MY LIFE IN NYACK: Winter 1

Today's MOZEN 1/10/2014

Words and photo by F LoBuono

OF BRIDGES AND BULLIES

First, the humor is not lost on me that my beloved home town, Fort Lee, NJ, is once again in the National spotlight. We have not had this much attention since Gilda Radner's famous SNL character, Roseanne Rosanna-Danna's, "a Mr. Richard Feder of Fort Lee, New Jersey. . . ", routine! But this time, it's not really funny at all.

I don't think it's necessary to get into intricate detail of why Fort Lee is in the news. But, for clarity, a brief synopsis is in order: It seems certain staff members of New Jersey Governor Chris Chrisite manipulated closure, without warning, of the George Washington Bridge's (GWB) Fort Lee toll access, as well as a number of lanes of the GWB itself. Despite efforts by Fort Lee officials, including it's mayor, Mark Sokolich, to find out why this was happening, no explanation was given. E-mails and other documents discovered after the incident, suggest that the closure was politically motivated as punishment for Mr. Sokolich's, a Democrat, failure to endorse Mr. Chrisite in his campaign for Governor.

Now, Fawt Lee (as we natives will more than relate to as the REAL pronunciation for the town) is dominated by that Bridge. The high school nome de guerre is The Bridgemen (try making a mascot out of that!). The GWB is the centerpiece of the town's Great Seal. It brags at being the busiest bridge in the world. This, for natives is a source of pride. But, with that can also come very difficult conditions. So, when the GWB is screwed up, the town is screwed up. Traffic can back up for miles when there is an issue on the GWB. Therefore, people looking for alternatives, and those from the town itself looking for access to the GWB, are caught in a mind- f'n', never ending, evil serpent of bright red tail lights. I have been personally trapped in that traffic vortex on more occasions than I care to remember. Still do. In a word; AWFUL.

And it's not just an inconvenience. There are real ramifications and lost revenue. People can't get to work. Kids can't get to school. Businesses can't conduct business. And, worst of all, emergency vehicles cannot pass through. So, it's a BIG deal.

Of course, in recent days/hours, Governor Chrisite has gone into damage control mode and expressed disbelief, shock, surprise, and righteous indignation at those responsible. Heads were going to roll. And they did. As of this writing, four of his top aides most responsible for this situation have been fired. More floggings may come. But this leaves many people wondering, is he firing ALL of those responsible? How much of this did he actually know was going on and why did he take so long to act upon it? And, if the buck stops with him, shouldn't he be, in a sense, firing himself?

We may never get these questions answered with complete accuracy. Without actually being there, or without the necessary documentation, it may be difficult to pin the Governor with direct culpability here. But I'm not sure that we have to - at least not directly. It is reasonable, however, in such situations to "connect the dots". Let's try. One of the keys to Governor Christie's success, pundits claim, may also be his biggest detraction. He has a "hands-on" style of management. He has a dominating presence. As he is lampooned by many comedic sources, like SNL, he is almost a Sopranoesque character, i.e. prototypical New Jersey, or New Joisey. Fuggetaboutit! Some find it amusing if not downright endearing. However, most New Jersians that I speak to do not. Interestingly, and this is what makes people believe he may be right for National office, the people NOT from New Jersey actually love him. One way or the other, it may not be inaccurate to also use this word to describe him - BULLY.

You don't have to look hard to find footage of him dressing down a reporter, or, worse, a teacher or citizen who had the audacity to question his judgement or authority. I have a very reliable source from New Jersey who tells me how he threatened a 76 year-old woman candidate who opposed him on some issues, telling reporters that, "someone should take a baseball bat to her". Really? Yes, it is entirely reasonable to call him a bully. Now, there are some who would say that it is this "honest, take no prisoners" style that makes him effective, i.e. the type of leadership we need to straighten out the country. Unfortunately, I, and others, do not agree. It's been said that, from time to time, I have issues with authority. Well, that's not quite accurate. I have issues with BULLIES who see themselves as authority figures. I have no problem following the directions of someone that I can respect. This is no different.

