How to Adopt a Saber-Toothed Tiger

 Let me start by saying I really love cats and dogs, even though I’ve been attacked by both species multiple times. Word to the wise: unless you’re a couple of steps away from a door leading to safety, never try to run away. Same goes for black bears, which are again moving into our neighborhoods. Black bears might bluff-charge you, trying to get you to leave your food behind, but occasionally they will attack.  A couple of years back when I was preparing to try hiking a section of the AT, I read a manual about it.  The phrase they used was, “If the black bear does attack, fight for all you’re worth.” I only needed to read that once, and I immediately returned to the sporting goods store to exchange my small can of pepper spray for the extra-large size.

It’s tricky to sense when your relationship with a cat has gone temporarily south.  I heard a good way of describing how they feel about you.  It goes something like this: “I Love You, I Love You, I Love You, I HATE YOU!” And with that, it’s time to protect your face. Lest we forget, cats are carnivores.

Having said all this, I’ve owned a number of absolutely great dogs and cats, all were clearly above me on my family hierarchy. Unfortunately, a couple of months ago, our dog (who was one chromosome away from being human), suddenly got sick and passed away - it hurt. But my wife and I had agreed that once he was gone, that would be the end of our pet ownership days.  And being that I’m currently in the bonus round of life, picking up eighty pounds of animal isn’t as easy as it used to be, I felt this was a reasonable position to take.

My wife had other plans. Through that wonderful facility called social media, she found herself drawn to a plethora of cat and dog sites to follow. At least twice a day, I was given updates on various carnivores and omnivores that were available for adoption. I began to feel like Captain Kirk on the Starship Enterprise, when he’s surrounded by enemy ships all firing missiles at him.  He has the protective shields up, but the chief engineer continually informs Kirk how much longer the shields will hold before they’ll be blown to bits and Kirk will need to adopt a cat or dog.

My wife is an extremely charming individual; some, like me, might say cunning. She really wanted another dog, but knew that my shields might be impervious to such attacks. So, she focused on the largest cat she could adopt. She found a cat breed called a Maine-Coon (sometimes pronounced Man-Coon). This is the largest breed in the domestic cat family. Some call it the Newfoundland of the cat breeds.  Well maybe if a Newfie was bred with a Brontosaurus.  These cats can weigh 400 pounds (that figure might be a slight exaggeration) and have claws that would make the Marvel character, Wolverine jealous. 

My wife has found an available cat and shows me a picture. I was expecting to see a cute kitten. Instead, it was like someone had slipped a picture of the Frankenstein monster in front of me. Luckily, I was able to control my gasp and thankfully I didn’t have a mouthful of food. My wife, more tells me than asks me, “Isn’t she cute!?” I was still in the “stun stage” and the best response I could come up with was: She’s a handsome cat, if not a bit frightening. No lie, she looks like an angry male African Lion. I pray she’s not one of those cats that wakes you in the morning by sitting on your chest and poking you in the face.  If that’s the case, I’m going to need to start buy Depends sooner than I’d like.  

I’m told this particular cat, at three years old will be a bargain. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “We’re getting a free cat!” There should be a rule: The word free and the word cat should never be in the same sentence. This cat currently lives about one hundred miles north in upstate New York. Just to start, with the price of gas and the cost of a new steel reinforced cage, I’m going for at least a C-note. When I asked what the cat’s personality is like, I was told the owner said the cat is surly.  That was the nicest thing she could say about a cat that ate its siblings. My wife was told to never run out of a fresh supply of roaster chickens. It’s clear, I’m going to need to learn how to sleep with one eye open.  

The current owner wanted to know what kind of environment her cat would be moving into, as she currently likes to look out into the woods at the forest animals. (I’m not sure if she’s a guard cat or not, but someone is going to need to warn our black bear population that a new T-Rex has moved into the neighborhood.) We do have some woods behind our house and a couple of bird feeders that squirrels, deer and the birds share. I reminded by wife that none of the glass in our house is shatter proof. I hope to be around for future posts. And I’m writing this while my wife is away…she scares me, too.

Man vs. Beast - an Epic FlyFishing Tale

 It was that time again, my annual fly-fishing trip on the Green River in Utah. Or should I say, my annual test of patience and javelin throwing. I haven’t lost a fly rod yet.  

To be clear, I’m a horrible fly fisherman. Whether its tying knots, casting or following instructions, few have skills below my level. My friend and I use the same guide every year. He’s a great guy with a ton of skills. One year he expertly removed a hook I had cast into the corner of my eye socket. These days whenever he sees me coming, he always seems to be finishing a big gulp of Pepto Bismol. I can have that effect on people.

This year started off with a bang. In the morning I got a lot of hits but could not hook a fish. Luckily my fishing buddy and the guide were keeping count. I made significant progress in the afternoon, I actually hooked fish. But then after they’d jump out of the water, (like seeing a prehistoric creature launch) the fishing line would break. The guide would then tell me exactly what I did wrong that caused this to happen. You’d think after the seventh time, I’d get the hang of it.

Day two – I caught some fish, but nothing to write home about. Then I hooked what had to be the Moby Dick of Brown Trout. The epic battle of Man vs. Fish began. At one point our guide said to me in a panicked voice, “Let go of the reel!” I almost took him literally. And since the reel was attached to the rod, I came closer than I’d like to admit, to dropping my whole fishing rig. Instead, the guide just wanted me to let the fish take as much line as he wanted. But then the fish started heading down stream in what seemed like class four rapids. So I got instruction to not let that happen. This battle went on for a number of hours (That’s in fisherman time). The beast finally got within eye shot of the boat. He was immense. The guide said, “That fish has shoulders!” My fly rod was now in the shape of a pretzel and I was pretty sure it was about to snap in half. Our guide was screaming instructions in rapid fire. I got to the point where I wanted to say, “I luv ya man, but I need you to go silent, and let me screw this one up on my own.” The great fish finally parked himself about ten feet from the boat and refused to move. I was patient, but not patient enough. I tried to force him towards the boat and Moby Trout snapped the line.  There was momentary silence in the boat, and then the guide said, “Don’t feel bad Steve, that fish was so big that I doubt you could have held it for a picture.”

 And the price we pay for the opportunity to tell fishing tales… Our drive back to Salt Lake City airport was about four hours. We arrived an hour before take-off. I battled my way through security where I set off the TSA alarm. I was lucky enough to be the random person the system will occasionally choose. I’m lucky that way. Generally, it’s not an issue, unless TSA is short on staff and no one is available to run the magnetometer that scans your whole body, which was the case that day. I asked the young TSA agent if I could just walk through again and was told, “No, you’ve been randomly chosen for torture, get back in line.” I could feel the acid pouring into my stomach. Finally, another person showed up, so the young TSA agent was able to get one person through the mag machine and then walked away saying, “Sorry, I have to go.” We were back to square one.  The remaining agent allowed me to walk through the normal way and I was free at last, free at last.  Or so I thought.

Our plane was thirty minutes late, but we boarded promptly. We were taxiing to the runway when the captain told us, “With a violent storm coming in from the west, all planes will need to take off from the north, which will take another 30 minutes to execute.” While working our way to the north end of the airport runway, hail struck. My airline had a number of planes on the runway that were also hit by hail. Their policy was that if a plane was hit by hail, it was required to go back to the gate and be checked by a maintenance person. Small issue, since Salt Lake was not a major hub for U-Airlines they only had ONE maintenance worker and he had to check ALL of the planes.  Reduction in Force at work…or not. 

I hope U-Airlines’ C-suite personnel got their bonuses this quarter, by cutting employee head count. At the same time, I’d like to suggest that these airline executives not listen to Elon Musk’s idea regarding humans not needing to work in the future – We’re not there yet!

(Side note: my fishing buddy was on a different airline and he said, “It stormed on us too but D-Airlines was “wheels up” and safety comes second.”)

So we were back at the gate and deboarded the plane. The plane checked out satisfactorily, hurray! Let’s get back on the plane and go. Not so fast. When we left the plane, we weren’t scanned out and we can’t reboard until the agent can find the one person who knows how to clear the system so we can all reboard the plane. As it turned out, this one person currently lives in a remote monastery and can only be contacted via pigeon. 

When we finally got back on the plane, we were told that we’d be flying minus a wing, but the captain said that if we all lean to the left it shouldn’t be a problem.

How to Stop billionaire 'Fake Farmers' from sticking you with their tax bill

 Recently, many towns in our area have announced that due to necessary budget increases, real estate taxes will be increasing this year.  Bedminster, the town I live in, will increase by 3.9 % (As noted in an April 16th article posted in this newspaper). Increases in healthcare costs are the main reason for the increases.  This sounds reasonable. And for the record, I believe that folks that run our town do a very good job.

But there is a very simple way for all of us to actually have our real estate taxes decreased and still pay the additional healthcare costs.  Well, when I say all of us, I mean the non-Fake-Farmer community.  Unfortunately, we have over 300 Fake-Farmers residing in Bedminster.  These Fake-Farmers are still bamboozling their neighbors, demanding that, we the people, pay their real estate taxes – the nerve!  

Fake-Farmers have absolutely no shame. They hide behind the Farmland Assessment Act of 1964.  1964 People!  It was created to help poor farmers who could not afford to pay their rising real estate taxes…in 1964. It was not created to allow the mega-rich with five acres of property to transfer their real estate tax obligation to their less fortunate neighbors.  

It’s pretty easy to spot a Fake-Farmer (FF-a third F is optional). If you drive past a large property and notice a small card table set up at the end of the driveway, that’s a tell-tale sign of a FF. On said table, there might be a jar or two of honey for sale. These are “wood bee” Fake-Farmers. Another give away is if the table holds a collection of twigs and branches tied together with kite string. This demonstrates the property is a forest, and forest products are included in the Farmland Assessment Act. All of these items will be for sale at a modest price as they are what’s called, Fake-Farmer Products (FFP…again, third F is optional). 

