Browse Category: New York

MISSION: NEW YORK

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

THOSE who write must agree that sometimes the need to write can be a curse. It is 2:15 AM. You have been up since 5:45 AM the day before. You’ve gotten two little girls off to the babysitter, driven 45 miles to work, spilled your brains out all day for a measly two lines of Java code, drove the 45 miles back (picking up the aforementioned little ones from the babysitter’s house), blown $27 on Taco Bell to feed everyone, gotten your 17 year old daughter to work, and made it to the bus stop by 6:30 PM in order to go see a band play in New York City. You would think that after such a day your mind and body would agree that it is in everyone’s best interest to be fast asleep, indulging in that much needed rest well before now. However! You are not only a single dad. You are not only a decent employee. You are not only an adventurous guy galloping off to the city at a moment’s notice. YOU ARE A WRITER! And when the brain says, “Write!” it is in everyone’s best interest to comply.

So write I must.

COUSIN AP and I made a spur of the moment trek into New York to see the Danny Godinez Band play at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station on Tuesday night. I am tempted to say “last night” but it is still “tonight” since I haven’t slept yet, even though I’ve been up since “yesterday.” It was a great night. It was fun. The crowd was eager to hear the band. The band sounded great, sporting a new bass player and a cellist. Fantastic!

Here’s a little recap of my blitz of a day which has now spilled over into a new day.

SINCE my daughters, H (9 years old) and M (7 years old) are now here for their summer visit until August 2, I have to get out of bed by 6 AM at the absolute latest in order to start our day. (Those of you who cannot relate to the writer’s curse are now saying, “Dude! Go to bed! Tell us about it later!” But that won’t work.) We leave the house by 6:30 to get to the babysitter’s house. She only works until 5 PM. Therefore, I need to get to work by 8 in order to leave by 4 and get back for H and M by 5. It’s just like the small window of opportunity which NASA had when launching rockets to the moon. If they missed that opportunity and tried to launch anyway they would miss the moon and just make a mess of things. If my little red Toyota isn’t blasting out of the driveway at 6:30 in the morning, we would do just as well to cancel the whole day and just stay in bed.

“Uh, Houston, we have a problem… Major Sam is in a coma after skipping sleep in order to write through the night.”

I did make it to work by 8 AM. I did figure out something in my Java code that’s been driving me to mental retardation (thanks to the help of my good pal, Vicky). I managed to stay awake and mostly conscious through the day, thanks to the help of some vitamins and a few good doses of caffeine. And I was able to get back for H and M by 5:00.

Whew!

THEN the crazy little adventure began.

I had received an email from Todd Johnson, the Godinez Band’s drummer, on Monday informing me that they would be playing in the city on Tuesday night for a special Triple Eight Vodka release party. I was surprised to hear that they were back on the East Coast so soon. Now, I love these guys. Their music is excellent. Their personalities are just as superb. So my brain was scheming to come up with a way to cover all the bases as a dad and to get my music loving tushy into Manhattan to see the band.

So, my son Tim (16 years old) agreed to watch H and M so that I could go to New York. He helped them prepare their clothes for tomorrow (which is now today). He played with them. He got them to bed at a decent time. He’s a good guy. But of course there was a fee to be paid for such service. I paid it willingly because I know I can trust him.

After picking up H and M, we made a pit stop at Taco Bell. “Yeah, yeah… soft tacos, cheesy Chalupas, cinnamon twists, and a round of nachos for everyone. No, no! Wild Cherry Pepsi, dope! Forget the fire sauce! Can you move any slower?? Hand me the bag! HAND ME THE BAG! Thanks! Have a nice day!”

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“Roger, Houston, initiating primary booster thrust at this time.”

I got home and had 10 minutes to shed my spiffy suit and tie and slip into something casual, something New York, something “Sammy.” Black jeans, charcoal t-shirt, black shoes and a Yankees hat which later made me stick out like a sore thumb amongst the spiffy suit clad NYC group at the bar. (That situation was quickly rectified with a brief fashion alert courtesy of Cousin AP. The hat was promptly stuffed into my backpack.) I then took my oldest daughter, Sarah, to work, called for Scotty to put me into warp speed and made it to the bus stop in time. The bus ride was uneventful except for the lovely scent which wafted our way each time someone used the bathroom at the back of the bus. However, Cousin AP had packed bottles of some vodka drink, cleverly disguised in aluminum foil. These drinks helped to ward off the mind numbing effect of the toilet stench. We got to New York at 8 PM and walked the several blocks from the bus terminal to Grand Central Station.

THE BAND started playing a little late. But there was enough time to enjoy some wine and get some fairly decent pictures of the band and the crowd (and the Triple Eight Vodka girls… OooLaaLaa!). It was good to see Todd Johnson’s brother join Todd in singing a number. The pictures from tonight are in my photo gallery – The Danny Godinez Band (NYC).

What else can I say about the band? I’ve written about them a few times in the past. They are still just as good. Tonight they seemed to be enjoying themselves right from the start. They seemed relaxed and were in the midst of improv jams in no time.

Now, should I tell you about the girl I met? The one who gave me her phone number?

“Houston to Major Sam. Houston to Major Sam. Major Sam it is time to initiate your scheduled sleep shift. Please desist all communication at this time. Commencing sleep induction in 20 seconds and counting.”

Oh gee! I guess I better wrap this up!