So, if we continue to connect our dots, it is not difficult to connect the last one to the Governor. Whether he authorized this travesty or not, by his position, by his very attitude, the BUCK MUST STOP WITH HIM. In other words, don't be surprised when you get what you paid for. If it smells like a bully, then it must be a bully. A coach's team reflects the personality of its coach.

Now, in the final analysis, this may not be, as some are saying, Christie's Bridgemaggedon (I just made that up - at least I haven't hear it yet!). He may still come out smelling like a rose - poor, little Governor, deceived by his moronic staff! But look at him now, coming forward, all contrite and shit (Jersey speak). There is one thing certain; the man is no fool - look at how he played Sandy.

In the final analysis, I think that it is important not to get hung up on specifics in this case. In other words, although important, it's not essential to know if the Governor was directly involved or not. Because he was. By his very ethos, one motivated by intimidation, he has fostered a climate of fear in opponents AND subordinates alike. But this is a good thing because it gives us a clear-cut choice should Mr.Christie actually decide to run for national office. Do you want Tony Soprano running the Country or not?

Today's MOZEN 1/7/2014

Words and photo by F LoBuono

My best friend is dying. There is just no way around it this time. We just can't recharge his battery anymore. His long and eventful race has been run. Big Red the Cat is nearing his end. He has taken his place with grace but, now, it will soon be time for him to move on. He is old. Yes, older than dirt. We know him to be at least 19. In human terms, that's like 147! He was robust, free, energetic, and powerful. Now, he is weak and frail, barely able to walk and eat. But he is a fighter -always has been. I've seen this before. He was accidentally run over when he was 16, breaking his leg badly. He recovered completely. In recent months, as his health has declined, there have been episodes that led me to believe it was surely the end. Still, he came back. Every time. If a normal cat has 9 lives, then Red is certainly the exception. He must be on number 15 or so. So, I hope for one more miracle, one more rally, one more day, one more hour, one more minute. . .

But it can't go on forever. Nothing can. We must accept the fragility of life and understand that all things are ephemeral. So, where does this loss leave us? In an effort to understand, I think that we must go back - back to where Big Red first came into my life.

It was 1995 and I was living as a bachelor in my first apartment in South Nyack. I had a little, silver tabby named Belle (after the infamous Wild West madam, Belle Star - not the Little Mermaid!). She was good company and I was quite content with her. My cats have always had the freedom of being both inside and out. I believe that, depending on the environment in which you live, that's how it should be; better for them AND better for me. In order to facilitate this, I put a cat-flap window in my bedroom so she could jump in an out when she felt the urge. Well, one day, I returned from work to find a large, male red tabby cat sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor. My immediate reaction was, WTF?! Who the hell are you and why are you in my home? I certainly did not want some strange, large, male cat harassing my delicate female, Belle Star. So, wishing to avoid a direct confrontation with a strange, large, stray red Tom Cat, I used a broom to chase him right back out the window he came in from! Well, ten minutes later, guess who's back in the window? I get the broom and we're at it again. However, this time, instead of flying out the window, he's running from room to room, dodging me at every turn. This goes on for about a week. Finally, I say, once again, WTF?, I guess that I got myself two cats now!

Mimicking his flaming red hair and fierce fighting spirit, I originally named him Erik the Red, after the legendary Viking raider. However, over the course of time, it was just too much of a mouthful to say. Besides, as he grew into full tomcathood, he tipped the scales at a muscular 14 lbs. Thus, the name, and the legend of, Big Red began. Belle Star has long since passed and I've had him every since.

