiday tragedies have been reduced to a sad footnote.

I personally thought that passing a law to have a drunk driving hour would have been more appropriate.

3-4am.

Only the inebriated behind the wheel in a mad demo derby of boozers. My letter to President Bush on this matter was returned ADDRESS UNKNOWN.

Thailand on the other hand seems to revel in the idea.

New Year 2015 stretched into a five-day holiday and so far the traffic deaths for road mayhem amounted to 190 with thousands of injured swarming into the hospitals. TV warnings and police road blocks did nothing to prevent 2015 overtaking 20015 with a late push on 1/1, especially since another two days remain of the holiday.

Breathalyzers are new to Thailand and the police usually let the driver go after drinking a lot of water to lower the alcohol content in his blood. Serious offenders are arrested on the spot. This might seem a lenient policy, but there are only 114 breathalyzers for all Thailand.

This weekend it was not unusual to spot motorcycle drivers with beer bottles in their hand, which was almost as dangerous as talking on the cellphone while driving, the main cause of accidents in the 21st Century. 

Even better the other day I saw a girl texting an SMS while driving her scooter.

Go go Thailand. I can hardly wait for Songkran.

Super Bowl Sunday 2015

It's Sunday Bowl Sunday and the New England Patriots are playing last year's champions for the 2015 NFL title. Seattle's Legion of Boom have promised to shut down the Pats' stellar tight end, Le Gronk, and punished any receivers daring to cross their paths on the other side of the scrimmage line. The 'Hawks coach had spent several years at Foxboro Stadium before the owner got Bill Belichick from the Jets. My home team has won three Super Bowls in the 21st Century, but none since # 12 Tom Brady married supermodel Giselle. Few male New Englanders have mentioned this obvious curse, because Giselle was a Victoria Secrets lingerie model, although my niece prays daily for the split-up of Brady family for different reasons. 

She is in love with # 12.

He has perfect hair despite most of it being plugs.

This afternoon Courtney called to ask where I was watching the game.

The landlord of the Fort Green Observatory is watching the game with his eight year-old son, James,  whom I have nicknamed 'Lucky Charm'. 

Turning down chicken wings and beer on a couch is tough, however AP is not a real sports fan and both his son and I consider him a little unlucky.

Option # 2 is to sit at Frank's Lounge on Fulton, except the TVs in the Old School bar date back to the 80s and my eyes hurt trying to focus on the blurred images.

A third possibility would be Mullane's Sport Bar on Lafayette, if bearded Will was working there, but he was fired by the bald owner for being too scruffy. 

Drinking at his new place of employ worked for me, until Will said that a neighborhood organization was having a soiree at Eats on Mrytle and added, "They have a DJ, so there's no sound on the TV."

"Damn, I like my spot there." I had watched both Patriots' victories at bar stool # 3.

Last choice is chez Neil R, a die-hard Yankees and Knicks fan. I'll be the only Patriot supporter at his house party and everyone will know it, because I'm wearing a Richard Seymour home jersey.

# 93.

The sun is going down and I have to make a decision.

I hope it is the right one.

GO PATRIOTS

The Last Christmas Tree

After Thanksgiving Christmas trees crowd the sidewalks of New York.

On the corner of Fulton and St. Felix Streets the holiday franchise has been run by Laurent and Amy, who have transported evergreens from the northern forest of Quebec for the last six seasons. We spoke in French with their accent a provincial Quebecois and my r-less speech betraying my Boston roots.

Last year they gave me a small tree for my bedroom at the Fort Greene Observatory. I called it Ole Tree.

I thanked them with a bottle of wine, which we drank together right before they returned to Canada.

"Merci." I was sad to see them go, but they said, "Next year."

We hugged good-bye and I returned home to adorn the two-foot tree with Buddhas, ribbons, and a silver star.

Most of our neighbors tossed out the drying trees after the New Year.

I kept water in the small bowl beneath the severed trunk and Old Tree remained green throughout the winter. AP's kids liked Ole Tree. We ate cookies in the Observatory, while I told them stories of the north woods. Lizzie and James liked my tales of lumbermen along the St. John's River. I had heard them from my grandfather.

