School Crossing

This is not the first time I have lived in the New York metropolitan area.

In fact, I was conceived in the New York metropolitan area.

I know, TMI.

Sorry.

When I was a sophomore in high school, in San Diego, my father took a once-in-a-lifetime job in the Big Apple.

So we moved from "America's Finest City" to the home of Mr. Richard Feder.

Fort Lee, New Jersey.

Fort Lee is located right across the George Washington Bridge.

Right across from The Bronx, one of the five boroughs of New York City.

From our apartment window we were able to see the Empire State Building.

But we were still far enough away to avoid the mayhem of Manhattan.

The move for me carried all sorts of emotions.

Moving to the big city was very exciting.

My dad working for the New York Yankees was amazing.

But the transition from one school to another, one coast to another, was downright scary.

That wasn’t my first school change.

In fact, it wasn’t even my first school change that year.

Just six months earlier, after graduating from an all-day, private, orthodox, hebrew day school with seven other classmates, I headed to a public high school.

With three thousand students.

Talk about culture shock.

But at least that move was in the same city.

Living in the same house.

The same won’t be the case for my three kids.

Their upcoming school change, IF we ever sell the house, will take them from one side of the country to the other.

Just like my move to New Joisey 28 years ago.

I think I am better for it.

At least most of it.

But it wasn’t easy.

My first day at Fort Lee High School was quite an eventful one.

Early in the day, I was headed to my P.E. class in the gym, when I accidentally walked into the Girls Locker Room.

Now if you'll notice, I did not put accidentally in quotes.

And that's because it really was an accident.

Even though all of the Jersey kids thought it was a prank by the pervy new kid from California.

I eventually made it to the gym for a class I would never forget.

At some point during that period, one of my new classmates "introduced" himself.

Notice the quotes.

It actually wasn't much of an introduction, but more of an education.

He came up right behind me and whispered, "name the five boroughs of New York by tomorrow or I will kill you."

That sure was a funny way to welcome me.

The fact that I am writing this blog today, either means I learned the five boroughs or he was a liar.

The correct answer was B.

I could probably figure out the boroughs today, but I definitely didn't know them then.

Fort Lee was quite the experience for me, especially coming from laid back California.

I got to meet all sorts of new people, experience a new type of culture and learn a brand new language -- New Yorkish.

I think it was day two or three when two of my new buddies came up during a break and asked if I wanted to go outside and "smoke a bowl."

Smoke a bowl?

I figured out the smoke part pretty quickly, but this “bowl” thing was something I had never heard of.

Call me naive....  call me crazy...  call me anything you want, but as a 14-year old kid fresh out of all-day hebrew school, somehow I had never been introduced to that term.

So when the cool Jersey guys asked me again, I did what any SoCal kid living in a hostile environment would do.

I giggled. 

Several times.

They asked me again.

And I giggled again.

If my recollection is correct, the conversation went on for about 97 hours.

At least that’s what it felt like.

Pretty simple formula it was.

They asked.  I giggled.  Rinse and repeat.

But somehow my giggling must’ve been an endearing quality because when the conversation ended, without any smoking or any bowls, one of the guys gave me an offer I could not refuse.

"If anyone gives you a hard time, just punch them in the face."

"What???!!!!" 

I shouted.

Silently.

In my head.

I thought, “I'm from California, we don't punch.”

We sue.

And so began my new life.

My kids have so much to look forward to.

One in a Million.... Three Times!

I’ve been in New York for exactly, approximately, six weeks -- spending pretty much every minute of every day in Manhattan.

For those of you who have never been to this amazing place, it will surprise you how small Manhattan really is.

True, Manhattan is one of the most densely populated areas in the world, housing nearly 1.7 million people.

But did you know that the entire island is just 22.96 square miles of land?

That means that you can’t even complete the world famous New York Marathon without starting in another borough.

I’ve done my part to walk as much of the area as possible, taking a cab or a subway, only when necessary.

Walking around New York City has given me a chance to play one of my favorite sports -- the sport of people watching.

And with as many people as I watch every day, I thought the star sightings would be fast and furious.

So much for that theory.

I did see women’s basketball star Lisa Leslie.

Does that count?

I also saw NASCAR superstar Jeff Gordon and former Mayor Rudy Giuliani.

But that was at the Yankees game.

Just because I haven’t seen many stars, doesn’t mean it is hard to be seen.

A few weeks ago I went out to get a bite to eat after work with an attractive, married, female friend, who was on a work trip.

We were eating at a place like 35 blocks from my office.

The next morning I came into work and was greeted by, “so who were you having dinner with last night?”