In order to make things simple tonight, we took the bus to New York from Clinton. We avoided the hassles of driving through city traffic and finding parking. We had a chance to catch a little sleep on the way home (despite the annoying women in the back who just wouldn’t shut up the whole friggin way). And the effects of the wine wore off before having to drive the rest of the way home.

All in all it was a successful mission. The band was good. The wine was smooth. The girls were sweet. Oh yeah, just before my 20 seconds is up, I’ll just mention that the girl who gave me her number is in one of the pictures in the photo gallery. She’s the pretty one. Good luck picking her out!

“Major Sam signing off.”

CORRESPONDING PICTURE GALLERY:

The Chicks Dig It

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

One of my favorite things to do is watch people. Another favorite thing of mine is to take their pictures when they are not looking! Here is a picture from my “people files.” He’s the Cycle Peep, delivering Chinese food in Brooklyn, a motorized fashion statement, the epitome of coolness, the envy of the Hells Angels, cruising at speeds that only packaging tape and loafers can withstand. I bet the chicks really dig this guy. The word is that chicks are into yellow helmets and flaming maroon scooters.

Posted at 3:50 PM (EST)

APPROACHING 9/11

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(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

MANY and various are the emotions in my heart on this day just two days away from the anniversary of September 11. The first hints of autumn are in the wind, carrying memories of events that I never thought I would see. Faces flash through my mind: concerned television news anchors, a murdered fire department chaplain, the dusty bleeding wounded, reluctant widows, rejoicing Palestinian children, a warm-hearted girl in the city, my confused and frightened seven-year-old. I cannot help but stare at the diminished New York City skyline every time I drive to the city, hoping that maybe it’s all been a dream and the Towers are still standing, their occupants still with us.

Often I vacillate between desiring peace and wanting justice. In actuality, there can be no complete peace without justice. How can one be at peace and satisfied when he has been severely wronged and no reparations have been made? How can one rest when some of his most valuable possessions have been stolen, destroyed, desecrated, murdered? Should not someone be held accountable and made to pay?

Yet, what price paid could ever sufficiently replace that which was lost on September 11, 2001? The whole earth itself with all its treasures would be a filthy, disgusting, pitiful and trite offering compared to the value of just one of those souls that unjustly perished on that day. They can never be replaced. Humanly speaking, we could never obtain satisfactory justice for the murders inflicted on that day. Even if we imposed a million condemnations upon the perpetrators of these crimes and their accomplices, making them to die a thousand deaths for their deeds, would any of us be satisfied?

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Sure, that is justice. But would that ever satisfy the longings of love violated? Would that return a firefighter to his weeping widow? Would that return a bride to her lonely groom? If we take a life to pay for another life, does that satisfy the confused orphan? Or does that only make more orphans? Do not get me wrong. I believe that justice demands that the life of the murderer be ended by the hands of the law. If orphans are made it is not the fault of justice but the fault of the killer. You should have thought about your weeping orphaned son before you plunged the knife in, before you pulled the trigger, before you crashed the plane. Justice demands a life for a life. But love is not satisfied by it. If I could resurrect one of those who hijacked the planes last year, and kill him with my own hands over and over for each of those that died that day, no one would be satisfied. The fiery jealousy of love requires more, requires that which cannot be exacted nor paid. Indeed, it would set the world on fire and consume all in its path. No wonder it is written, “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.”

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MANY TIMES over the past year, I have stood at Ground Zero, blinked unbelievingly up through the hole in the sky and asked, “Why?” I have tried to comprehend the unthinkable. I have heard the fanatics refer to the “Great Satan,” my country. I have seen the smugness on their faces as they hide within their caves and their violence, self-proclaimed ambassadors of Allah, praising their deluded minions falsely called martyrs. I have studied their psychological profiles. I have listened to their twisted reasoning. It can only be understood by madmen and zealots. I do not believe that they represent true Islam. Certainly, there are multitudes of peace-loving Muslims. Certainly, I am friends with some of them. I will not allow the zealots of their religion to cloud my opinion of them and trust that they will accord me the same understanding. Certainly, there have been murderous zealots in my religion also. Let us not judge each other based upon the deeds or misdeeds of those in our religions who wear the robes, the collars, the suits, the turbans, the rings, and claim to be our spiritual guides. Know my heart and its sincerity. Judge me on that basis.

FOR A TIME, the skies were silent over the United States after we were attacked. The sights and sounds of airliners flying overhead toward New York were unnoticed, part of the background noise of every day life here. Now, since the startling sound of the first plane that flew over once flights resumed, and with each plane that I see, I am made to think of that awful day. Wonder assails me and carries my mind to places I do not wish to go. I picture myself seated in a meeting at work at 8:46 AM. I see my colleagues, smell the office coffee, try to shake off the aggravation of the morning drive and focus on the work at hand. I see the plane crashing in upon us. I imagine what would become of the walls around me, the ceiling above me, the pen in my hand, the watch on my arm, the woman seated across from me. I try to imagine the terror of those who saw the plane approaching at 400 miles per hour. Did they have time to see it? Perhaps they had their backs turned. One can only hope.

I IMAGINE that each time I visit New York, there will be the thoughts of sadness, injustice and confusion. These things will never be forgotten. They may become less intense with time, just as a wound hurts less the more it heals. The scar will always remain. Scar tissue is the strongest tissue. Come, my friends. Let us continue on, united, scarred and limping if need be. The skies rain blessings more often than fire. Let us look up with expectancy and determination. Let us rebuild with courage and confidence. Let us pray with sincerity and hope.

CORRESPONDING PICTURE GALLERY: