The Wayback Machine

I got this in the email and thought I would share. My additions are in Parenthesis...

To all the kids who were born in the 30's, 40's, 50's. 60's and 70's (like me!)

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn't get tested for diabetes. Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints.
(I know my parents were high back then. I am a Puerto Rican man named Billy. Not William or Guillermo... Billy. Billy? Billy!?! That must have been some good stuff they were on...)

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking. As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.

(That's all true but I or may not have done the following:
- Killed a mouse by biting it
- Get blown across a room when I discovered that you are not really supposed to insert bobby pins into electrical outlets
- Get mauled by a dog while trying to hug it whilst it was feeding
- Learned that if you run with bottles and fall with them that you are most likely going to require stitches...
- Discover that wiffle ball bats can in fact cause severe swelling in and around the facial area when applied with sufficient velocity
- You need to run when you break a window with a baseball, stickball, softball, rock, etc...
- Bus Drivers don't like it when you throw fake bodies in front of their busses when they are driving...
- Cats can land on their feet even after falling off a four story building but they are usually slow in getting up afterwards...
- You can pee out the window and not get caught if you wait until its late enough...
- Abandonded buildings are a great place to play The Continuing Advertures of Indiana Jones or a great place to shoot an episode of Rescue 911, depening on how the game turns out...)

Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat.
(Right up until someone cuts you off and you slam on the brakes and there goes little Willy flying like that cow in Twister...)
We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle (and occasionally we drank from the fire hydrant...). We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this. We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter and drank soda pop with sugar in it, but we weren't overweight because...

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!

(I could have inserted a Freeze Tag, Kick-The-Can, Hot peas and butter, come and get your supper reference right here but I will refrain from such frivolity.)
We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on (or, in the case of my father, you would hear the whistle...).

No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K. (Sure there were pedophiles back then but we hung out in groups and we knew how to hit a pidgeon from forty yards with a straw and a pea shooter, what possible chance did Chester the molester have against us? Besides, we were always playing baseball or stickball so were loaded to the teeth with bats and sticks.)

We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. (You'd be amazed at how fast you can go on one of those things while holding on to the bumper of a City Bus... Wait. My kids might read this one day. Forget I said that...)

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms..........WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees (and jumped off of trucks in the junk yard...), got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.

We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever. (No. No we didn't.)

We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays (we couldn't have BB guns in Brooklyn... that would just give the cops an excuse to shoot you. But we did learn that you could do cool things with a platic juice bottle, a balloon and small rocks...),
made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes (though many an apartment window paid the ultimate price..).
We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them! Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law! This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!
The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned
HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!

Then the email progressed into the "send this on to your friends..." portion. This brought me back to those days really quick. I will have to sit down and actually list out the insane things we did as kids growing up in Crown Heights.
After all, I lived to tell the tale.

I love the smell of Tuesdays in the morning...

Ah, the fresh smell of Tuesday. It’s like Monday, without the hangover or the rest of the week staring back at you. I can’t help but look back at the weekend that just passed on Mondays. You wish it was Friday again and it’s not and you have to get back in the groove at work and you can’t and everyone that left things until the last minute on Friday now needs you to be a team player (you’re a team player aren’t you Johnson?) and it would be just awesome if your could really help them out of a jam and I know you are busy but that project can wait for a minute and can you please get this done right the hell now.

Of course that only applies only if they are merely a coworker. Otherwise an whole new dynamic applies and you find yourself ordered to cover your boss’s buttocks again because they forgot something that was critically important to the big sales proposal to the gazillion dollar client and he / she / it catches you right before the clock strikes five pm on Friday and the next thing you know…

“Yeah….. I’m gonna need you to come in on Saturday to work on those TPS reports, ok? Yeah, great, thanks. Oh and I’m going to need you come in on Sunday too ok? Great….”

Someone hypnotize me.

Please.