Apparently one of my co-workers lives near that restaurant.

(Note to self:  if you are ever going to get a bite to eat after work with an attractive, married, female friend, who is on a work trip, do it in Teterboro, New Jersey -- population 18.)

Even with the tight quarters of Manhattan, I have managed to run into exactly zero people I know on the street.

True, I know just a few more than zero, but still.

I have so few friends in NYC, I’ve had to recruit some old friends to fly in and visit.

This past weekend, one of my best friends, David, and his wonderful new bride Gelila, came out all the way from the left coast,  just to see me (and get some work done too).

In addition to spending some serious quality time with them, it was also great to just have someone to hang with.

Saturday morning we decided to walk up 5th Avenue to check out the New York shopping scene.

We had just walked out of a store on 57th and 5th when Gelila nearly ran into, literally, a friend from the LA area.

How cool is that?

3,000 miles away from home and you run into a friend.

So we continued on our window shopping excursion, taking us all the way from 57th to 23rd to 14th to the Village area.

As we passed the corner of Broadway and Prince, a man walks out of a store and nearly slams into David.

Good thing he didn’t.

That would’ve been really uncomfortable, especially since it was David's good friend, a guy he used to work with in LA.

How cool is that?

3,000 miles away from home and you run into a friend.

Sunday morning the three of us headed over to Penn Station to hop on a train.

If you’ve never been to Penn Station, let me tell you, the place is massive.

It’s so big, the show Lost was based on trying to find a restroom at Penn Station.

Little known fact.

You couldn’t run into someone you know there if you tried.

Unless you are David and Gelila.

While we were waiting in line to buy train tickets, twin sisters stepped in right behind us.

David turned around and I heard something resembling, “you have got to be kidding me.”

What?

Again?

You have got to be kidding me!

These sisters were the identical sisters who work out at David’s gym.


IN LOS ANGELES!!!!!

3,000 miles away!!!!!

Now I’m getting pissed.

Of course I could’ve pulled out the TRUE story from the mid-70’s when my mother, brother and I were stranded on a highway in the Nevada desert.

Middle of the day.

Summer.

115 degrees. 

Overheated car.

An RV drives by, sees us, pulls over.

We walk over to the door and its a friend from San Diego.

300 miles away.

What’s the chance of that David and Gelila?

I coulda pulled out that one.

But the last time I checked, 3,000 miles beats 300 miles.

Every time.

And 3,000 miles x 3 times, including one set of twins, beats any hand I could come up with.

I’m pleased to say that David and Gelila FINALLY headed home today.

Now I can walk on the streets of New York again, peacefully, without being bothered.

Feeting Frenzy

I am old.

Officially.

How do I know that?

Well let me give you a couple of examples.

A few months ago my kids and I went to Einstein Bagels.

I had a coupon for a free “Chocolate Covered Strawberry Latte.”

I took one sip and threw it in the trash.

Really.

It was too sweet.

TOO SWEET?

When did that happen to me?

Exhibit B.

I won my first fantasy baseball league in 1990 thanks to Doug Drabek and his 22 wins for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Two weeks ago his 22-year old son, Kyle, made his Major League Debut.

Doug Drabek has a 22-year old son?

Wow, I am old.

Example 3.

One of my best friends in the world is visiting me this weekend in New York with his wife.

We had a blast today, walking the entire city, doing a little window shopping.

It was perfect.

When the day came to an end, we went to go grab a bite to eat in the Little Italy/Chinatown area.

Now back in the day, the first stop after dinner would have been a club.

Or a pub.

Or a karaoke bar.

Um, not anymore.

On our way back from dinner, where oh by the way, we got wasted on diet soda and tap water, we stopped for.......

a Chinese foot massage.

A foot massage!

A FOOT MASSAGE?

Your honor, I rest my case.

I am officially old.

For $30, we each spent the next hour somewhere between heaven and hell.

We were informed that there are 365 pressure points in the human body, “one for every day of the year.”

We were also told that 200 and something are in the feet.

I don’t know the exact number, but I felt them all.

And these were some pros doing the work too.

They didn’t speak much English, but Tony, David and Hansen let their fingers do the talking.

I wonder if those were their real names?

Who cares.

David was a doctor back in China, so he knew what he was doing and the other guys were following his lead.

It took about.... 1-2-3.... three seconds to feel the pain.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a foot massage before -- and I had not -- but let me tell you, it was awesome.

Did I say awesome, I meant awful.

Did I say awful, I meant incredible.

One second, my body was shaking.  

The next second, I was crying.   

The next second, my friend and I were laughing.