How important is this stupid, red cat to me? Well, let me give you some perspective. I have lived with him longer than with any other being. For 19 years he has been a constant companion. With no disrespect, my relationship with him has lasted far longer than any girlfriend's - even my marriage. He has moved seamlessly with me on 4 occasions. During that period, he has born witness to every single up and down in my life. And he has done it with out flinching and without compliant. That animal has never caused me one moment of angst in nearly 20 years. How many of us can say that about our human relationships? In return for feeding him, caring for him, and, yes, cleaning his pee and poop, he has taught me so much. He has taught me about patience, perseverance, and confidence. You may ask, confidence? Well, yes. Red never changed. He was always Red. I always believed that he was that way because he felt he was just fine the way he was. He was certainly not on this earth to show off for anyone. That would come naturally. He lived fully and robustly, becoming the scourge of chimpmunks every where!

Now, he is about 6 lbs. He is in no pain or discomfort. He is just so feeble. But, still, he fights. He is not done yet. We'll both know when he is -and it ain't today (I hope). He can hardly walk, but he walks. He can hardly eat, but he eats. He can hardly poop, but he poops. If, and when, that changes, we will cross that bridge, as we always have, TOGETHER.

I do everything within my power to make him comfortable AND to let him know how much he means to me. I am prepared. I have cried deeply a number of times already and am prepared to do so as much as is necessary. However, I am also ready to let go. The thought of my apartment without his constant presence wears on me greatly. But at times like this, I always think of the title of a Broadway play that ran a few years back: You Arms Too Short to Box With God. Accept things that you are not fully ready to understand. Red has taught me this!! So, I pray that his passage will be peaceful and dignified, just like his life. I will also use this opportunity to, instead of grieving, celebrate his life by not waiting until it's too late to say, thanks, I love you - not only to him but all of those in my life. THIS is the Red way.

In the meantime, we will take every day, every hour, every second, every moment. This is a sacred time . . .

Today's MOZEN 12/31/2013

Words and photo by F LoBuono

Another year takes its last breath. It will go out in a spasms of glory in Times Square in just a few hours. And for the first time in many years, I will not be there to cover it. Yes, I will be working the so-called Lobster Shift, a.k.a. the graveyard shift, midnight until 8 a.m. But I will be warmly and safely ensconced within the cozy confines of the CBS Broadcast Center. I may miss the incredible excitement of the collective consciousness of a million souls all focused at the same thing, at the same time, and doing so with peace, love and good will to men. I won't miss the incredible effort it takes to get to that moment. Besides, the fact that it's about 27 degrees out, doesn't foster a warm, fuzzy feeling in me. No, I won't miss it that much.

Besides, New Years Eve and Day have never been big with me or my family, anyway. We were never big drinker/partyers. And, when we did indulge, it would never be during something we considered amateur night! In fact, it was so low key that our big New Years Eve tradition was my old Sicilian grandmother taking us for dinner at the same Chinese Restaurant on Flatbush Ave. in Brooklyn, every year until she become to old to do so. But it was more than just the inconvenience with dealing with a million tourists in Times Square (no New Yawkers actually attend). It was part of a broader philosophy. Why do we even need the legendary New Years Resolution? Shouldn't we resolve, on a daily basis, to do good for ourselves and those around us? Don't we/shouldn't we resolve to do what's necessary to insure good health for ourselves and those we love. Shouldn't we pray/work for peace on earth every single day? Sure seems simple enough.

But, if you need the popping of champagne corks and the boom of fireworks to ignite your fire and fuel your commitment to do better, to be better, than go for it and have 

THE HAPPIEST, HEALTHIEST MOST PEACEFUL 2014!

MY LIFE IN NYACK: CHRISTMAS 2013

All photos by F LoBuono

 

 

 

A Short Story: The Woman Who Waits.

Words and photo by F LoBuono

The Woman Who Waits

She stands at the bus stop in the heart of town. Most days. But not every. Weather can be a factor. But most days, she steadfastly mans her post at the bus stop in the heart of town. Shielded by knitted hat and scarf against the cold. In simple but stylish slacks for the summer. Always immaculate, she is solitary, alone. But not lonely. Never sitting, always standing, hands folded in front, her demeanor is always upbeat. A smile or wave is available for anyone who might take the time to acknowledge her presence. Her name is Joan.