I have to admit that I didn’t have those problems this Monday. I was just unable to get in gear. Like a ‘71 Datsun with a bad clutch, I was grinding gears and stalling out all day long. Ever have that feeling? I hope your weekend was groovy. Mine was blissfully uneventful, although I did discover this ghetto fabulous flea market in the north side of town. Reminded me of Graham Avenue in Brooklyn, except indoors, half empty, with a water pond, and with this old lady singing "Love is a battlefield".
It was cool.
She had this massive array of old concert speakers, probably a closeout special from some 70's KISS concert garage sale. No one was listening to her...
Except for me of course.
I had “Love is a battlefield” stuck in my head all freakin day after that.
Bought Chicken Little for the kids, they liked it. I thought it was ok, no finding Nemo or Toy Story but it was funny.
Except for the Spice Girls tunes they included. That song was bad enough coming from the Spice Girls (I don’t care how cute they were...) but when it's sung off-key in a kids movie? That's just wrong.
Now my youngest daughter is walking around the house singing "if you wanna be my lover..."
Ugh. I have a headache now.
They also included “I will survive”.

You have been forewarned.

15 Miles and a Fat man's boobs

Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of Rum!
Actually it was water.
Rum at 6:45 in the A.M? What do I look like to you? Dean Martin? Harry Carry? Paris Hilton?
No my friends, I was a teetotaler this morning. Nothing but the good stuff whilst Trigger and I peddled nowhere for 15 whole miles.
This early morning exercise thing ain't so bad yo. Feel the burn! Feel the burn!
I can't wait till I burn off the man boobies. I hate man boobies. I hate them even more when they are on what used to be my chest.
And so, the man boobs must die.
While I ride now, they flip. flop and flitter all over the damned place. But soon they will be respectable bundles of muscles. No more awkward 'Daddy's boobies are as big as mommy's boobies' moments for me.
For the record, I am still maintining my stance that I do not, in fact, have man boobies. But I am going to remove all doubt. It wont be easy and I may have to sacrifice my love of twinkies and fudge rounds.
Mmm. Fudge Rounds. Little Debbie.
No! Must resist Little Debbie!
I need a priest. Someone fetch me a priest!

Ixnay onyay eatingay the unkfood jay!
Ipsofacto, epluribus unum,
Imisdabus umisdabus wemisdabus...
Aaaaaaaaaahmen....













I still speak several different donut dialects which isn't helping. Dunkin, Krispy Kreme, Hottie, Entenmann's, I can hear them call me as I patrol the aisles of the local Publix Supermarket.
"Psst, hey fatboy. Come on. You know you want me. Pick me up. Put me in the cart. I'll make you feel real good!"
I look around, making sure no one else is near me. I don't know how many other people have the gift of being able to speak to donuts and I don't want people to think I'm nuts.
"My mom said I should never talk to strangers."
The long white box merely chuckles disdainfully. "C'mon Fatty. You know me. I'm just a harmless box of Entenmann's Devil's Food Chocolate Crumb donuts. You like chocolate don't you?"
I do like chocolate. I remember that much. "Yes."
"Well then what's the problem chubby?"
I paused for a moment to think about that. I couldn't come up with a single problem. Something about fatty foods not good for me and the lingering threat of turning into giant brown bowling ball.
"I don't know. I think you are bad for me."
There goes that soft little sultry chuckle. All donuts are women, in case you didn't know.
"Bad for you? How could I be bad for you when I look this good..."
I spy the deep rich color of the chocolate through the cellophane window on the top of the box. I can see the chunks of chocolate crumbs covered in white powdered sugar.
"Well, you have a point."
The box sighs softly, I am definitely losing the test of wills at this point.
"Of course I do. Imagine how good I taste. I would just melt in your mouth."
I like the idea of a soft, moist chocolate donut and a glass of milk.
"Really?"
"Yes. Now be a good little boy and pick me up and take me home. I am all yours."
I reach for the box when out of the corner of my eye I see the magazine rack and there, on the top row is the latest issue of men's health with some perfectly sculpted uber dude on the cover. I used to hate those guys with their baker's dozen abs and zero percent body fat.
Bastards.
But I suddenly remember my mornings with my faithful stationary bike Trigger.
"Sorry, I have to go."
The box of donuts is stunned, "You can't leave me here. Don't leave me like this!"
I shake my head, "I really hate to leave you but we have grown apart. I am a different person now."
"You look the same to me. And I like you just the way you are. More to love."
So sweet. Donuts really are the sweetest creatures. So full of love and happy thoughts and sunshine.
God bless 'em.
"No. I have moved on with my life. But we will always have our memories."
I walk away, turning my cart toward the produce section, a little sad but knowing that I did the right thing.
And then I hear the box calling me again, "Don't leave! I love you! Eat me! Eat me!!!!!!"
No. Not today. Maybe one day when I can control the urge to eat the whole box in one sitting and I am 30 lbs lighter or so.
But Trigger and I have many more miles to go before that day.
So tomorrow we ride on.