Another way to spot a Fake Farmer is to look up town records related to the annual Farmland Assessment qualification forms. The old threshold used to be the sale of at least $1,000 a year of Farmland products.  Generally, what you’ll see in these forms is that these Fake-Farmers will record that they sold $1,002 or $1,003 each year. My thought is this, if you’re going to lie to us, at least put the effort in to come up with a number that has a speck of believability to it. Not only are Fake-Farmers shameless, they’re lazy and insulting.

And for reasons unbeknownst to me, our New Jersey Assemblymen and Senators who have the ability to make significant, meaningful changes to the Farmland Assessment Act, refuse to do so. If I were a negative person, living in an alternate universe, I’d say one possible reason is that some of our politician’s largest donors are Fake-Farmers…but that would be crazy, right? (Note: earlier this year the threshold of farm products required to be sold annually was increased from $1,000 to $1,900…a meaningless, increase)

To get a jaw dropping idea of how much money is involved in Bedminster alone, we have over 300 Farmland Assessed properties.  Among them are Donald Trump, Woody Johnson, the owner of the NY Jets, and the Malcom Forbes estate.  Together, these three Fake-Farmers cumulatively own almost 1,000 acres of land they say is farmland. These three Fake-Farmers get to save almost $1 million in property taxes that are subsidized (PAID For) by the middle-class people living in Bedminster.  It gets worse.  Imagine how many additional tax dollars the middle class of Bedminster is paying for the “Other 300 Fake-Farmers”!  (Thanks for the data points Jack Curtis – now part of the Farmland Oversight Committee)

Gang, this is nothing more than an entitlement program, like Food Stamps/SNAP.  But unlike Food Stamps, where you have an annual income ceiling of ~ $39,000 for a two-person household; the Farmland Assessment entitlement for wealthy Fake-Farmers has no income ceiling.

Keep in mind, the Stay NJ real estate tax credit program for the middle class is being cutback to meet budget shortfalls…but not the Farmland Assessment program.

If you want the Farmland Assessment Act changed in a meaningful way, write to your New Jersey Legislators.  People like:

The Honorable Mikie Sherrill, Governor of the State of New Jersey, Office of the Governor, P.O. Box 001, Trenton, NJ 08625

Craig Coughlin, State Assembly Speaker, 569 Rahway Avenue, Woodbridge, NJ 07095 

Douglas Steinhardt, State Senator, 127 Belvidere Avenue – 2nd Floor, Washington, NJ 07882

John DiMaio, Assembly Minority Leader, 208 Mountain Ave.~ Suite 3, Hackettstown, NJ 07840

Erik Peterson, State Assemblyman, 28 Center Street, Clinton, NJ 08809

Spring Has Sprung

 So with the fair weather arriving, my desire to clean up the yard was aroused. We own less than a quarter acre, but everyone around us has big trees. I love them until November when something needs to be done with leaves. The good news is that our town provides a service where during the fall, persons driving a Snuffleupagus come by and snuff up any leaves you’ve raked to the street. It’s a wonderful, cleansing feeling when the Sunffa comes by. It’s a joyous time of the year where folks are dancing in the streets, setting off fireworks and partaking in general merriment. Think of the movie, The Ten Commandments when Moses climbs Mt. Sinai and finds out the hard way that leaving his brother Aaron in charge was not the best idea.

But it’s not all fun and games. The leaves have to somehow get to the street. And they don’t fly there by themselves. For more than a quarter century I’ve used the electric leave blower my grandfather left me. That’s electric, as in you need a very long power cord. It’s a royal pain in the rump to use. And the wind it blows is comparable to a what you feel when you sit across from a five year old as he blows out his birthday candles. Long story short, by the time the Snuffa party starts, I’m usually in traction. 

This spring, I cracked open the wallet, released the moths, and made two strategic purchases. First, I purchased an electric leaf mulcher. For decades, I’d been craving one, but always thought it was a frivolous purchase. I have two arms, two legs and a back…what’s the problem? Never the less, I did my homework and found the two highest rated leaf mulchers. Even better, I found a YouTube video of what appeared to be a reasonable person doing a comprehensive bake off of these two products. The highest rated one was the winner. 

Couple of interesting comments made: The guy doing the testing was most impressed with the two plastic leaf collection mitts that made picking up the leaves easier. He also made the point that the leaf mulching is done by what is in essence, a two-side plastic string weed whacker. There was no gargantuan set of metal teeth grinding things up into microscopic specks. (I was hoping for the metal teeth.) But considering how easily I can injure myself, this was a godsend. He also said that if you’re wearing a pair of work gloves, you really can’t get hurt if you stick your hand deep into the leaf collection funnel. A couple of thoughts came to mind. First, I’ve had an abnormal fear of weed whackers ever since I was doing some whacking in flipflops. I got lazy, wasn’t paying attention, and let’s just say things went sideways. Second, why would you need to stick your hand deep into the leaf collection funnel? I got an idea when I watched a quick snippet of another video where the tester said, “You get better results if you mulch the same bundle of leaves twice.”

Undeterred, my spouse went on Amazon and in one day we were the proud owners of the top-rated portable leaf mulcher on the market today. The leaf mulcher delivery truck had to be circling the neighborhood. My next purchase I made locally. It was an EGO leaf blower. Pretty smart right, buying a leaf blower in spring when they’re on sale. Well, they had the last laugh. When I got home the box only had the heavy batter in it – no blower. With that situation remedied, I now possessed all the tools necessary to take on the natural world.

After some minor functional testing, I had a big leaf massacre planned. You see I was deficient with regards to my fall 2025 leaf collection. And I missed the last Snuffleupagus pick up. So I decided to just put my leaves in the deepest part of my property. I was thinking it would just look natural. I was wrong. It looked like someone was trying to make an igloo out of leaves, but then a hurricane hit. I was in the thick of this project when I needed to use my new superior leave blower to get the heinous leaves out of tough spots and prepare them to be fed into the mulching machine. I turned the leaf blower on, and about seven seconds later, the battery was dead. I guess my testing was more extensive than I thought. 

Luckily, a week before I had recharged the battery to my weedwhacker, which was also an EGO. And it had the same size battery. Finally, I caught a break. Not so fast, just like a new iPhone where you can’t use your existing charger cable on new technology, they made a slight change to the new battery connect mechanism and they don’t work together. I’m back to the rake and crawling around on my hands and knees pulling out painfully embedded leaves. But I still had my top-rated leaf mulcher to save the day. This is what I learned: the mulcher doesn’t work well with wet leaves. It also can’t deal with the tiniest of twigs. And very quickly, the mulched leaves bunch up around the deep insides of the circular mulching funnel…painfully close to the whacking mechanism. I will say this, wearing thick winter work gloves with lots of cushion was not a problem. Not that I’d want to do it a lot. But if you wear thin, leather work gloves, plan on getting the feeling back into your fingers within a couple of hours.

So, after my magnificent triumph over the leaf menace, I came back inside, a sweaty mess. I asked my wife what she thought of my handy work (I still couldn’t hold a glass of water). She looked up at me and said, “You know, you’re spending more time out there now, then you ever did.”

Thinking of Pizza, leave it to the Professionals

So, after leaving New York City at rush hour last Friday night, my wife and I eventually got home around 7:30PM.  I didn’t want to cook anything, but then remembered I had a three-month-old Paul Newman frozen thin crust pizza sitting in my freezer.  I had never had one before, but I’d heard Paul’s stuff was very good, and with all of the donations their organization makes…good karma needed to be coming my way.  We normally cook and bake out of the smaller top oven in our new oven “system”. I started preheating and then noticed the instructions said, “Do not place pizza on a cookie sheet, place frozen pizza on the oven rack.”  I didn’t like that idea, especially since the top oven/microwave gizmo does not have any racks.  The wife says, just use the bottom oven, that has racks.  Fine, now I have to preheat this bottom oven, which took literally 40 minutes.  Modern technology is a wonderful thing.  Once it was done, I opened the bottom oven door and there was a large cauldron sitting on the racks which at that point was glowing red.  The intense heat coming off it steamed up the peepers I was wearing. The wife says, you’re lucky it wasn’t a quilt we were storing in there.  

So, I cooked my Paul Newman pizza and now have to get it off the oven rack.  Luckily there was minimal cheese spillage, but I still needed to figure out how to get it off the rack.  I had gathered a collection of weapons to address the situation, as well as a very thin plastic cutting sheet.  My thought was, sheet is very thin, but strong enough to withstand sharp cutting, it’ll be perfect to slide under the pizza.  Naturally, in the back of my mind I’m thinking, this plastic time bomb is going to explode into flames after about two seconds of extreme heat.  As it turns out, I was able to grab the edge of the crispy pizza crust, and drag it onto the thin, very thin plastic cutting sheet with absolutely no issue.  Euphoria has now enveloped me; I have single-handedly conquered the Frozen Pizza Challenge.  But then I got greedy.  As I was masterfully pulling my pizza out of the oven, I noticed a small chunk of burnt cheese sitting in the craves at the bottom of the oven door.  (Keep in mind, I’ve never been a waiter) I decided that if I just reached back down, while holding my pizza on the very, very thin plastic sheet, I could kill two birds with one stone.  Big Mistake!  Before I could reach the burnt cheese crumb, a combination of things happened - a complete report from the crimes against humanity commission is pending.  Said pizza got wings and flew off my plastic sheet onto the floor…face down.  For about two seconds I thought I’d be able to quickly pick it up and the crispy browned cheese topping would stay intact.  Then my wife pinched me and I awakened from that dream.  She then reminded me, she never said she was going to eat the Paul Neuman pizza, but I did.  I spent the rest of the night picking dog hair off my tongue.

Lessons Learned:  First, always order your pizza from a professional, and have it delivered.  Next, the fact that the Burn Unit didn’t play into the story speaks volumes to my personal growth.  And finally, you would think I’d know better.  I do an AARP presentation on Brain Health.  In it, there is a section on Tips to Help with Focus.  Number three is Avoid Multi-Tasking.  Like when you’re sitting in the family room watching TV and decide you’re going to walk into the kitchen and get a couple of cookies, that your wife thinks she’s hidden.  But along the way, you see a dust bunny trying to hide under a chair.  You then decide to go to the closet and get the vacuum cleaner because you’ve lit a fuse, and this has to be taken care of now.  And from there, you’re off to the races.  By the time you get around to those cookies, it’s 11PM and you’ve upset your stomach just in time for bed.  So much for restorative sleep.

