A few weeks ago, I visited Old Navy to purchase its 2025 Independence Day t-shirt and a few pairs of socks. I was leaving for Italy, and I always like to have new socks before I travel. Most of my vacations are walking intensive. Comfy socks make it the best. I wish they were Jox Sox. I wore a pair today. Does anyone remember Jox Sox? My grandmother was the queen of those. She gave us lots of pairs. I forgot to mention I was wearing them earlier when we spoke.
It was nice being in Old Navy. Most of the time, I order from them and other online stores. Occasionally, I order in-store pickup in the Gap, Banana Republic, etc. Those who know me know I am obsessed with buying clothes. I cut that over the last few years. Working from home, all you need are shorts, sweats, and your favorite Yankee or The Cure t-shirt. Nothing’s better. The thing is, I still have clothes I wore in college. Some are back in style. Yes, they all fit me. Some are too loose. I had a super nice Ralph Lauren pink dress shirt. The cuffs were getting ratty. I needed to replace it. I ruminated. I am cutting back on that. I found a beautiful comparable shirt from Theory on Bloomingdales.com. It came. I love it.
A few days ago, I went to Mineola for an eye exam. In the lot next to the doc’s office is Barnes & Noble. I used to be one of those people who spent tons of time there. I read a few books, bought a few, even went on a date at its Starbucks. She was off the wall. But the store is excellent. In a recent conversation, someone mentioned that they have excellent air conditioning. That’s true, and it was fun browsing the aisles. I picked up a few things and read them over the weekend.
We know that since the COVID outbreak, retail shopping in stores nosedived. Yes, it is easier to order online. In many cases, it is less expensive. You will need to wait one to two days to receive your items. I am not so desperate that I need things instantly.
Additionally, I live an outer borough in the city and don’t have a car. So it’s not easy to schlepp stuff back on the subway and walk a few blocks to my building. Even when I’m shopping near my building, I can only carry so much.
But there is something about being in a store. Walking through Barnes & Noble was great. The store was busy, and the line was long. I saw lots of younger kids and teens racing through the toy department and flipping through books. In many cases, Mom or Dad was behind them, telling them what they would buy them—same thing at Old Navy.
These days, shopping at stores is not without its issues. Sometimes you cannot find plain old brown or black dress socks. All the socks have crazy patterns or pictures of characters. Yeah, I have those. Additionally, I have my official Boy Scouts of America socks. My mom still teases me about those.Additionally, a two-pack of Pataday eye drops is $10 less on Amazon compared to CVS or Walgreens. When I was on vacation, I spent a lot of time in stores buying things I couldn’t find at home. It was fun. Bottom line, we should spend some more time in stores. But be smart enough to know when to buy online.
Have You Heard of the Beatles or Do You Lead an Insular Life?
By Mitchell Slepian
Everyone reading this knows John Lennon was murdered. You might wonder why I would say this. Sadly, some people are unaware of this. Many of those people do not even know who he was. I was with a few yesterday. It was not the first time. I have an eclectic group of friends. Some join me at the Garden, Beacon, and other venues to see The Cure, Depeche Mode, Modest Mouse, Bruce Springsteen, and Ringo and the All-Starr Band. We’ve been to the Guggenheim together or independently. They know it is one of the world’s premier art museums. I’m a member. If things work out, I will visit its Venice venue soon. I asked a friend to join me there (Museum Mile. Not Venice). He said, “What is that? Is that one of the bands you go to?” I asked someone to join me at the Brooklyn Museum. I received a similar response when I asked to visit the Guggenheim.
Everyone knows my life revolves around the Bronx Bombers. I hope we win this year’s World Series. I am concerned. Someone asked me if I had ever been to Citi Field. I said, of course. I was there the night Paul McCartney was its musical opener in 2009. He opened by playing the same set the Beatles played at Shea Stadium in ’65. The guy said, “Who is Paul McCartney?”
One day, I was sitting with a group of people who were discussing submarines. I said, “Was it yellow?” They looked at me like I had two heads. I might. But I said, “Ya know we all live in Yellow Submarine. Ringo’s song.” I got blank looks and said, ‘The Beatles.” They said they did not think a beetle could survive on a submarine. I said, “Forget it.”
Once I was with a group of people, and someone said “That sounds like a Seinfeld episode. “The following comment was now you are sounding like Darth Vader. Someone was with us who did not know whom we were talking about. The list goes on and on. Some have never heard of Snoopy, Elvis (Presley), Mick Jagger, U2, the Flintstones and so many others.