Airplanes Rock The Casbah

I was driving to work this morning, feeling pretty good about myself since I mashed out my 10 miles on the old exercise bike (which I will heretofore refer to as Trigger. Trigger and I covered our prescribed distance while my laptop played out the theme to Batman.
I gotta tell you, working out to action movie soundtracks is pretty freakin sweet.).
Anyway, back to my commute.
There I was on the Beachline expressway, just north of runway whatever here in sunny Orlando, when what to my wondering eyes should appear?

A streak of screaming blue and orange not two hundred feet overhead. The wheels extended like claws from a bird of prey, the wingtips upturned and the magnificent roar of the twin turbofan engines as she decended towards the runway. I could feel the van rock ever so slightly.
Awesome.
Completely awesome.
I feel like a kid every time I drive through there.
There is just something supremely cool about airplanes. I love 'em. I am fascinated by how they defy the laws of gravity. I know that it has a lot to do with something called the Venturi Principle and lift versus drag and thrust to weight ratios but I still think that there is some kind of cool magic those aluminum birds are using.
I find myself slowing down if I see them approaching so that I can get a good look at them. Flaps down and extended, nose up, the billows of white smoke as the landing gear make contact with the runway.
Freakin sweet.
I love to fly too by the way. Not that you really care. I'm just throwing that out there.
Well, thats pretty much it for today.
Tray up and return your seat to its full upright position.
Thank you for flying Freakin Sweet Airlines.

Just Say No (to Twinkies)

Ok. It's been five days now since I decided that I wasn't going to settle for being that over weight, soft bodied, middle aged has been. So far, so good. I've gone all simple this week.
Ride the exercise bike in the morning when I first get up.
Ride the exercise bike when I get home from work in the afternoon.
Simple.
Nothing major, an easy as pie routine.
I had to take this morning off because my thighs were still hurting and I am not looking to kill myself here. Rest assured that I am going to be on the bike this afternoon. Not that you really care if I do or don't. That was more of a reminder for me to not forget that I need to go long this afternoon on the bike to make up for my slacking this morning.
I was even thinking of taking some batting practive at a local indoor batting cage that I heard about in passing.
Sweet.
BP for lunch.
I can dig it.
Oh yeah. I happened by one of those supermarket scale thingys. I weighed myself. You have to have a baseline to measure against right?
237.
Two hundred and thirty seven pounds of man flesh.
Nice.
People seem to be surprised when I mention my wieght.
"Really? That's funny, you don't look like you weight an eighth of a ton..."
I know. It's all in my ass. Must be the lead.
The goal, in case I have failed to mention it before, is to get as close to 200 lbs as I can without having to resort to amputating someting. I figure I can do this is about 3 1/2 - 4 months. Nice easy pace.
At least thats the plan. Don't worry, I'll be sure to bore you with the details of my endeavor. Despite the daunting task before me I feel relaxed and confident and pretty damn good about myself.
Know why?
I can walk past the snack machine now and say to that sexy pack of twinkies:
"Hey ho - ho - hostess twinkies two pack, with your delicous golden cake shell and soft creamy filling...
I don't need you!
I am riding my exercise bike!"
Yes. In your face twinkie the kid!
You rat bastard!
I feel better, don't you?
Anyway, I was looking through some old pics last night and I was just disgusted with the growth of my previously mentioned dickey do dunlap. Sad. So, so sad.
I was once in pretty good shape.
Now? Now I am like a nice ball of dough left out to rise.
Cool. Now I can just tell people to eat me.
But to my old nemesis dickey do dunlap, I said "Dickey my boy... you are dead. Dead without a pension. Dead like David Hasselhoffs career! You hear me? Dead I tell you. You will be wasted away to nothing and I will free my awesome sixpack from beneath your layers of fatty insulation."
You have to let these things know who's boss.
Ok. I am off to get a protein shake and a power bar.
Just kidding. I am going to get some water.
Sheesh... What do you think I am? Some sort of health nazi?