Airport Cuisine and the new Terminal C

So Superbowl Sunday is approaching, and I am scheduled to hop on a plane out of Newark airport and head to SoCal to see a family member, some friends from school, and catch the Super Bowl.  At the last minute my ride to the airport had to cancel.  I was forced to attempt to grab a ride with Uber.  I use Uber about once a year, and each time I do, the learning curve is painful. I can feel angst brewing as I’ve never used Uber to go to the airport, and there is dangerously little time to spare.  You combine that with my overall distain for hand-held technology and my stomach now has something to be volcanic about.  

Miraculously, I connect with any number of potential Uber drivers.  It’s as if a dozen drivers are parked at the end of my street, waiting for me call.  They can all be at my address within three minutes.  My driver gets me to the airport in record time.  I cruse through security unscathed (pinch me, am I still alive), and walk to my gate in Terminal C.  

At my gate, the emergency door alert is stuck on.  The piercing high pitched noise is easily at migraine-pain level.  And my hearing aids are having a field day weaponizing the volume of the noise even further.  It’s as if they’re mocking me, saying, “Look how unbearable I can make this noise for you.”  God forbid they actually make a low-talker’s voice audible in a restaurant.  I’m at a point where it felt like I had two Ginsu steak knives going through my ears, trying to meet in the center of my brain.  

In an effort to escape the noise and avoid an aneurism, I decide to investigate the various new eateries within enhanced Terminal C.  I’ll be dining with the folks at “The Panini Shop.”  With my early arrival, I had the time to grab my meal and sit at a table to eat in a somewhat civilized manner.

My meal of choice is the Cuban Sandwich.  This hot, pressed sandwich has, turkey, ham, swiss cheese, pickles and mustard.  I’m not exactly sure what’s Cuban about this sandwich, but it seems like a benign consumable, which is mission critical at this point. I also purchase a bottle of ultra expensive organic raspberry ice tea.  I’ve never heard of the brand before, so it must be something new and extremely good, otherwise, why would they charge so much, right?  All told my panini and ice tea costs me $34.  Thirty-four-dollars!  I know, it was at the airport, and it was in the newly refurbished Terminal C, so somebody has to pay for that renovation.  But $34, come on.

So, I get my $34 meal in a bag and I find a table to sit at.  The chair is positioned a bit further from the table than it should be, but it’s made out of concrete. It doesn’t move. I sit down and pull my panini clamshell shaped container out of the bag.  What I didn’t realize was there was a decent amount of panini oil in the container, a container that I thought was hermetically sealed.  It was not.  The angle of me pulling the container out of the bag, caused a healthy amount of oil to pour onto the crotch area of my jeans.  (The only jeans I have for this trip, a 7-day trip.)

I did my best to clean up the situation with napkins, which only made it worse.  Then I opened the lid on my expensive ice tea, and tasted it.  I thought the panini oil had more flavor. I came to the conclusion that maybe it needed to be shaken first.  I twisted the cap back on the bottle.  I thought it was tight.  Again…it was not.  As I shook the bottle, I got my second shower of the day.  When I got on line to board the plane everyone gave me a lot of space.  Seems nobody wanted to stand next to the crazy old man who wet himself.

Anthropology and Expensive Rocks

In the words of Charlie Brown, during Halloween Trick or Treating, “I got a rock.”  

To level set this story, I’m not a social media superstar, not a rising star, not even a mundane asteroid.  When people ask me if I’m on social media, I get queasy.   There are just way too many screens and buttons that can lead to angst.  And considering my complete lack of technical aptitude, I’m sure I’d have an easy time breaking it.  Then I’d have to crawl to my wife and beggingly say, “look what I did, can you fix it?”  

So, my annual gift-giving trifecta from hell is fast approaching.  In less than a month, I have to come up with three creative, and thoughtful gifts to address my wedding anniversary, the wife’s birthday, and Christmas.  According to my calculations, I’m more than a little past middle age, and as much as I’d like to think of myself as creative, I’m not.  After thirty years of this torturous gauntlet, I have no tricks left up my sleeve.  I can do maybe, one clever gift a year, but three in less than a month?  Sure, and if Pigs could f...What I should do is have a LLADRO commissioned that depicts a bunch of pigs flying around.

It’s now the night before Thanksgiving.  My daughter and her husband have come over for dinner and some pre-Thanksgiving beverages.  After dinner we’re sitting in the family room talking.  My daughter announces to my wife that she wants to give her Mom her birthday gift early, as they won’t be with us during the actual day of her birthday.  I’m holding my breath, praying that she doesn’t go overboard with the gift, and thus wind up embarrassing me.  (Remember, it’s all about me.) 

My daughter is exuberant.  She explains that this gift is something she knows my wife was looking for, and really wanted.  Oh Crap!  This is not going to be good…for me.  My wife is very excited.  As she’s ripping the paper off the box, she says, “Colleen, you didn’t?  How did you get one?  They’re sold out everywhere!”  Now I know I’m really screwed.  I should have just gotten her a thoughtful card, taken my lumps and found an acceptable hotel to live in.

As the gift is emerging from the box, my wife, almost jumping out of her skin with enthusiasm, asks my daughter, “Colleen, how much did you pay for this!?!”  I tried to remind my wife that it’s not polite to ask how much a gift costs, but I was too late.  My daughter quickly responds in a proud tone, “Well it wasn’t too bad, I got it as part of a pre-Black Friday sale.  It was $300, but I got it for $150.”  The excitement between my daughter and wife was palpable.  

My wife reaches into the box and pulls out…a rock.  Yes, a rock.  It’s about five inches long, about three inches high and two inches thick.  It’s speckled, white and gray-ish, heavy on the ish.  And, it smells like perfume.  My daughter proclaims, “It’s an Anthro Rock!” from the Anthropologie store, which I’m guessing, must be a wonderful thing.  When I think of the Anthropologie store, the only thing that comes to mind is overpriced clothing which I’m unable to appreciate.  My next thought was, if the world economy collapses, I wonder how much the Anthro Rock will be worth.  I bet it’s more than a bitcoin. And along with that thought was, what is the return policy for the rock?  

My son-in-law is looking like he’s either very confused or in shock.  He offers up, “So we can use it to hold down napkins on the dining room table during dinner tomorrow?  My daughter replies, “No, it’ll be the center piece!”

I know better than to open my mouth and offer my opinion, as I’ve ruined many a family gathering by saying exactly what’s on my mind.  These days, even if I’m aggressively questioned, I no longer take the bait and speak.  I just do my best imitation of Marcel Marceau, and nod in agreement.  You can teach an old dog new tricks!

My daughter and wife are giddy as they ogle over the rock, discussing details about it.  Then my daughter, in a very jovial tone, asks us, “But you get why it’s so special, right?”  And with that, I took the bait and swallowed it whole.  I’m thinking, well I have a good shot at blowing up Thanksgiving this year, but she did ask. So I said, “I feel like I’m being punked.”  And with that, both my wife and daughter broke out into uproarious laughter.  

The Anthro Rock gag is being played out worldwide and videos of these events are being put on social media – mainly, Instagram and TikTok, neither of which I subscribe to.  My daughter dug this rock out of the garden in front of her building.  She washed the dirt and grime off said rock, and perfumed it with a scent she hadn’t worn in years.  And the cherry on top, to video this deception, she secretly placed a camera on our fireplace mantel amongst the turkeys and pilgrims.  All parts of the diabolical plan to deceive and embarrass us, on Thanksgiving. 

Fair warning my friends, evil lurks among us.

50th High School Reunions & Fossils

Sometimes life will send us to unexpected places.  I recently received an email from some entity who claimed to have gone to high school with me.  I recognized the name, but being the overtly paranoid soul that I am, I was sure it was a scam.  So, I decided to perform my own forensic due diligence, and miraculously, when I eventually clicked on the link, my laptop didn’t erupt into a flaming mess.

The last time I had seen this person, he was streaking across the quad during our senior year.  He informed me that we had a 50th Pascack Hills High School reunion coming up shortly. There are two people that I still see with from high school.  One of my concerns was that people would approach me and I’d look back at them confused, as if I had dementia, which my wife says can’t be too far away.   (Note: latest science says only 30% of your dementia destiny is tied to your genes. 70% is tied to how well you take care of yourself.  So get those walks in and have a salad!)  

The morning of the reunion, they had scheduled a tour of the high school and then a lunch.  I thought they were joking.  I told them that in my current state, I could either do the morning/lunch events or the main evening event.  My tank no longer holds enough fuel to do both.  Notice I say fuel, not gas.

So, it’s now three days before the reunion, and I’m signed up for what has the potential to turn out to be a magnificently awkward evening.  With that, our daughter finally received her summer wedding photos.  She emailed them to me – great!  I was amazed.  I could not figure out how they got ahold of a picture of my grandfather and had him walking my daughter down the aisle.  A commensurate amount of sobbing ensued. 

During the reunion people were commenting to me, “What, no wife, or did you get a hall pass?”  I told them it was not a problem.  As I was driving away, I looked back at the front window of our house, and could see my wife doing cartwheels in the living room. When all was said and done, outside of not being able to lie to anyone about my age, I actually had a very good time at the reunion.  My famous wrestling coach, Bucky Rehain showed up. On his birthdays, he does his age in pushups.  The last one was 82…so I hate him. I could do that too; it would just take me a couple of weeks to complete.   In the end, I’m pretty sure I was coherent the whole night and I drank a lot coffee which kept my spirits high.

Ten days after my high school reunion, I made a trip down to Glassboro, NJ and connected with three close friends at our college for a mini 46th reunion.  Back when we were enrolled, it was Glassboro State College.  Then in 1992, Henry Rowan donated a $100 million to the college.  This gift created a juggernaut that propelled the college into becoming a diverse, outstanding University.  Rowan University is a great example of what millions of donation dollars can do, “IF” it is used wisely.  We got a very personalized tour that not only impressed the bejabbers out of me, but also left me quite jealous.  Long gone are the days when breaded mystery meat, aka New Hampshire, was the main dish at the dining hall. Now, with all the choices they have, the students might as well be at Epcot in Disney World. 