The winter was a cold one and I told my landlord and his kids about burning Christmas trees on a lake in Maine.

"The ice is a foot thick and everyone brings out their orange-dry trees to pile them high. Someone tosses a match and the trees go up in the whoosh of flames. I wish they did that here."

Instead the city mulches the dead trees with a wood-chipper.

"Just what the city needs. A bonfire to burn down all of Fort Greene." AP was a good dad, but I had the feeling that Lizzie and James wouldn't have like to see Ole Tree in a bonfire.

"When are you throwing out your tree?" asked his wife.

"Soon."

January became February with March rolling into the city with a vengeance. April was also cold. Finally winter relinquished its grip in May.

Ole Tree seemed comfortable in my room, despite its needles turning orange.

"It's time for it to go." AP rightly considered the tree a fire hazard.

"Soon."

"You've been saying that for months."

"What if I burned it in the backyard?" A good fire was an honorable ending for Ole Tree.

"Not a chance. Those trees burn hot." AP had gone to RISD. He knew New England and New Englanders. People from cold climes are into flames.

In May I traveled to Thailand and visited my children. There were no pine trees bordering the rice paddies.

Upon my return AP said, "My wife wants the tree gone. Actually she wanted it gone long ago."

"Ole Tree's a ghost of Christmas past," protested James. He was my good friend.

"Christmas was six months ago. Get rid of it."

I didn't want to say good-bye and a few more weeks passed, then the summer turned up the heat. AP was worried about instantaneous combustion and I had to admit Ole Tree presented a clear and present danger.

On a hot July morning I apologized to Ole Tree and carried it down to the street on my way to work. I didn't want to leave my old friend in the trash, so I walked to the corner and poised the tree on the wall of a church.

"You be good."

"I walked away, expecting never to see Ole Tree again, but upon coming back from work at the diamond store I discovered Ole Tree had moved to a stump on the sidewalk. James and Lizzie went outside to speak with Ole Tree. AP thought I was crazy, but he was a New Yorker and not a New Englander.

A week passed before Ole Tree hit the road and vanished forever.

It didn't leave a forwarding address, but winter will be back and so will Laurent from Quebec with a new crop of firs. A new tree will become this season's Old Tree, but I still think about the old Old Tree.

I love thee for a long time and will love the Son of Ole Tree just the same.

Bien Sur.

Dead Boys Who? 2015

This Halloween weekend I traveled to Cleveland for my nephew's wedding.

I arrived on Friday afternoon with my departure planned for Sunday at noon.

On the afternoon before the rehearsal dinner I checked into the Rennaissance Hotel and then conducted a walking tour of downtown; down to the Sttlers Land trolley stop and along the famed Cuyahoga River. At various bars I asked scores of Cleveland natives, if they had ever heard of The Dead Boys, the fiery rebellious punk band from the shores of Lake Eire.

"Nope."

"Sonic Reducer" According to Wikipedia their tradmark song is considered a punk anthem and has been covered by bands as varied as Guns N' Roses, Overkill, Pearl Jam, Foetus, Dozer, Leeway, Die Toten Hosen, Bad Religion, and Saves the Day. The song appeared on the UK compilation album New Wave, produced by UK actor and mystic, Pete Knobbler

"Nope."

Once more Wikipedia The album Young, Loud and Snotty, which features the song, peaked at #189 on the Billboard 200 in 1977.

Throughout 1977 to 1979 I saw them often at CBGBs.

They deserved better, but Sire Records mismanaged the band into its present obscurity and the band were demons onto themselves.

Here's to Stiv Bators (Steve Bator) – vocals Cheetah Chrome (Gene O'Connor) – lead guitar Jimmy Zero (William Wilden) – rhythm guitar Jeff Magnum (Jeff Halmagy) – bass Johnny Blitz (John Madansky) – drums

The Dead Boys remain alive for me and thousands of other punks.

Loud and Snotty.

To hear HEY LITTLE GIRL, please go to the following URL;

#93 Ted Bruschi - 2015

2015

In the Teddy Bruschi home game shirt which I found thrown out on South Oxford Street a year ago. Freshly laundered. Yesterday with the Patriots down two TDs against the Ravens I broke tradition and phoned a friend, Eric Marciano. This potentially dangerous breach of the superstition code paid off big time and the Patriots won against the Crows.