Buses come. Buses go. Passengers come and wait. Passengers board their buses and go. Still, Joan waits, never taking the bus. No. Joan waits. And waves. And smiles. She calls me "Al" because she thinks that I look like Al Pacino. "Hi ya', Al", Joan calls out to me when she sees me about to walk by on one of my frequent forays into town. "Hey, Joanie, no autographs today", is my standard, pithy reply. "Oh, Al, you are too funny" she says in return, a huge grin on her face. It's a standard routine that never wears thin.

Still, on most days, she just stands and waits, never taking the bus. She is a witness, a sentinel, never deserting her post, watching the world go by. I've been told that Joan, like all of us, has a story to tell; a reason for her vigilance. A terrible tragedy has touched Joan, changing her, at her core. It seems that, as a young woman, Joan witnessed the gruesome and violent murder of her friend at Memorial Park. The park is located on the banks of the Hudson at the edge of the village. You can just about see from the bus stop, just up the hill. The same bus stop where Joan stands and waits.

Some say that she is keeping vigil there for her lost, murdered friend, in a sense, waiting for her return. In the heat or cold, on most days, Joan is there, at the bus stop, watching and waiting. Never taking the bus. She waits for her friend. Others say that it's the distance between the park and the bus stop that's the key. It's just far enough away to provide a safe, secure boundary to keep on eye on the park. Perhaps, in this way, she can prevent another terrible crime from occurring. Still, she waits.

I don't know if any of it is actually true. It certainly makes for a good story. What I do know is that Joan is a joy. She is pleasant and always cheery. She has a smile for anyone who has a smile for her. And she is part of the fabric of this small village. She is a presence, a fixture. When she is not at her post, I tend to be concerned. We need her gentle vigilance. In fact, when I take my sojourn into town later, I certainly hope that it's not to cold for Joan to be on "duty". I would love to hear, "hi, Al. howa' doin'"?! So I could respond, "sorry, Joanie, no autographs today", and see her smile. It has become part of the fabric of my life.  

Today's MOZEN 12/4/2013 "What Stella Would Have Done"

Words and photo by F LoBuono

The first anniversary of the horrific loss of life perpetrated by a mad gunman at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn. rapidly approaches. I, like many in the so-called blogosphere, have something to say about it. To those who know me, or are at least familiar with my work, this comes as no surprise. However, what may come as one is the fact that I am not here to write about gun control (or the lack thereof). I feel that is a topic that will be well dissected by others. Besides, I believe that I have made my beliefs on that subject abundantly clear.  What I would much rather discuss here is how a young man, one with an innocent, young boy's smile becomes a monster capable of inflicting such unspeakable horror.

Just a week or so ago, the Attorney General of the State of Connecticut released an abridged version of the State's report on the massacre that occurred at the school. In addition to a time-line of the events that took place there, the report also gave some limited information on the background of the murderer, 20 year-old Adam Lanza. Without going into specifics, the report made clear that Lanza was a seriously disturbed young man, and had been so for a while. Why his mother, Nancy Lanza, decided to at least enable this disturbing behavior is a question that is likely never to be answered - she was his first victim. What is almost unfathomable is the fact that she seemed to have no issue with providing this disturbed young man with a virtual arsenal of weapons. I have read previously that Mrs. Lanza was a "country girl", raised on a farm, and accustomed to hunting as part of her culture. I also understand that she used her knowledge and familiarity with firearms as a bridge to connect with her son. In and of itself, this would not seem odd - many women hunt with their families. However, the fact that she would expose not only this young man, but through him, the world, to such a dangerous mix of firepower and mental illness in unconscionable. And, unfortunately, she paid the ultimate price for her egregious mistake; her son shot her in the face.