Having parked our cars at the hotel, a new Marriott, we toured the town in the evening.  When we were students back in the 70s, the town was a…let’s just say there was no reason to go there.  But now, because of the strong partnership between the university, the town, the state, and private business, extensive reconstructive surgery was performed in the downtown area, and this rebuilding continues today.  Rome wasn’t completely built in a day.  Our last stop at the end of the evening was to a massive sports bar where I was brutally reminded of how old I am.  We stayed too long, and I’m pretty sure I was overserved. 

The next day we went to the Edelman Fossil Park & Museum…of Rowan University.  Ric Edelman and his wife Jean are significant donors to the University and especially Fossil Park.  It’s about 10 minutes from the main campus, and an hour and thirty-five minutes from Bedminster.  The Park opened in May of 2025 and is run by world renown paleontologist and explorer, Dr. Ken Lacovara. (Ken went to South America and unearthed the largest, and never before found dinosaur, which he named, Dreadnoughtus…meaning “fears nothing.”  At 65 tons, it weighs more than seven T.rex.)  Ric, Jean and Ken are all graduates of Rowan University / Glassboro State College.

The Park has an area where digs are continually happening.  If you uncover a 66-million-year-old fossil, you can bring it home.  One of the exhibits in the Museum, talks about a 1000-page book on the complete history of earth.  In the book, the dinosaurs appeared with 41 pages left.  Human History, are the last five LETTERS of the book!  We’re newbies, I don’t feel so old anymore.

Dr. Lacovara also makes a point of dispelling the notion that dinosaurs were unintelligent, slow-moving, unable to adapt creatures.  Think about it, whenever a company is thought to be losing their competitive edge, they’re referred to as, “A Dinosaur Headed for Extinction.”  Now don’t get me wrong, the dinosaurs weren’t solving complex math problems, but dinosaurs existed and adapted for 165 MILLION years.  Let’s see if we can find any country or company with that kind of longevity. 

In conclusion, ‘It’s a small world, after all.’  Or is it?  The person I went to high school with, who alerted me to the reunion…for the last 25 years, we’ve lived two miles from each other and never knew it.

Snail Farming for Fun & Profit...and Tax Evasion

Recently, I was reading about a real estate tax scam that criminals are using in London.  It goes something like this: They set up a shell company that breed snails in an empty office block. (the snails are actually bred in shoe boxes, seriously.) Then they claim that the office block is legally, against all indications to the contrary, a farm, and therefore exempt from paying real estate taxes.

This sounds so familiar, where have I heard this before?  Ah yes, the New Jersey Farmland Assessment Act, where wealthy New Jerseyans offload their real estate tax burden onto the vast majority of the middle class.  I need to reread the Farmland Assessment Act and see if Snails qualify.  This would be great for ALL New Jersey residents.  We would just need to buy a pair of shoes, avoid recycling the box and instead, start a snail farm – Genius!  If you want to go big, think about those boxes that printer paper comes in.  You could become the snail king or queen of Somerset county.  The only problem in doing this, we’d run the risk of collapsing the thriving escargot industry.  But fair is fair.  You win some, you lose some.

The above situation is real, as is the situation in New Jersey where people who own at least five acres of property, often claim that they are farmers…against all indications to the contrary.  The Farmland Assessment Act was originally implemented to help poor farmers who could not afford to pay their rising real estate taxes.  Unfortunately, the skinflint wealthy are using it today to avoid paying their fair share of real estate taxes.  Instead, they want their neighbors to pay their taxes for them.  Nice, right!?!

Listed below is the gist of a recent letter I sent to the Governor asking him for a small measure of help to right the wrongs being put upon the large middle class of New Jersey.

Listed below are some reasonable solutions for your consideration:  

1) Increase the Inspection Fee from $25 to $295 ~ (The current $25 fee established in 1964, makes doing inspections unaffordable for the towns, due to current costs)

2) Increase the minimum acreage requirement from Five to Ten acres 

3) Establish a $400,00 ceiling for applicant’s New Jersey Gross Income (Line 29 on the NJ 1040) ~ (Most New Jersey social programs like ANCHOR, Medicaid, SNAP, etc. have income limits to be able to use the program)

4) Increase Fraudulent Claim Fines from $5,000 to $25,000

These simple, easy to implement changes will have a major, positive impact on New Jersey’s middle class.  At the same time, it will not affect the larger properties that are actually working farms.  Hoping you see the merits to these actions, and can execute some, if not all of them.

Folks, if this does not work, I say we give snails a shot.  Worst case we avoid having to add them to the endangered species list sometime in the near future.

The Sedition Act of 1798 Reincarnated

Just like bringing back bellbottom jeans, or the mohawk haircut, it appears that, “the man who would be king” is trying to reincarnate John Adams’ Sedition Act of 1798.  Quick refresher: In 1798 president John Adams tried to ban what he considered "bad press" by signing the Sedition Act of 1798.  The Sedition Act made it a crime to publish or print "false, scandalous, and malicious writing" against the president and his government. Fortunately for John, late night TV was centuries away.  Conveniently forgetting about the First Amendment, this controversial law was primarily used to suppress and prosecute newspapers that supported Adams political opponents, especially the Democratic-Republicans, aka the Jeffersonian Republicans.  Isn’t it scary how quickly people in political office forget the pillars of our democracy, and do whatever it takes to stay in power.

The Jeffersonian Republican party eventually became today’s Democratic party.  Today’s Republican party was established around 1850 with the collapse, or thinning of the Whigs.  I’m in my late 60s, and for crying out loud, where’s a good Whig when you need one?

There is hope for us and the First Amendment.  John Adams was the last of the Federalist party to hold the presidency.  The Sedition Act was wildly unpopular and Jefferson crushed him in the 1800 presidency elections.  I know this all to be true, as I just saw the play, Hamilton.

Jefferson was not a perfect man, but again, I say, “For crying out loud, where are the Jeffersons of our day?”  We need them.  Doesn’t the Smithsonian have one of his hair or tooth brushes?  And can’t we gather some of his DNA from those brushes and create ourselves a modern-day Jefferson?  I’ve watched every Jurassic Park movie that’s been released, we have the technology to make this happen.  As long as the scientists don’t accidently mix a smidge of T-Rex DNA in Thomas’ we should be good to go by the next election.

If we want to seal the deal, there is another DNA sample we can look into acquiring.  If we step back into the 1630s, around Boston and what is now Rhode Island, we’ll find Roger Williams.  Initially a puritan minister, Williams arrived in Boston in 1631.  He had a strong belief in free speech, including the dicey thought that a person had the right to worship as they wished.  He was also a strong proponent of the concept: “Separation of Church and State.”  Thomas Jefferson studied some of Williams’ writings.  

Williams also preached and wrote about it, a lot.  So much so that he established a large following.  And if you think we have rigid folks in political and religious office today, let’s just say the folks running the show back then lacked any sense of humor.  Think about it, have you ever seen a picture of a smiling pilgrim?  The answer is, no.  They always have severe looks on their faces.  You try being seasick for weeks, arriving in a blizzard, and spending the next three months dodging arrows and chopping down trees for housing.  Not too much to laugh about.

One thing the Bostonians always seemed to have was an ample supply of was tar and feathers.   And unfortunately for Willams, the ruling party in the quaint New England hamlet had enough of his act, tried him in 1635 and convicted him of, you guessed it, “Sedition.”  Free Speech, Separation of Church and State…Heresy!  Luckily for Williams, there was a shortage of feathers that winter so they decided to banish him instead.  Within a year of banishment, he established a settlement which he named, Providence.  Within Providence, Baptists, Quakers and Jews could all worship as they pleased.  And one of the first rules of the settlement was, Separation of Church and State.  Providence became the first town in modern history to separate church and state.

So, we’ve had a long history, almost 400 years, of authoritarian rulers who have tried to control free speech because it threatened their power.  Luckily, over time, we’ve had dedicated, insightful leaders who fought against this control.  These leaders had in their minds, the main tenets of the First Amendment of our Constitution: protecting freedom of religion, speech, press, assembly, and petition, which they fought for with their lives.  I believe our challenge today is to speak up when we know the main tenets of our Constitution are being broken, (write to your Congressman & Senators) and do not accept lies as fact.

Hoping we all avoid banishment this winter, unless it’s to some place warm – and inviting.

The ICEmen Cometh & Superman Too

To be fair, we did need better control at our borders.  During the previous administration, our country was exposed to the world like a Moroccan fair (Thank You, Schitt’s Creek).  

And it would be naïve to think that we weren’t letting a number of what I call Very Bad People, (aka the VBP-13 gangs going forward), waltz into our country with identification paperwork written in crayon. 

The VBP-13 gangs have a violent history, and are undoubtedly doing harm to our country and the people within it.  Thank goodness we have the new, flush with cash, Immigrations and Custom Enforcement (I.C.E.) Machine.  

Depending on what AI search tool you use, their new budget is anywhere from $10 to $29 billion, all the way up to $170 billion for 2025.  Not millions, but Billions!  For comparison purposes, the budget for the National Parks system, with over 400 locations is ~ $3 billion.  That’s before any further defunding happens.  

Remember the wealthy need every penny of those tax breaks, they’re saving for a private island.  (Note: A subset of National Park staff, “The Erasers” are now trying to repair our majestic parks that have been defaced.  There aren’t enough park rangers employed to keep the bad actors in line).  

In any case, with that kind of massive ICE funding, I have to think that we’ll not only be able to scoop up every VBP-13 gang member in existence, but we’ll also get every jaywalker strolling across all fifty states.  I can’t wait for the glorious headlines!

Make no mistake though, this job that the ICE Agents have is a tough one, seriously.  And recruiting is not easy.  Rumor has it that signing bonuses for new ICE agents is rivaling those of major league baseball.  

But fear not, we now have Superman on our team.  Or at least Dean Cain, the guy who played Superman in the 1990s.  He’s 59 years old now.  I’m not sure how old that is in Crypton years…somebody please, google that one.