2015 Amok

Last New Year's Eve I stayed off the streets of New York. Many people call the celebration 'amateurs' night and Joel Goodman's photograph of Manchester's last night of 2015 holiday showed the veracity of that comment in spades.

Drunks everywhere.

The coppers battling drunks.

Drunks strewn across the street.

Ah, 2016 NYE I barely knew you, but I've known other years far too well.

Thank the stars for that.

A-ROD A-ROD

In the 2009 World Series Alex Rodriguez threw off the mantle of post-season goat and MVPed his way through the Phillie pitchers. Glory doesn't last long in the modern age. MLB suspended the all-star Yankee infielder some of 2013 and most of 2014 for self-medicating his aging body. Fans spoke about A-Rod, as if he had gone to the Red Sox for less money, however doping means nothing to a doper and I look at the number.

666 home runs.

2001 RBIs

Almost 3000 hits and 322 stolen bases.

don't mistake my saying good for A-Rod. He's a Yankee and as a member of the Red Sox Nation we are not prone to say good for the Bronx Terrorists, but the Yanks are in the pennant race. Every at-bat is a milestone for A-Rod and I'm saying, "A-Rod AROD.", because Sports Illustrated is a shit magazine.

ps the top foto is of Rick Rodriguez who owns the AROD Deli on Mrytle Avenue in Brooklyn.

Another Year of Bosox Sux

Four years ago the Red Sox traded away their stars and finished last in AL East under the manager Bobby Valentine.

That inglorious season I listened to one Red Sox game on the radio driving up to Western Mass with another loyal New Englander. They lost the game against the Angels 7-1 and I took a sports holiday the rest of the summer.

The following year my hometown team shocked Major League baseball by going last to first with their future Hall of Famer David Ortiz hitting over .700 through the World Series.

The Re

Once more I watched no games.

The Red Sox Nation was back on top of the world, however the 2014 team sucked from start to finish, as if the Babe Ruth Curse had risen from the zombie dead and this year the Bosox are so bad that now I can only watch ESPN's FOUR DAYS IN OCTOBER chronicling the Red Sox's 2004 miraculous comeback against the Yankees to feel good about the team of Ted Williams, Jimmie Foxx, Luis Tiant, Bernie Carbo, Dewey Evans, Jim Rice, Oil Can Boyd, Tim Wakefield, Tony C, Roger Moret, Pedro Martinez et al.

The good, the bad, and the forgotten.

All that be said I will remain true to the Red Sox Nation.

My daughter Angie would expect nothing less.

She likes the color red.

Oh Winter Woes

Freezing temperatures have descended from Canada to the Northeast. The thermometer dropped from the 30s to the 20s and into the teens. Winter was back in New York

Last week I dressed accordingly for my departure from the Fort Green Observatory and pulled on a teeshirt, cashmere turtleneck, a wool sweater, and a thick winter parka, then descended to the first-floor where I tugged on heavy boots and topped my head with a Russian hat. I didn't bother to look in the mirror since obviously my body shape resembled Bibendum, the Michelin Tire Man. In this weather survival trumped fashion and I headed to the subway.

My neighbors hurried on the sidewalk. No one was bothering to say hello. Syllables froze in our mouths. I reached the station, as the Q train pulled up to the platform. Every car was packed with passengers and we huddled together for warmth. No one spoke of anything other than the cold and this subject dominated conversations through the work week.

On Thursday morning I stupidly decided to wear a cashmere coat rather than the bulky parka. The icy wind ripping around the corners revealed the error of this decision and I thought about returning home to change my clothes, then told myself, "I'm from new England. Winter is in our blood."

I picked up my pace and fast-stepped to the station.

The chill sunk under my skin into my muscles and penetrated my bones.

It was only 21F, which was spring in Siberia.

Still the older I get, the less I like the cold.

This coming week the temperature is forecasted to hit the low 30s with snow tomorrow.

I have my parka ready for action.

I'm not going anywhere without it.

And neither would Bibendum.