The Fatman Has Landed

Here we go. I started to exercise yesterday. I have this stationary bike that my mother in law gave us a few months back. It’s old but it has a tension adjuster so you can make it harder to pedal. It has a speedometer and an odometer so I can tell exactly how fast I am not able to pedal and how exhausted I get after a tenth of a mile.
It’s great for the ego, let me tell you.
The handlebars were all out of whack, one grip higher than the other. It squeaks like a mouse chased by a housecat and there is just enough wobble to give you motion sickness. I used it once while my wife was watching one of those man hating movies on the lifetime channel that I love so very, very much
I gotta tell you, I was so motivated to work out after that.
Wouldn’t you be?
Needless to say that was the last time I touched the damn thing until Saturday. It instantly became an extra clothes hanger when it was in the bedroom and so the wifey got me to move it into my office.
That thing could hold three loads on laundry easily if you stack it right.
But that was too convenient and a couple of weeks ago I took it downstairs. And there it stayed, untouched.
My friends and I have been talking about playing softball. I was a pretty good ball player back in the day and I started to think about how flabby and soft I’ve gotten over the last few years. It’s not a pretty picture. Not to worry, I am not going to post picks of my almost ‘dickey do’ and my ‘dunlap’.
You know ‘dickey do’ and ‘dunlap’ don’t you?
As in “his gut sticks out farther than his dickey do”, and “his gut dunlap over his belt.”
Yes, the afflictions common to middle aged men. And I am quickly approaching the middle age. But I am going to try and fight ‘dickey do’ and ‘dunlap’.
Today is my fat Tuesday.
I am fat and it’s Tuesday.
But with any luck, next Tuesday I will be less so.
The seat isn't terribly comfortable.
Which is a nice way of saying that my ass is sore.
I figured that if I am going to make a return to playing softball or something similar, I needed to get my wind back. So I found myself on Saturday afternoon in my office at home staring at this bike thingy. I had just returned from watching the Dominican Republic Baseball team take batting practice at the Houston Astros Spring training facility which, as it turns out, isn’t all that far from where I live.
Except for Moises Alou (outfielder – San Francisco Giants) and Willy Mo Pena (outfielder – Cincinnati Reds), they weren’t nearly as big as I always thought them to be. Most of the guys were about my size.
Six feet, two hundred some odd pounds, give or take an inch and about ten to twenty pounds of muscle. They ran and exercised and invested in themselves. Something I never did. All I have to show for my younger days was a dickey do dunlap and bad knees.
Well, David Ortiz was in fact sporting a dickey do dunlap if I ever saw one.
But he was also smashing baseballs into a low earth orbit.
I’m not a world class athlete and I don’t think I ever was. But I started wondering what had changed from when I was younger and still playing to now. I could go the easy route and blame it on the wife and kids and life and work and blah, blah, blah, waa, waa, waa,
No.
That would be too easy.
I realized with startling clarity that I had just given up.
Grown lazy.
I simply didn’t care anymore.
And you know what? I’m not really sure that I ever did in the first place.
I got home and I wanted to play. I wanted to grab a bat and play and it was with no small amount of sadness that I realized that I had let myself go. I had devolved into a overweight, out of shape schmoe that lived to go to work.
It should be the other way around.
I should work so that I can live my life.
So as the sun was settling into the afternoon sky I sat down on the bike.
And I started to pedal.
I watched the odometer turn slowly and I listened to the whirring of the wheel and the buzzing of the pedals and cranks as they spun on their bearings.
After three miles or so I was winded.
Three miles on a stationary bike? That wouldn’t even get me out of my housing subdivision.
Damn.
But I felt better.
Weird. I was woefully out of shape.
But I still felt like I had stopped the process of decay.
Not physical aging, I mean more of an emotional process. I know I am not getting younger and that eventually my body will fail. It happens to all of us. But I realize that I can make what I have better. I can get lighter so the knees aren’t quite so creaky and the dickey do dunlap has to move on.
They have to go.
Last night I got back on the bike and started to pedal.
Before I knew it, I had gone ten miles on the damn thing and I had worked up a little sweat.
And I felt great. The legs were wobbly and I was a little woozy but I did it.
And this morning? I did it again.
10 miles.
When I get home today?
Why not? 10 more miles.
I want suddenly to see where this road takes me.
And maybe lose something along the way.