Here’s the thing, for most men, even super men, at 59 years old, the need for a 2 PM nap becomes nothing short of critical.  And add the need to pee, more than frequently, and you’re creating a mission impossible situation.  With that, I’m picturing an aging superman about to make a major bust on a nasty bunch of VBP-13 gang members.  It’s 4:30PM, way past nap time, and he’s been crouched down for three hours drinking coffee.  To make matters worse, there’s not a bathroom in sight.  This is not going to end well.

But there should be light at the end of the tunnel coming for Dean and a good number of ICE Agents, as well as the National Guard.  First, keep in mind that the current administration, many of them with extensive reality television backgrounds - really enjoy good press.  It’s in their DNA.  You would think that any arrests against the VBP-13 gang members would be on the news in bold flashing lights.  I have seen none.

Even with the mayor of New York City negotiating away his indictment, and agreeing to vigorously help ICE – There are No big headlines of VBP-13 arrests.  How can that be?  They have enough funding to put a man on Jupiter and simultaneously feed every child on our planet, and probably Jupiter’s too.  And they have Superman.  What more could they need?

Well, this might be the reason:  The vast majority of Mr. Freeze’s ICE men are not going where the VBP-13 personnel hang out, and create mayhem.  

Instead, our ICE men are positioning themselves at the doors of Home Depot, picking off outdoor workers carrying bags of grass seed – the kind that grows a lawn.  The vast majority of these ICE targets appear to be gainfully employed, doing jobs that the residents of the areas have no interest in doing themselves.  Hanging outside of baseball parks in Los Angeles is another area where ICE Agents have been seen stationed on the job.  Could it be they received a tip that the major league ball clubs are hiring non-union players that are actually illegal immigrants? Thankfully, Dunkin Donuts is unofficially off limits as coffee and sugary donuts are considered sacred by the enforcement teams.  That supply chain cannot be disrupted.  

In other, “Let’s waste our nation’s money” news, the National Guard is now stationed in Washington DC.  But to paraphrase the ex-police chief of Washington DC, Charles H. Ramsey, Yes, DC like other large cities has a crime problem. But the National Guard is not being deployed to those areas where crime is high.  Well that just doesn’t make sense, does it?

Instead, the National Guard is being deployed at the Mall in Washington DC…with nothing to do.  I’ve heard they are now relegated to doing some light gardening, picking up trash and posing for action photos with tourists.  We now have the best equipped, most expensive garbage men on the face of the earth.  We’re Great Again!  So we have that going for us, which is nice. – (Thanks Carl Spackler.)  But still, no headlines about sending these notorious VBP-13 criminals to the swamps of Florida or further South.

But what’s really bugging me is a different group of illegal aliens.  They’re infesting, if you will, our neighborhoods.  They came to America from South East Asia, cleverly hiding on cargo ships.  Their financial impact to our area has been devastating.  Of course I’m speaking of the heinous Spotted Lantern Fly.  He’s back again and I want to know why our tax dollars can’t be used to deploy ICE agents or the National Guard, and rid us of this illegal alien menace.  When that happens, then you’ll see headlines!

Musketeers and the Motor Vehicle Commission

I had an interesting experience trying to get the eye glasses restriction on my driver’s license removed.  A couple of months earlier I met an old friend from school who was in the same boat as me.  As he aged into his AARP years, his distance vision came back to almost perfection.  Of course, we have peepers strategically placed all over the house to ensure we can read.  My friend lives in Maryland.   He said that all he had to do was have his ophthalmologist contact the Maryland state DMV, verify that his vision was near 20/20 and voila, within two weeks he had a new restriction-free driver’s license.  I’m thinking to myself, “This is just too good to be true, finally something easy.”  

So I go to my eye doctor for a checkup, I’m 20/30, well below the 20/50 limit.  Heck, I’m thinking with 20/30 vision I could fly an F15 fighter – sure I could, but only after I finished screaming my head off and soiling every layer of clothing I was wearing.  Back to reality - With extreme confidence, I explain to my doctor that I’d like her to provide these outstanding results to the good folks at the DMV so I can have the restriction on my driver’s license removed.  And that’s when my house of cards started to implode right before my exceptional eyes.  She replied to me, that in New Jersey, you bring your vision prescription to a specific New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission office, MVC.  (DMV is now considered offensive.)  

It was like someone stuck a pin in my positivity balloon, and blew it to pieces.  I sulked, and months passed.  It’s now time to get my Real ID driver’s license, so I figure I’ll kill two rocks with one bird.  You can only get the Real ID at specific offices.  After picking a wrong office, I drive 40 minutes up to Randolph with my six points of identity documentation, authenticating I am who I am.  FYI – unless you have a passport and an old driver’s license, getting six points in today’s world is near impossible.  At least now I have something to worry about.  

I arrived at the Randolph office and the line of wanting individuals was practically out the door.  I can feel the MVC dread begin to consume me.  I wouldn’t think this many people actually live in New Jersey.  And as my luck would have it, they all decided to go to Randolph today.

There are stages of lines you must negotiate before you eventually get to the MVC oracle of driving.  This person is responsible for submitting the mountains of paperwork that will eventually lead to a new license showing up in your mailbox.  Getting to this person is like finally reaching the Soup Nazi.  You’re elated to be there, but this person holds your transit fate in his overworked, sweaty hands.  One wrong move and you’re doomed.

I finally get to this last omniscient person.  We’re exchanging information, and then he proceeds to begin taking sad pictures of my head.  He had been working feverishly on his terminal for twenty minutes preparing the creation of my holier than thou, Real ID Driver’s License.  All of a sudden it hits me, the restriction, I want it removed!  When I tell this to the all-powerful man behind the counter, the look on his face was probably similar to the look I had when I got the fabulous news that I was going to need to come to his office.  He tells me that I’ll need to start the process all over again.  Since I didn’t bring my sleeping bag, that wasn’t an option.  That and I told him that I’d rather be lit on fire than do that again.

I come back two weeks later with my brand new Real ID.  I’ve enlarged my vision prescription so it’s easier for them to read.  I’ll be scoring big brownie points!  I’m figuring, with my new license and my user-friendly documentation, I’ll just drop it off with someone and be on my way.  Then, I’ll patiently await my new, restriction-free Real ID to arrive via mail.  I work my way to the first service window.  I’m in luck, I have a seasoned veteran manning my station.  I explain to this very capable person, the very simple service that I’d like performed.  She responds very matter of factly, “Let’s see what you have.”  She quickly tells me that they do not accept copies, it must be the original vision prescription.  I file that into the “No good deed goes unpunished” folder.   Then she tells me that the prescription can’t be more than 60 days old.  Mine is 75 days old – I need to go back and take another test.  I was a mildly disappointed, but did not break anything on the way out.

Long story long, I get another test, same results.  For my next attempt, I’m returning from a lunch in Denville.  I drive to the MVC office with my correct size and dated prescription info in hand.  This particular afternoon, office resembles a large sardine can – it’s packed, again.  And I just can’t fathom waiting another two or three hours.  I ask one of the crowd control officers, “When is it less crowded?”  He tells me, when it opens at 8:00AM.  Next day I head up and arrive at 8:00AM.  I go to the first station and there is a newbie behind the counter.  He is confused by my request, but eventually sends me over to “Window 16.”  I smell a rat.  

Behind window 16 is a very pleasant woman.  (Side Note: Everyone I dealt with at the MVC, on every flipping day I was there, was pleasant and helpful.)  This woman mans the eye test machine.  I see red and explain to her, “I don’t need to take her eye test as I have a doctor’s note.”  I felt like I was back in high school trying to get out of gym class. My fear is that I might have been staring at my iPhone too long and my vision won’t have had time to recalibrate for distance.  She wryly says, “Why don’t you give the machine a try.”  So, with no leverage, and a history of bombing big tests, I dive in.  All I can say is this, if I were blind, I could have passed this test. 

Now the lady behind window 16 is collecting all kinds of data.  She goes back and forth multiple times, checking with what seems like, senior management.  I’m thinking I either murdered this test or it’s the first time she’s had to do this.  I wait calmly with confidence.  I know I have them this time.  The pleasant lady finally returns with a smile on her face.  I reach my hand out to take my new license.  But instead, she says, “Okay, do you have your 6 points?  You need to go on the end of the line now and apply for your new driver’s license.”  I thought she was punking me.  But she was not.  I told her, “I don’t have my six points with me.  I just got this new license, I only want the restriction removed. “ I’m thinking if I pinch myself hard enough, I’m going to wake up from this nightmare.  But her hands were tied, this was the required procedure.  

I go home, frantically find my 6 points, and drive back.  Now the line is almost out the door again.  I’m not exactly sure when, but I am going to break something.  I grin and bear it.  I get to the final window and allow my tormentor to process my new license in silence.  I remind her about having my restriction removed.  The look on her face was akin to someone not understanding English.  She asked me if I have any proof or paperwork.  (This now becomes the scene out of the movie, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” where Steve Martin’s rent-a-car is not in the spot in the rental lot that’s miles away, and he get annihilated during his struggle returning to the rental sales counter at the airport.  I respond, I have none!  At this point, I’m pretty sure this is the first episode of the new Candid Camera series streaming on Hulu. Before lunging across the counter, and being tasered, I suggested she go to infamous Window 16, and verify my story.  

So with a commensurate amount of additional torture, my restriction-free Real ID arrived last weekend – a cake walk.

Major point here - when Musk and crew arrived at government offices with the mission to improve efficiency, they’d ask the current employees inane questions like, tell me five things you did last week.  What they should have been asking them was, “Tell me five things we could do to make this place run more efficiently.”  Just reducing staff is not nearly the best approach.  Especially when you wind up hiring back furloughed employees. 

When in Greece

So my daughter recently married…a very nice guy.  Her whole life, my daughter has been very laid back, and not a big fan of fanfare.  With that, I was thinking of, hoping for a tasteful backyard wedding.  One can dream, right?  As it turns out, her husband’s family all live in Greece and the horticultural facelift I had planned for my backyard was scuttled.  Instead, we had a destination event spanning continents.  Listed below are some lessons learned, and if anyone knows how to set up a “Go Fund Me” thing-a-ma-bob, I’d appreciate that info.