On my last day of my Milan tour, I had to jet out of the farewell dinner to see Paquita at Teatro alla Scalla. The tour guide asked me to let her know how it was. I sent her a WhatsApp. I thought it was wonderful. She said, “You have a fine appreciation of the Italian arts.” During the tour, we had many discussions about art and opera.
Now I have friends who will not see The Who with me. But would see Erasure. Or would not see Jackson Browne. I think they are running on empty or don’t want to stay a little longer. But these people would be happy to hear ‘Rio’ (Duran Duran).
I am either too active or never slow down. Or like to explore.
About three weeks ago, I flew a Delta jet from JFK Airport to Milan. It was a fantastic trip. I loved it so much, I will be returning to Italy. This time, I will go to Sicily – The Boot of it. My flight took off as scheduled. I had my usual aisle seat and was reading on my Kindle. I have allergies. My eyes itched, and my nose was stuffed. I figured it was the normal thing for me.
A few hours into the flight, we heard an announcement that a cat had escaped from its pet carrier. At first, many of us didn’t understand the announcement. The audio was not as clear as it should have been. I asked a flight attendant, ‘Did they say cat?’ She said yes. I now knew why my flight was dreadful. For the record, I have been to Russia (2012). Did the Ukrainian girls knock me out, and did they leave the West behind? Not at all.
Everyone was looking under their seats for this creature that impacts your breathing, makes your eyes tear, and your throat itch. Finally, someone found it. The proud owners who were one row behind me held it up with the smile a boxer holds up when he wins the title belt.
I was so disgusted. I asked the captain why they allow cats on flights. I knew he could not answer. He nodded in approval and said, “That’s out of our control.” I knew that.
Years ago, I was invited to lunch at someone’s house. They invited many people over the years. Few went. Many people said you should go. The house is not the cleanest, and the food will not be great. But be nice.
I walked in. The woman spent about an hour cutting a cucumber. The husband was reading. I felt unwell from the moment I arrived. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a furball jump off the couch.
I sat there for over an hour, ate the cucumber and some other food that was of poorer quality than what you’d find in a college dining hall or summer camp. We had a boring conversation. I reached a point where I could not see or breathe. Eventually, I thanked them and left. I could have run for a gold medal, running the two blocks back to my apartment. I got in, stripped down, and jumped into the longest shower I’ve ever taken. My clothes went into a garbage bag, and I delivered them to the dry cleaners.
Eight days later, Alana and Marc left camp and went home. Before they left, Alana nursed her beauties. Marc sat with the Woodsman and listened. On the eighth day, the herd of buffalo approached the babies and blessed them.
Marc got behind the wheel. Alana carefully placed the babies into her Infiniti. Alana put Depeche Mode onto the sound system and signaled it was time to go. They drove straight to the temple. Their parents were waiting. Yes, these two have parents. They are very strange. Anat, Jen, and all of the others were waiting with big smiles and gifts.
The mohel was ready to perform the circumcision on the boy. He stared at the knife. The girl was beside him. She, too, stared at the knife. The mohel gave him some Shiloh wine. Anat knew the owner of the vineyard. She had him make a remarkable vintage. Marc and Alana gave out a bottle to all attendees. The girl snagged some of it. Was this a sign she would be like her mom? As the mohel cut the foreskin, the boy just smiled. His eyes fluttered. They wanted to name him Palpatine. But settled for David Benjamin. He has this funny look in his eyes. Of course, Marc and Alana were waiting to see what he would do. Would he shoot lightning out of them, like Palpatine? The two were quite worried about how powerful their children would be. To the best of their knowledge, they are the only two born to parents who both have powers. The girl was named Sarah. They were thinking of Leia or Ashoka. Or maybe just Tano. They would probably call their kids the Star Wars nicknames. Sarah and David Benjamin seemed happy. They were dressed in cute, all-black baby clothes from Sisley.
They went to the basement of the shul for bagels and lox. Jerry was bouncing around. He was making sure Gillil was ok. A great big brother he is. Suddenly, they heard some loud noises outside.
Jay was bashing cars outside the temple. Anat immediately pelted him with raisins and dates. She was taking care of business. But Jay snuck away and entered the delivery door by the kitchen and started shooting glass. A piece shot off Sarah and Benjamin David. Marc and Alana ran over to their babies. They looked like they were smirking. They were in their strollers. The two kids looked at each other.