In the report, in addition to the fact that the mother seemed to see no threat in providing her mentally ill son with weapons, another failure was the way she handled daily, ordinary things. For example, they only communicated through email. There was no direct, verbal communication between mother and son, despite the fact that they were the only ones living in the house. He completely cut off communication with his father and older brother. Every window and entrance way into his room was covered by thick, plastic bags, preventing anyone from entering or even seeing in.

Forgive my rather blunt vernacular, but WTF?! This type of behavior was not only a sure sign that something was seriously wrong with this young man but that the problem went on untreated for far too long. No child should be allowed to have that much control as to withdraw that completely from the world around him!!! It is, obviously, a recipe for disaster. When I was a kid growing up, my brother and I shared a room. My sister had her own. My parents had theirs. All three rooms were on the same floor with a total of maybe a few feet separating each entrance. In other words, privacy was scarce. Still, GOD FORBID, you should try to close your door at night - even to sleep. It was NOT ALLOWED - closed doors isolated you from the family. This was most clearly understood. You never shut the family out of ANYTHING. Oh, my brother, sister, and I got into many an argument with Stella over the "privacy issue", and lost every single one. Reasoning didn't work. Neither did stealth. If you tried to close the door while she was sleeping, that motherly "sixth sense" (or is it "sick sense"?) would kick in. Not only would she fling open the door to your room, she made sure that you knew it wasn't going to happen again. Period! If she had to wedge herself in the portal to keep that door from closing, well, damn it, that's what she was going to do. We were a family and we were staying one. No one isolates from the family.

Another thing my parents didn't believe in was the punishment of "grounding", i.e. being prevented from leaving your house except for essential activities like school. It did occur in my household, but rarely. Instead, transgressions were dealt with swiftly and effectively. When you did something wrong, you knew about it right away and the lesson (i.e. punishment) usually followed just as rapidly. There were no linger issues and, therefore, no lasting resentments. It may have involved a quick smack on the ass, but there were no long term recriminations. Grudges were not allowed to fester. And passive-aggressive behavior (i.e. "the silent treatment") was also deemed unacceptable. To this day, Stella will not accept silence as a means of expressing displeasure. Communication was, and still is, the key.

Some might call this "old-fashioned" parenting. I'm 58 and Stella is nearly 90, so, I guess that it is. But we can also call it effective parenting. My family has certainly had its share of calamity. Every family has. However, to my knowledge, we have produced no mass murderers. My brother and I were always wild enough (which, to a degree, was even encouraged by my parents) but we also had a strong moral compass, instilled through the discipline instituted by both of our folks.  And this is key here: BOTH OF THEM. I have to believe that, like many so-called modern parents, Nancy Lanza, in an effort to win her child's affection and loyalty, removed the checks and balances needed for a young person to grow within a truly healthy and safe environment. Many divorced parents, as was Lanza, over-compensate for the pain they believe their separation has caused their child and indulge their every whim. I've seen it happen. In the Lanza case, it was extreme (see: plastic bags blocking access to your room). For young people, too much freedom is not necessarily a good thing.

When the AG's report was released, the media published a photo of Adam Lanza, bug-eyed and looking completely deranged. However, there is another photo of him that intrigues me more. He appears to be about eleven or twelve in that photo. He is looking at the camera holding up his hand as if to wave, a shy smile on his boyish face. This face of innocence eventually became one of a mad fiend. But, once, he was just a boy. A boy seemingly like any other. How did he change? When did he change? Why did he change? I'm sure that the divorce of his parents crushed this sensitive kid. But many other children have experienced  the pangs of a bitter divorce and subsequent separation and do not resort to mass murder to express their rage. We will never know for sure, if at all. However, what I do know is this: you must talk to your children until you reach them. And never stop until you do. Never take "no" for an answer and never let them isolate themselves. Perhaps, if, like Stella, Nancy Lanza had simply refused to be excluded from the better part of her son's life, he would not have acted with such indescribable hate. It just may be a matter of life and death.