Pearl of Wisdom regarding how to pay for such an event:  Choose the “Death of a Thousand Cuts” methodology.  As much as the pain lingers for an eternity, it definitely beats experiencing a massive, heart stopping myocardial infarction from one large bill.

The Greek people are very warm and friendly.  And they speak and understand English a lot better than I do Greek.  (Granted, being the ugly American that I am, I’ve set the bar very low.)  My feeble attempt to learn key Greek words and phrases was thwarted in two main areas.  First, they have a completely different alphabet from what we use in America.  (I believe our current administration is trying to fix that, which would be nice.  It’s all part of the Make the World Great Again initiative, or MaWGA for short…catchy, right?)  But what makes it extremely vexing is that they have a number of letters in their alphabet that look very much like ours. Unfortunately, those similar looking letters have a sound in Greek that is nothing like our English version.   What kind of sadist thinks of that?  And then the second issue I have, which trumps the first is that I’m pretty sure I have a whopping case of shrinking brain.

We fought off the evil travel gods, and the wedding ceremony went off without a hitch.  As it turns out my father of the bride speech was a hit…would we expect anything less?  I ended my speech with an old Irish Blessing (available upon request).  During the wedding a number of Greek people came up to me and congratulated me on my daughter’s wedding and remarked what a nice time they were having.  After a few cocktails, the heat, my hearing aid batteries running out of juice, and my shrinking brain, I just went into autopilot mode.  When people would approach me, I’d thank them for their kind words and then tell them, with the biggest smile I could conjure up, “Well that’s great!”  Later in the evening a woman who looked to be about my age, went through the same routine with me.  But she especially like the Irish Blessing.  She made some remark about her family and Ireland.  I listened intently, not grasping a word she was saying.  I had an extra copy of my speech so I gave it to her.  For good measure, I again added, “Well that’s great!”   Later in the evening my wife ran into the same woman and as it turns out a family member of this person was to be married to an Irish fellow.  But unfortunately, he passed away the night before the wedding.  Clearly, I didn’t get that part of our conversation and can only imagine how many decades I’ve set back Grecco-American relations.

Drowning – Once the wedding was over, we hopped a ferry to an Island out in the Aegean Sea.  While on the island we chartered a boat to take us for a tour of the picturesque coastal area.  The trip was not as extensive as we had hoped as the winds were strong and the sea was choppy.  Towards the end, the captain parked his boat outside a beachy area and suggested we swim to the beach.  Shortly, he would bring his blowup, six-foot dingy with drinks, ice and snacks.  Note:  I am not a great swimmer.  My wife on the other hand is an excellent swimmer.  I look to the shore and it does not seem far at all – and to my credit, I had not been drinking.  The captain asks if we want a styrofoam noodle for the swim in. I ponder that thought for a split second, but my wife ignores that comment and dives in.  And that settles that, I dive in too.  I’m doing freestyle for a while and look over at my wife.  Outside of the butterfly, she’s going through every Olympic stroke you can medal in.  So I decide, maybe I’ll head to my back and pretend to do “the Squid stroke” and save some energy.  (Look for this event in next Summer’s Olympics.) My wife screams over to me, saying that I’m not heading to the beach, but swimming sideways.  Again, no alcoholic beverages involved.

I’m starting to get a little tired, so I drop down to see if I can feel the bottom yet. It's nowhere in sight – crap.  Then I start remembering a conversation I had with an old friend at the wedding.  With beers in hand, he remarked about how he’s had covid three time and the only after affect it’s had on him is that his lung capacity just isn’t what it used to be.  I start thinking to myself, as much as I’ve had all of the vaccines, I’ve still had four separate cases of covid.  (For a while I was thinking I might get into the Guinness World Record Book.)  I’m now treading water, and decide to just float on my back to regain my stamina.  That ends quickly when a windswept wave covers my face and I swallow half of the salty Aegean Sea. 

I looked back to the boat and then to the shoreline – both seem about 2 miles away.  I swear that original view of the shoreline from the boat had to be an optical illusion.  I’m now at a point where my lungs just aren’t processing oxygen any longer…could have been me hyper ventilating, but who knows.  I make a painfully humiliating decision to wave and call to the captain that he better hop in that dingy and save my bacon.  It was that or have my wife save me, but I made the decision early on that I’d rather drown than be saved by my wife.  Which is very understandable considering Ancestory.com says that at least 50% of my DNA is Neanderthal.   And the final piece of resistance:  Captain shows up with his rubber dingy that has a handle on the front.  I grab the handle which allows me to relax, straighten my legs out, and sink.  And with that, my feet firmly hit the sandy bottom with my chin still above water.   

Waste Not, Want Not & the Royal Parade

I mean who doesn’t like a good parade?  Especially one that costs ~ 45 million dollars.  I know that phrase, The King’s Parade has become popular.  And as much as he’s been pining for a personal parade, it was just a coincidence that the President’s birthday was on the same day as the US Army’s 250 year anniversary.  The Navy’s 250 year anniversary is this October 13th.  If it turns out that the President had his communion on that date and battleships and nuclear submarines are lined up on the Potomac, well then at that point, I think we have an issue.

I think one of the major issues the public at large, all 99% of us, has, is that in a time of cutting services and handing out tax breaks to the wealthy, is this an appropriate time to have a no expense will be spared $45M parade?

The weather was miserable, not saying the big guy upstairs did not have a something to do with that but the scheduled Fighter Jet fly over was scrapped due to the weather. And not for nothing, but the last time I checked the Air Force was not part of the Army.  But we did have over 6,000 troops a marching.  There were also helicopters, various military vehicles and anywhere between 50 to 150 of our most sophisticated hulking tanks.  The nice ones with automatic transmission and the undercoating each weighing 70 tons.  

To give you an idea how much 70 tons is, the Space Shuttle weighs about 70 tons.  Think about what that would do to your driveway.  Ten full grown elephants weigh about 70 tons.  In any case, the cleanup is going to be extensive and expensive.  This year’s pot hole repair season will be coming early to DC.

One question, wasn’t Elon Musk and DOGE, and the big bombastic bill supposed to address waste, fraud and abuse.  I think a reasonable person would have to agree that this over the top parade checked two of the three boxes, right?  Waste & Abuse.  I mean outside of the guys under the umbrellas selling Sabrett hotdogs or the street purveyors of Trump paraphernalia, where is the payback on this event?  Maybe this is why Elon hit the road.  He probably recommended nixing the parade and got himself nixed.

In an era of belt tightening and deficit reduction, could the 45 million dollars not have been spent more appropriately?  We have 750 Billionaires in this country.  $45 mil divided by 750 is $60,000.  Think of all the good that could have been done by writing the billionaires a $60K check.  Each could buy a nicely equipped BMW 4 series.  Come on, who doesn’t need an extra BMW lying around?  Or a modestly appointed he or she-shed…when you just need to get away and don’t want the hassle of dealing with your private jet.  I’m not up on the going rate for diamonds or gold, but I have to believe a stylish pink ring can be had with $60K.

Don’t you love a good distraction?  But here are some other things that the $45 million dollars could have been spent on:  Feeding or taking care of Veterans.  Restoring SNAP/Food Stamps for children and seniors at risk.  (We have the technology to determine those who are most in need.) Restoring support for cancer or Alzheimer’s research.  How about re-funding the centers that combat cyber-crimes which are exploding out of control?

In the end, we the people, are forced to confront and judge the activities of our leadership, and remember: Are they doing the right thing?  We can put the needy and greedy ultra wealthy aside.  It’s been made abundantly clear by more than 50% in our government that the dues paying billionaires just have to have more.  And lucky for them, we have a sensitive president who understands their critical needs.  But if we’re going to have a parade for the military, maybe ask the majority of the military what they feel would be the best use of funds for such an event.  A big bombastic parade that God rained on?  Or celebrate and help the men and women who sacrificed for our country and now need housing and or medical care that was recently taken away.

The Joys of Flying Blind or Why Keep Your Life Insurance

Today’s post is a cautionary set of space age tales, loosely tied together, that drive home the need to ensure your life insurance is up to snuff. I was recently on a plane flight from Newark to SoCal - well I eventually got on the plane.  I partially blame myself because I wasn’t thinking when I chose an early afternoon flight.  The mega computer system that tracks flights says that mid-day flights have the least number of on-time departures and I became proof positive of that statistic.  Lots of stuff can go sideways throughout the day.  Ensuring that you have a working plane and someone to fly said plane for hours is a big part of that stuff.  So it’s now late afternoon and the captain of our proposed flight is waiting amongst the unwashed.  (We the passengers being the unwashed.)  I notice our captain is leaning against a wall and he’s yawning, a lot.  He looks to be about my age, which is kind of scary as I belong to the Legion of AARP.  I’m hoping that the coffee they’ll be serving him shortly will be of the jolt variety.  I know if it were me, I’d be bobbing for flies ten minutes after takeoff so I have to give him a lot of credit.  As you can imagine, I do not get a lot of asks for driving folks anywhere – Not everything about being a card-carrying senior is bad.

These days, adding to the normal flight situation (ten pounds of airplanes in a five pound airport) we have a national air transportation system that is literally disintegrating beneath us.  So much for air travel being the safest way to go.  Picture yourself simultaneously guiding ten massive jets into Newark Airport. Then out of nowhere, you lose complete contact with them.  You quickly ask your coworker if he has an extra dose of Imodium AD you can borrow.  And then after such incidents, like two in a row, we’re quickly reminded by anyone responsible that this problem of disintegrating equipment and lack of personnel has been an issue since the Lincoln administration.  And like any good politician, Abe kicked the can down the runway whining about a civil war that needed to be funded.  