Suddenly, the strollers started moving. Marc and Alana got nervous. They knew the kids were ok. They knew some of their friends were waiting for this moment. They wanted it to be delayed. They certainly didn’t want their parents and other relatives to see what would happen next.
These days, many people no longer use traditional leather wallets. You may remember them. They had a billfold and pockets for your license, credit cards, and a picture of your kid or dog. According to a report by Amazon Web Services and PYMNTs in February 2024, 79 percent of Gen Z use digital wallets. Baby boomers and seniors account for 26 percent of the digital wallet users.
Let’s reminisce about the various types of wallets available. They still exist. Let’s start with my first wallet. It was a white Jox Sox. I got the socks from my grandmother. She was and might still be the queen of socks. But they had to be Jox Sox from Thom McAn, a shoe retailer. Sadly, it shuttered its 100-plus stores in 1986. You can still get Jox Sox from Amazon. I have a pair.
In the ’70s, most of us kids kept a dollar or two in our socks. We put coins in them, too. Sometimes, that causes cuts on the soles of our feet or toes. I can remember a quarter or two floating around my sock. The change could tear through our foot protection. My favorite memory was from when I attended the Manhattan Beach Jewish Center Day Camp. The camp would take us on a field trip to L&B Spumoni Gardens to get spumoni. That’s where I developed my love of this precious treat. Our counselors told us to wait for them to get us our spumoni and not to get anything else. We were about 10 years old.
Did we listen? We pulled a dollar out of our sock and got on the line for a Sicilian slice. Back then, a pizza slice cost around 50 or 75 cents. We knew they had the best pizza. They still do. I was last there on Memorial Day. I pulled my money out of my Timberlands wallet. It now costs $9.75 for two slices and a bottle of water.
Please note that the camp is kosher. Why did they take us to L&B? Who knows? They would pack kosher meals for us when we went to the now-closed Action Park (it reopened under another name), the beach, and on overnight trips to Cooperstown. Once, they took us to Yankee Stadium. We snuck over to the concession stands. The counselors told us they had to taste our hot dogs to see if they were kosher. So, we cut a piece off. Yeah, we and some of our trusted counselors ate all sorts of “kosher” crap from the stands in the amusement parks. And wherever else went.
In the 1980s, I attended summer camp, which was the best time of my life. Before I went, my dad handed me an old brown wallet of his. He said I should have one and carry a few dollars in it to buy stuff at the trading post. I took it. I obtained the singles from Larry, who served as our banker and purchased candy from the trading post or a hamburger meal in Bob (Slob, as we called it) Landers.
I carried that wallet with me when I needed to. For the most part, through junior and high school, I kept a dollar or two in my pocket or sock. I arrived at college and needed to carry a little more money. Not much. So, I had the wallet. My girlfriend didn’t like it, as it was worn. She bought me a new one for my birthday. It was nice. I used it. When she dumped me, I went back to the trusty old wallet. Eventually, as I got older, I bought a few. I had a nice Coach wallet from Bloomingdale’s, and I received another one for my birthday from the people at a volunteer group I worked with. They just bought it for me. They had no idea if I was using a worn one or my sock. We had a meeting around my birthday. We had pizza, and they handed me the new wallet.
For the most part, now my iPhone is my wallet. I tap it at the subway turnstile. Yeah, I ditched the MetroCard, too. Eventually, New York City Transit will eliminate them. I tap and pay at the Stadium, Key Food, and most restaurants.
Ultimately, my favorite wallet will always be a sock. Preferably, a Jox.
How often have we seen the ad on Amazon or elsewhere for a product that says, “Easy Set Up. 15 Minutes or Less Right Out-of-the-Box?” How many times has that been the case for you?
Let’s see. It usually takes about 10 minutes to get a new monitor, fan, printer, lens, etc. out of the box. I respect that e-tailers try to pack merchandise carefully. No one wants a scratched lens or monitor. We’ve all received products ordered online that came damaged. The same can be said for products we purchased in the store and threw in the back of our cars or shlepped home on the subway.
My New Printer
About two weeks ago, my new HP printer arrived from Amazon. It replaced an HP printer I had for over a decade. It has the standard Wi-Fi or USB connection. After yanking it out of the box, I tried to do the Wi-Fi connection. I had the same problem its predecessor had. It tried to connect. But didn’t fully want to join. Thankfully, I plugged the USB cable in, and it worked. It prints fine. Did it take fifteen minutes? Hell no.