Uncontrollably.

Thanks to the unreal pain we were both feeling... and loving.

Our feet were getting more relief than the Yankees bullpen.

I’ve had many a massage before.   

Good ones, bad ones, hard ones, weak ones.

But a foot massage by someone who could clearly break my foot with one finger.

Never.

At one point, Dr. David was beating on my friend’s foot so hard, it looked more like a sparring session than a massage.

My guy, Hansen, was not nearly as experienced, but he was just as strong.

He kept a close eye on Dr. David to see what move was next.

When I heard my friend in a full giggle-scream mode, I pulled a Meg Ryan and asked for what he was having.

Bad move!

Or good move!

I’m not sure.

The pain he brought on was so excruciating and so fantastic and so painful and so relaxing.  


All at the same time.

I don’t know if I loved it or hated it, but I can’t wait to go back.

Literally around the block, there were hundreds of people at dozens of bars spending way more than $30 to lower their blood pressure.

But there is no way their Red Bull and whatever could match what we were feeling.

For this old man, my drink of choice was a foot rub.

Like any good massage, it came with a happy ending.

And that happy ending was, the ending.

Sixty minutes in, after moving from the feet to the shoulders and arms, the alarm went off and he stopped.

Finally.

I’ve never been so happy.

I think.

It took me about three minutes to wake up from the daze and catch my breath and when I did, I felt like a new person.

Still an old person, but with new circulation.

My Blind Date

Right now my wife is so busy, she doesn’t have time to read my blog.

Sometimes that's probably a good thing.

She’s taking care of three kids.

And a dog.

And working full-time.

All with her husband living the bachelor/lonely life on the other side of the country.

We still talk quite a bit and she pretty much gets the phone version of everything I’ve been writing here.

But I’m about to share something with you that I haven’t even told her.

Tonight, I have a date.

At 9:30.

And it’s not just any date.

I’ve been thinking about this person night and day for quite a while.

And I’m really looking forward to getting some quality 1-to-1 time.

Now before you erase me from your bookmarks and curse me out, lets cut the to chase.

The person is my 11-year old son.

And we have a Skype date.

Its not the first time my son and I will be Skyping, but this one is pretty special.

You see a few weeks ago I had to have a man-to-son talk with the little, well not so little anymore, fella about life.

No, not THAT talk.

We let the Assistant Principal take care of that one.

This talk was about staying out of trouble.

Now when I say trouble, I am thrilled to say it’s not REAL trouble.

But for whatever reason, I noticed him heading down a path where the cobblestone was getting a little bumpy.


Maybe it was being an 11-year old boy in a home full of girls, including the dog.


Maybe it was just being an 11-year old boy.

So a few weeks ago, he and I spoke, monitor-to-monitor, and I laid down the law.

It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t easy, but it sure was necessary.

Thanks to the Skype line, I could see perfectly when his chin fell down to his chest as I delivered a stern message.

I’m not a big believer in idle threats, so when I issued the penalty if things didn’t improve, he knew I meant it.

I made it VERY clear that I was not expecting 100% perfection, 100% of the time.

But what I was expecting was recognizing when you made a mistake and correcting it immediately before it got worse.

If you tease your sister, actually WHEN you tease your sister, you need to find that voice in your head to say -- STOP!!!!

If you get a bad grade on your homework or bomb a test, you’d better figure out why it happened and make sure the next one is better.

My wife has been keeping a close eye on the situation and I’ve been monitoring his progress from afar.

And last night I learned just how far we’ve come.

Last night, for the first time in about a week, I got a chance to Skype with the family.

97 minutes worth.

Right about in the middle, my son told me -- without being asked --- that about a week ago, he took a test in school on a book that he had just read.

His score was 5 out of 10.

Before I said anything, he told me that he had indeed read the book, but he must’ve just “lost his focus.”

I wish I had no idea what he was talking about, but that’s definitely not the case.

So when he got the results back, obviously he was very disappointed -- and I’m sure my upcoming deadline for turning things around was ringing through his head.

So he decided to spend last weekend reading two new books.

When he returned to school on Monday, he took the tests on those.

The results were a 9 out of 10 and a 10 out of 10.

I could see the smile on his face as he delivered that news.

But I think he was just as happy to share with me the part about failing the first exam and figuring out, on his own, how to make it better.

I don’t know if he could see it through the monitor, but his story and his honesty warmed my heart.

Now as for that date.

He just picked up a copy of the Michael Lewis book, The Blind Side.

You know The Blind Side.