Similarly, our current politicians complain about the Social Security administration which runs on vintage computer systems that are akin to an abacus. Their solution: Fire a good chunk of staff, buy a lot of duct tape to hold things together and hope for the best. Unfortunately for our country’s air travelers, nobody in multiple administrations wanted to fork over the millions to modernize the technical systems or hire the appropriate number of air traffic controllers.  At this point, the analogy I’d give is that it’s like the brakes on your family car are no longer operational.  Still, you have to get to work every day.  Your solution:  Have your wife and kids drive with you and when you need to stop, everyone sticks their legs out their doors and hope the car slows down enough to avoid an embarrassing accident, one that would look bad in the press.  But not to worry, we may not have the money to properly feed or care for our less affluent children, or rebuild our ancient air control system, but by golly we do have plenty of riches to fund a massive tax break for the ultra-wealthy – All is right in the world.  (P.S. Generally speaking, the cost of maintenance on old computer systems far outweighs the cost of new state of the art technology.  The problem is the cost of new systems, a capital purchase, hits the wrong budget code.) 

But there is hope.  Sean Duffy, our new Transportation Secretary and ex reality TV all-star, (actually one of his shows was, Road Rules: All Stars) was recently interviewed by FOX news and he said the following (I’m paraphrasing here), “There are hundreds of small failures each week that go unnoticed.  It’s frightening for people, but again we have backups for that.  (I believe the primary backup is keeping your fingers crossed.  That and a bulk discount on duct tape.  You see, by hook or by crook, we will solve that budget deficit thing.)  I will tell you throughout the system, every week, we have blips in the system.  There’s an issue with your telecom.”  

(He’s not holding any punches, I think his words of wisdom go into the category of, Tough Love.) 

To inject some sanity, he further stated, the pentagon also temporarily suspended military helicopter flights operating near Ronald Regan Washington airport after near-misses.  (In January, 67 people were killed when a Black Hawk helicopter and an American Airlines Jet collided in the same air space.)  He continued, Let's figure out how we can make sure travelers are safe in the [Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport] airspace, but also how we can continue to do our work to make sure we keep our nation's capital safe".

Well, I’d like to think that we in the New York City metro area are important too.  With his insightful words of encouragement, I’m starting to get an idea how a rented mule feels.

I want to believe it’s safe to fly and lord knows I’m not the right person to judge.  I’ve been known to get impatient on the runway and wonder, is it really that important for all three braking system on the plane to be operational.  But for now, the solution seems to be: Cut the number of flights, slow down and have some patience.   Good luck with that in the Northeast!

Lately what helps me deal with my impatience is this:  In March we were finally able to return to earth, two astronauts that were stuck in the international space station.  It was NOT air traffic controller related.  They were supposed to be up there for an 8 day mission. (I can hear the theme song to Gilligan’s Island playing, “a three hour tour…”)  Instead, they were up there for 286 days. Putting aside the screaming need for a new pair of underwear as well as pushing the limits of the best if used by dates on food, Uber Eats was a little out of range, those astronauts can now teach a Master Class on patience.  So now when I’m sitting in the airport devouring what’s left of my finger nails, or in my car waiting for pot hole repairs to end, I just think about how close to home I actually am, the freshness of the clothes I’m wearing and how much my corndog on a stick is going to louse up the rest of my day.  Hope I didn’t offend the corn or dog lobby.

Why Do The Ultra Wealthy Need Another Tax Break?

I’m befuddled. Why do we need an additional seismic tax break for the ultra wealthy?  Didn’t we do that for these needy folks back in Trump’s first reign?  And didn’t said monumental tax break contribute mightily to increasing our nation’s world-ending national debt?   I mean outside of being fiscally responsible, which isn’t a bad thing, isn’t the whole reason for the DOGE chainsaw cuts, to reduce our national debt and make it the shiny plum it used to be?  We want to be great again, right?  And we were told by many that the gothic pillar supporting this effort to be great again was that we needed to eliminate or immensely decrease the national debt. And all kidding aside, yes, decreasing the national debt is an important thing to do.  But if we feed another gigantic tax break to the voraciously ultra wealthy, aren’t we repeating history, increasing the debt and in doing so, not making us great again?  To be fair, I am not a mathematician.  But isn’t this simple arithmetic?  If the national debt is 3T and we cut people, needed services, inefficiencies and fraud in the amount of 2T, but we give the hungry, ultra wealthy a tax break of 2T as well, aren’t we still left with a soul crushing national debt of 3T?  We didn’t fix anything!  Then what happens in year two?  Do we start by recreating The Miracle of the Fishes and Loaves?

In 2025, the United States will have 750 billionaires (I got this from google, they’d never lie). And 30,000 folks with wealth that exceeds $100 million dollars, at least there was a short while ago.  We’ll have an overall population of 345 million…give or take a few billionaires.  Can someone please explain why a person or family with a bank account that shows at least $100M needs another tax break, remember, they just got a whopping one about 7 years ago.  It could be that I’m just out of touch with the needs of the wealthy.  I’m thinking of Ralph Kramden, the bus driver character from the TV show, the Honeymooners.  He’s found a million dollars on his bus and now just has to have a boat with three propellers.  I mean, how many private islands can you use at one time?  Will these well to do folks with their new tax refund be eating out more at our local establishments adding to the local economy?  I don’t think so.  And why, because most of these ultra wealthy, in New Jersey at least, are Farmers.  They take advantage of the loophole in the Farmers Act of 1964 and pay 2% of their property’s real estate tax bill.  So no, we the large middle class pay their taxes and we support the local economy.  And not for nothing, would it be too much for these Farmers to come by our houses, knock on the door and personally thank us for paying their taxes?  And if the spirit moves them, they can mow our lawns.  For the fanatically wealthy, like Woody Johnson who owns the Jets, I think it would be appropriate for him to have us all over to the stadium for a classy tailgate party and an afternoon in the box to watch a game.  For Donald Trump, I think it would be passable for him to have us over for a round of golf and a good old fashion barbecue at the clubhouse.  But I digress.  

A better question, why is it acceptable to indiscriminately take people’s jobs, when an intelligent analysis was not done?  And why is it okay to take away needed services from folks truly experiencing desperate times?  Starting in 2011, 10,000 people a day started turning 65 in the U.S.  (Go Baby Boomers!) DOGE cutbacks to Social Security are closing offices, eliminating jobs and cutting back phone support.  In February the Social Security phone call busy rate was 1.5% (frustrating dropped calls).  In March it shot up to an agonizing 28.4%.  Image being on the phone waiting for two hours to let Social Security know you’ve changed bank accounts - then the call is dropped and you have to start all over again, and again.  Social Security keeps 16 million people out of poverty and provides at least 50% of income for more than half of the 65+ households.  It’s not enough to say we won’t steal from the Social Security Fund to give a tax break to the ultra wealthy. (Oh, and by the way, it’s our money, we had it taken out of our paychecks for decades, we earned it – It’s not an entitlement or gift!) If people can’t get at their funds because the government has made it too difficult to reach them, then we’ve gone too far and committed a grievous disservice to our senior citizens.  Imagine being in your 80s or 90s, wanting to support yourself, fighting for your dignity, but you have too many complex roadblocks thrown in your face. It’s dehumanizing.  All for what, to provide a tax cut to those who overwhelmingly do NOT need it?  Why is that okay to do, why do we let that happen?

DOGE looking to dodge bullets

I realize, everyone realizes that there is some waste in the Federal government and some cutbacks make sense.  Naturally this is easy to say unless it’s your Aunt Mable or Uncle Fred who just got whacked.  Like any large organization, there are some departments that are more bloated than others.  Taking the time to do a reduction in force (RIF) where appropriate just makes sense.  And if the year one tally of head chopping isn’t large enough to support the promised tax cut for the ultra rich – no big deal.  You have three more years.  And let’s face it, no matter what, each year there will be cries of agony from the .01 percenters about needing more tax cuts.  The beast will always need to be fed.  President Trump should not try to eat the whole whale in one bite… And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

But seriously, the methodology, timetable and people being used to execute these cutbacks, legal or not, needs to be investigated and changed. For lack of a better description, the rushed shotgun approach Musk and Trump are taking is flawed.  They have the time to execute a more precise method of evaluating personnel vs. just firing large swaths of people and risk losing valuable employees.   As an example, the brain trust of the department of government efficiency (DOGE) decided to cut a number of people from our National Nuclear Security Administration.  These folks have very serious jobs.  If that department doesn’t run correctly big chunks of our country can go boom.  But it seems that after abruptly locking these NNSA people out of their email accounts and walking them to the door, someone alerted the doge elites that, “Oh Crap, we need these people back or really bad things will happen.”  And now they’re having problems finding said employees.  

Another example, our National Parks, America’s Best Kept Secret is no longer a secret.  Park activity is bursting at the seams – they are not sun setting.  We actually need more rangers to handle the overflow of people coming into the parks as well as protecting the parks from bad actors, which happens when there are not enough rangers to support good behavior.  The destruction of a million year old edifice can’t be replaced next year when appropriate funding is determined to be needed.  And National Park Rangers and staff are not overpaid individuals.  Many need second jobs in order to make a living.  They’re dedicated to their work because they love our National Parks.

And a fan favorite:  Social Security & Medicare.  This department’s employment is at it’s lowest point since 2010.  They have automated and still you can have wait times on the phone for two hours.  The people are great when you get them, but there aren’t nearly enough of them.  I sometimes believe the government is taking a lesson from the Insurance companies playbook where they’ll deny a claim as a matter of course hoping you’ll give up and go away.  More money for company executive as they hit their income targets and keep Wall Street happy.  And the phrase, “Trickle Down” is still acceptable, but the actual act of trickling down is now derogatory.  

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against successful people living a good life, unless of course they accumulated their wealth by emulating Bernie Madoff or Al Capone.  I just believe they should pay their fair share of taxes.  But with the IRS being cut to protect a certain class, I don’t believe that’s going to happen too often. 

And the people being used to do the hatchet work have obviously have not been appropriately vetted.  For instance, one 19 year old Edward Coristine who works for Elon Musk at DOGE has been in the news regularly.  First, at 17 he was let go from an internship because he stole secure company information.  He also goes by a self-given nickname that describes his perceived view of his genitals.  You’d think that someone doing a simple background check might have seen those two items and raised a red flag.  In my humble opinion, this is a dangerous person and should never be given access to the personal information of any federal employee.  And get this: he was given access to all of our information too!  Who knows what other creative uses he has for that information.  He needs to be permanently removed ASAP.  And any other members of the Musk team need to be vetted first, like any other person being given access to sensitive or classified government information.  This is just common sense.  Do these people have security clearances, NDAs, and financial disclosure agreements?  We’re looking for our representatives to do their jobs and protect us from bad actors.   