Monitors
For the record, I miss the Apple Thunderbolt monitors. I beg Apple to bring them back. Yes, BenQ makes a nice monitor. I had one for years. Dell makes an okay monitor. But it does not sync well with Apple. Anyway, both monitors are fantastic when they work correctly. BenQ rarely had issues. Dell always does. The graphics look great. But sometimes, the device doesn’t accept the updates as quickly as it should. I have Dell laptop for my job. I do not like it. It should take five minutes to connect the stand to the monitor. If only that were the case.
Photography Equipment and Speakers
Fortunately, I get Nikon equipment and Bluetooth speakers for my TV or MacBook from B&H. First, that store is the best. The prices are great, and the customer service leagues above other retailers. The lenses and filters are easy to remove from the box and connect to my camera. The speakers, whether they be Sony or Bose immediately recognize the Bluetooth connect instantly and U2 or the Yankees sound and/or look great over Apple Music or the YES network.
The bottom line is, don’t say it is a quick set-up—it never is. Talk about how great you will feel once your new toy is put together.
Until you glanced at the subheader, I bet you thought I was writing about that rascally rabbit, Bugs Bunny. Well, finding a doctor could be like walking into the world of Looney Tunes. It can be a trick or treat.
When Doctors are Picked for You
Sometimes, doctors are picked for us. Sometimes not. Sometimes, we pick the right physician and get well. Sometimes, we get sicker than before we went for our examination. When doctors are picked for us, I mean when you’re a kid, and mom brings you to the doctor. My mom (full disclosure: she’s a retired RN) always scheduled appointments for me. Nothing was wrong. She was known as a holiday or weekend ruiner. If we had a holiday weekend, I wound up at the pediatrician, the dentist, or the ophthalmologist.
Doctors are picked for you when you walk into or are flown to the ER. You don’t have a choice. You are stuck with the ER docs. I have done it a few times. My first kidney stone (I’ve had four) was in May 2013. I went to the ER. The doctor was fine. My mom liked her. That was a plus. I remember her calling her friend, another retired RN and saying this doctor and treatment seems fine.
Picking a Doctor Recommend on the Hospital’s Discharge Sheet
After kidney stone number one, I walked out of the hospital feeling somewhat better from the morphine and Toradol. I thought they said tortellini not Toradol. I guess I wanted good food. In hand was a list of urologists. The next day, I called the first one on the list. At the time, he was about a ten-minute walk from my residence. He was very nice and knew what he was doing. A few weeks later, he performed the procedure to remove the stone. My mom liked him.
When a Doctor Picked for You Might Be Clueless
About a decade later, I got stone number two. It was over Rosh Hashanah. I walked home from a nice lunch and felt sick. My mind flashed back to my first stone. I called Mom. She knew something was wrong since I was calling on a holy day. I told her what was happening and said I would shower and try to sleep. If I am still feeling sick after an hour, I will head off to the ER. It lasted about 30 minutes until I headed to the hospital. I noticed an orthodox woman being triaged a few stations next to mine. It’s a great way to start the head of the year. The doctor prescribed a painkiller for me to pick up at CVS, not Tamsulosin (Flomax), the drug used to treat kidney stones. Of course, I did a CT scan. I have had many. The radiologist reported two nodes in my lungs. The ER doctor told me about this and said it was a sign I probably had lung cancer, and I needed to get it checked.
When Mom Picks the Doctor
I freaked out about the possibility I had lung cancer. I called Mom. She said I did not and to call the urologist. I called his office, they were shocked the doctor didn’t prescribe Tamsulosin. I went to see him and got the prescription. Sadly, he is now two subway trains or an Uber away from me.
My mom said she knew a pulmonologist and had no worries that I had lung cancer. I went to see him. I was decked out in my Yankee apparel. He’s a fan of the Bronx Bombers. He looked at the hospital CT scan. He said, here’s your kidney stone. That’s for your urologist. Here’s part of your lungs. Here are the nodes. He noted since it was an abdominal scan, it didn’t show my full lungs, and the ER doctor should have never said anything about cancer, particularly because only a portion of my lungs were on the scan. He prescribed another CT scan. It showed nothing. We briefly chatted about Mickey Mantle and that was it.