Its the story of Sandra Bullock winning an Oscar, tearfully thanking her wonderful husband, who is also crying, only to find out a few days later that he’s been sleeping with more people than a teddy bear.

Oh............. that’s HER real story.

The real Blind Side is the true story of football player Michael Oher.   The story that helped Bullock win that Oscar.

Well, anyhoo....

I just got a copy of that book here with me and tonight my son and I are going to read it out loud to each other, via Skype.

Pretending, for at least one night, that we are not thousands of miles apart.

It is a perfect way to celebrate his progress.

And a perfect date.

Mangia Bene

I’m kinda confused.

Recently I’ve heard from several of you that all I’m doing in New York is eating.

I have absolutely NO idea where that comes from.

Well, maybe it was the blog about the street meat...

...or the all-you-can eat ribs...

...or the pretzels...

...or the hot dogs...

...or the pizza.

OH, THE PIZZA!!!!

Ok, I get it, but have you been here?

I don’t think it is humanly possible to make it three or four blocks in Manhattan without having the urge to eat something.

I know that I can’t do it.

But the good news is between all of the walking and the late night rides on the stationary bike, I have somehow avoided becoming the 800 pound gorilla.

At least I have avoided it so far.

Saturday night I returned home around Midnight and immediately changed clothes and rode 14 miles on the bike.

And there’s a good reason for that.

I had just returned from the 84th Annual Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy.

I had been tipped off by a friend that it was going on and far be it from me to avoid a food festival.

Any food festival.

Especially one in Little Italy.

The 6 train dropped me off a block away from the extravaganza and like Toucan Sam, all I had to do was follow my nose.

When I got to Mulberry Street, the place was exploding with food vendors and thousands of hungry people.

It was a marriage made in, Little Italy.

I walked the street for at least 45 minutes in search of the perfect Sausage and Peppers.

Along the way, I stopped at Cafe Palermo, where I tried “the best cannoli on planet earth.”

Best on earth?   Not sure.   

Best on Mulberry Street?  Perhaps.

I also enjoyed an Italian Ice -- like always, one scoop chocolate, one scoop watermelon.

Then, finally, I landed at Big Vin’s.

It was time for the $8 Italian Sausage and Peppers.

I’m not sure that Big Vin was any different than the dozens of other options, but I just couldn’t take it anymore.

And what a choice it was.

THE best Italian bread I’ve ever had.   

An excellent Hot Italian Sausage with a great mix of onions and peppers.

I spent the next two hours walking around, trying to burn off at least one calorie.

Every step of the way, I couldn’t help but think how much fun this would’ve been with my wife and kids.

Fortunately, I was able to make some friends along the way.

Like Thomas, the maitre d’ at one of the sit-down restaurants along the festival route.

Thomas was from Florence.

As in Florence, Italy.

He stopped me as I walked by and told me I looked Italian.

I told him my mother’s family is from a place called Campobasso, just south of Rome.

So he started speaking to me in Italian.

Uh, bad move.

We spoke for a few minutes... in English.

Thomas told me he came to the states, like many of the residents of Little Italy, “to enjoy life and make money.”

Cool story.

Of course, it would’ve been a better story if his name was Giancarlo or Salvatore or Vincenzo instead of Thomas.

But at least his accent sounded authentic.

I think.

The most incredible part of the night for me was this huge mass of people walking through this tiny street and I saw exactly zero problems.

Everybody seemed to be in a good mood.

Sure there were some voices raised at times, but it was usually a husband and wife deciding between the Sausage and the Pizza and the Braciole.

After all, this is Little Italy.

But pushing or shoving or bumping or fighting or arguing.

I saw nothing.

Not one situation.

Well a lot of people who looked like The Situation or even Snooki, but problems, I saw none.

In fact, at one point I even stopped one of the many NYPD on hand and asked if the festival was always this well behaved.

As a journalist, that’s my job, that’s what I do.

Plus, now I can write off the $8 sausage.

The NYPD Captain told me that the crowd has become easier to deal with in the last few years.

I commended him and his crew and said that in my old hometown it would’ve been way out of control.

“Your old hometown doesn’t have the NYPD,” he said with a straight face.

Nice.

According to sangennaro.org, the Feast of Sen Gennaro is New York City’s longest running and biggest outdoor festival.

There are more than 300 street vendors in addition to 35 of the restaurants that call Little Italy home.

For someone who loves food as much as I do, especially Italian food, it was pretty close to a perfect night.

Well almost perfect.

Between the Sausage and Clams and Zeppole, they had all of the food groups covered.

But when did Fried Oreos become an Italian food?

No thanks.

That must’ve been for the tourists.