I know, a lot of gloom and doom, right?  We should all be thankful though.  It could be a lot worse.  Imagine being the President of the Ukraine.  How on God’s green earth can the President of the United States team up with Vladimir Putin?  It must be his steely, I’ll stab you in the back and I’ll burn your family charm.  To team with Putin would be akin to Franklin Delano Roosevelt deciding in 1941, “I think I’m going to cozy up to Hitler.”  Here’s to hoping my next Social Security check doesn’t come payable in rubles.

Serf and the Lords of the Manor

Regarding Jacob Perry’s article on January 23rd re:  Farmland tax break for millionaires: Over the years it has boggled my mind as to why 99% of the population of New Jersey has had no problem paying the real estate tax bill of the 1 percenters.  If I want to get dark, I imagine the multi-millionaires going to their annual meeting of the “Lords of Jersey.” They’re in a fantastically large hall that wreaks of old money.  They’re sitting in comfy leather chairs drinking ancient cognac.  All of a sudden, someone raises a glass and makes a toast to the Jersey Serfs (that’s us) who have no problem paying them hundreds of millions of dollars annually.  And with that the room erupts into uncontrollable laughter.  One of the Lords cries out, “Next year I’ll be raising Sheeple on my farm.”

What, are we back in the Middle Ages?  Isn’t anyone upset over this ludicrous situation?  Could it be that people are not aware? Or in today’s world, is it just seen as too big and time consuming an issue to fight.   Remember, a good chunk of our days have to be dedicated to viewing Facebook and TikTok – how else can we get out news?  

But the good news is we have the protection of our politicians that represent us.  (Did anyone else just shoot milk through their nose?)  

The New Jersey Bills we should all be watching:  In the Senate: S-3446 and in the Assembly A-4875.  These Bills look to establish a Farmland Review Commission to meet annually with a mission to right the ship.  Unfortunately, to date, no action has been taken to stop the raping and pillaging of the Serfs.   

The second to the last paragraph of Jacob Perry’s article is telling.  In it, he cites a conversation that Jack Curtiss of Mendham Township had with a legislator regarding the flaw in the farmland assessment tax system. During the conversation, the legislator said something to the effect of, the millionaire beneficiaries are all big political donors, so nobody wants to…gulp, lose their donations.  To that concern I offer my very realistic view:  The Lords of Jersey are all multi-millionaires.  They’re probably making more than a million dollars a year.  For them to pay their fair share of real estate taxes would be a minor rounding error for them.  And besides, I doubt that Bruce Springsteen is doing his taxes every year and sees the amount he’s paying.  He, like the other multi-millionaires in New Jersey have tax accountants filling out their returns and paying their bills.  The only thing those accountants are looking for is a piece of paper with a number on it that says, this is the amount you can claim on your Federal and State tax returns.   They’ll Never Know a Change Has Been Made!  So let’s just quietly fix the situation and nobody will be the wiser.

Joy of the Holiday Season

So four nights before Christmas I had a three hour “experience” driving to Newark Airport to pick up Prince Charming, aka my son.  Since they opened the enhanced Terminal A, the few times I’ve still flown out of old terminal C, it’s been nothing but a cakewalk.  Nobody is there.  It’s as if you now have a personal terminal with concierge service allowing you to come and go as you please – how civilized.  Alas, when they moved all of the workers from C to A and its Christmas time and there is an ungodly overload of humanity flying in, they don’t have the workers to man Terminal C.  When you drive into the airport complex you enter a lit up wonderland, but not the good kind.  You quickly start wishing you had taken that third blood pressure pill.  The roadway approaching terminal C is like the wild wild west.  The closest analogy I can think of is that it’s like being in a slow-mo version of a demolition derby with no rules.  It was every man, woman and child for themselves. What makes this endeavor a multifaceted challenge is that trying to get your luggage is like being in medieval times where the workers have lost the gift of speech and nothing requiring electricity is operational.  After an hour of sitting in this chaos I started thinking, “Ya know, junior might have really enjoyed a cross country bus trip - definitely next year.”  

What made the nightmare trip to the airport excruciatingly more enjoyable was that the week before, I blew up every nerve ending in my back when I thought I was 22 years old, again.  We had ordered a new bed, as the existing torture device we owned for over ten years had imploded.  The trench I was trying to sleep in had a crevasse as deep as the Grand Canyon.  We ordered this new bed online (actually my wife did) and it came in multiple shipments, each weighing three tons.  So we hired a burly Taskrabbit person to put it together and assist with the heavy lifting.  My wife asked me, “Do you think we need two rabbits?”  I, being a painfully cheap moron said, “Nah, I can help the guy.”  Remember, in my delusional state I’m “22” and it only gets better.  Because they charge you extra to move the furniture up and down steps, I decided I could move the new stuff up the stairs by myself...saving pennies in comparison to the expensive back brace I now need to buy.  (A really sad part of this story is that I almost got a hernia getting the boxes off my driveway into the house.  I’m not sure what part of my brain blocked that memory out and allowed me to think that dragging said boxes upstairs was a viable option.) 

As I spiraled into full on dementia, I also thought I could move the old king size mattress downstairs by myself.  My thinking was, I’ll be going down stairs, how hard would it be?  Somewhere deep in my gray matter I was picturing this mattress walking itself down the stairs, opening the front door and parking itself on the curb.  Then I woke up and found out it weighs 9 tons.  It was as if it was soaking wet, which might have been the case.  But that’s another issue I’ll be following up on at the urologist’s office next week - I’m hoping he does hernias too.  Needless to say I could barely stand up the old bed mattress let alone move it.  Then Mr. Rabbit and I proceeded to bringing it down the stairs. I was like a rag doll being dragged behind.  I also found out the hard way that our beautiful wood head and footboards...well they may have looked like wood, but they had to be made out of lead.  I figure once I get this body cast off, I’ll be ready to try driving again, once I re-learn how to walk.   Hoping for a kinder, gentler New Year.  

Anesthesia Gate

The latest health scare to hit the headlines did not originate in China.  It came from Corporate America, more specifically, the insurance industry in these United States of America.  Whether it’s an account of insurance companies not on track to make their quarterly numbers, so they decide to deny all insurance claims no matter what; or the latest: Anesthesia-gate.  

It seems one of the largest health insurers in New Jersey recently came out with a plan to limit the amount of anesthesia that could be administered during medical procedures…like brain surgery.  Seems the executives at the insurance company thought their cost accountants had a better handle on medical requirements in the operating room when compared to the insights of trained healthcare professionals.  They’re taking a cue from professional baseball where in an attempt to speed up the game, they reduced the time a pitcher has between throws to home plate.  The idea was that the time saved would provide for longer commercials, because that’s what we need.   

The plan our insurance providers envisioned was that jumbo-sized hourglasses would be installed in each operating room.  There would be a one hour glass for tonsils to be removed, a two hour unit for a knee replacement, four hours for a heart transplant, and a five hour mega-glass for brain surgery.  Before operating, each patient would have the option of being given either a bullet or wooden hanger to bite down on in the unlikely event that the surgeon could not finish in time.  This new process would also make for good theater.  Picture the surgeon, sweating bullets as the sands of time begin to run out.  He’s forced to take shortcuts (stiches become a nice to have) as he tries to win at a do or die game of beat the clock.  I’m sure Dateline will be calling.

As healthcare challenges continue, a family member and I recently needed to make two visits to the Emergency Room (ER) within a week.  During the second visit, we waited for over ten hours to be admitted. To be fair, they do an excellent job of setting patient expectations.  In every room and hallway is a placard listing how long it takes to get results from blood work, EKG, or CT Scans.  One of the downsides of having the hospital app on your phone is that you get the results of the tests before a doctor does.  This can be problematic when the AI software interpreting your EKG results says you’ve had two infarctions…heart attacks! Finally one of the doctors assured us, that the AI software has an obsession with heart attacks and to disregard its suggestions.  We gladly complied.  

A day or two after being admitted, we were told that the ER can handle admitting a maximum of 60 people a day.  These days, routinely, they have 120 people waiting to be admitted and quite often they have spikes of 190.  This environment is not like TV’s Grey’s Anatomy, or Chicago Med where if they have eight people in the ER, everyone starts whining and throwing temper tantrums.  In this real world, there are infirmed people lined up in chairs in multiple rooms, down hallways and for the really sick, lying on gurneys up and down hallways. It’s a large facility, but it needs to be twice as big.  And once all of my grousing is done, it needs to be said that these under pressure healthcare professionals all keep an upbeat and civil attitude.  They do an amazing job with a near impossible situation.

And to brighten your day, a quick tale about our first visit to the ER:  After six hours of tests and waiting to see a doctor, they determined diverticulitis was the culprit.  For those not familiar with diverticulitis, imagine have kidney stones up and down the 27 miles of your intestinal tract.  It’s fun like that.  But while we were waiting in the bowels of the ER with the horde of other tortured souls, some thing or somebody walked by and the smell went off the Richter scale bad.  My wife turned to me with a look of horrific pain and disbelief.  For a split second I thought I saw an accusatory look on her face and I thought to myself, “Really, I’m flattered but only an evil mutant with a super power could produce that.”  Then everyone in the hallway started vigorously denying responsibility.  It was like someone was cleaning out the clogged toilets at Taco Bell, put the aftermath in a fishnet stocking and was whirling it in the air as they slowly walked by…and then sat down next to you.  I naturally had to make some choice comments and my wife started laughing to the point where she thought her appendix had burst.  This was the first of many occasions that I was asked to leave.

Final note: after the CEO of United Healthcare was assassinated, the killer leaving bullet shells with the word “Deny” written on them, the Insurance company referenced earlier in this column quickly made a management type decision to rescind their plan to cut back on anesthesia.