Doctor My Eyes
Maybe Jackson Browne is singing about me? I hope the doctors who are doctoring my eyes aren’t running on empty. I have been wearing glasses since I was about five. So, my eyes needed to be doctored. My first ophthalmologist was the one my dad went to. He was fine. I had a few different eye doctors over the years. Most were fine. Eventually, I found one my mom knew; he was the best. I went to him for many years until he was forced to retire early due to a medical condition. Years ago, I had a vision issue, and he spent quite a bit of time on the phone with my mom, walking her through what needed to be done. I wouldn’t have understood a word they said. All worked out well.
After his retirement, the doctor who took over his practice was a colorful and fun character. No problems. I liked him. The only problem was I moved, and heading to his office from my new location took too long. I found someone near my former midtown office. He was decent. I needed an eye drop prescription filled. He said he’d do it right away. Over a month later, I was still waiting. I called his office regularly and was told they were working on it. Eventually, I was able to stroll into Walgreens and get the eye drops.
A former friend of my mom’s, a general practitioner, suggested I write a review on Zocdoc. I did. Nearly two years later, I walked into his office for an exam. His assistant dilated my eyes. Then he came and complained to me about the review and said he could do this exam if I wanted. But he would never see me again. I told him, you already dilated my eyes it would have made more sense to call me before the appointment and cancel. He just looked at me. I did the exam. All was well.
A few years later, I went to another ophthalmologist. He did a visual field and said my pressure was very high. He wanted to do surgery. I checked with other eye physicians. They said it was not high. The number was about two points below what’s considered high. I now go to one of my friends for eye exams. We do the exam and talk about a special swimming hole that no longer exists in our beloved summer camp. If you want to see it in your eyes, you need to look carefully. That may not be what Peter Gabriel meant in his tune. But be careful.
A Doctor Who Bilks the Elderly and Others
I had back pain. It has happened. Thankfully, not in many years. I hope I am not jinxing myself. I went to a general practitioner that I knew. She did a physical and decided I had high blood pressure. I didn’t. Like the visual field, the numbers were a few points below high BP and could have gone either way. She wanted me on all sorts of meds and sent me for tests. I didn’t take the meds. I did one of the tests. It showed nothing. I went from my office to Cornell Medical Center on a very wet day. I was so drenched I had to go to the Gap and buy a new outfit to return to work.
Here’s another one of her foul ups. She was supposed to send my records to the hospital before my kidney stone procedure. The hospital and urologist requested them. She never did. She said she forgot. I once told this story to another doctor. She said, I shouldn’t ask this, but it is…? I said yes. She said the doctor is known for these problems and for messing around with overbilling the elderly. Her Zocdoc reviews were loaded with stories. I didn’t write one. After my experience with the eye doctor, I decided I would never write a review again. I could write many great reviews and a few bad ones. BTW, Zocdoc has been very helpful when picking a physician and making an appointment. Some of the docs have been awful. A few have been fine.
Getting Your Diet Right
Last August, kidney stone number four made me cancel my vacation to Milan. I got my money back and plan to go. But I have been freaking out since August 2024. I have been reading nonstop the flyers from the urologist on proper dieting to prevent stones. I visit legit sites like the American Urological Association, Mayo Clinic, and the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Health. I do not trust Dr. Google or social media for medical advice. I decided to see a dietician. I did it years ago and did OK. I found one on Zocdoc, and the hell started. I misread her profile and mistook MS for MD. I guess I need to doctor my eyes a little more.
I did three sessions and ran. The first session was basic. She told me to download an app to take images of what I was eating. One night before attending the NY Philharmonic, I went to PJ Clarke’s and had their burger and fries with a Stella. She’s the best woman out there. One day I need to go to Belgium to see her birthplace. I told her about other things I eat. Mind you, I am controlled and eat a very low sugar diet and stay away from salt as much as possible. All the good things are all the bad things. She flipped out that I went to Clarke’s. The next session she was still attacking the place. She said her parents live near Lincoln Center, and she is very familiar with the restaurant. She must have had bad service, didn’t like her meal, or had a bad date at this venue. She wanted me to buy vitamins from some vitamin sales company she gets a commission from. I did not.
She said I should do blood work to help her figure out my diet. I said OK. She got the results, which were fine. Some items were borderline. But not high. Basically, from what the RNs and MDs I know that I sent it to say, you have nothing to worry about. The dietician also said she forgot to ask them to test for a few things. But the labs just do that anyway. So, it doesn’t matter that I forgot. Those items were not included from the lab. The medical professionals I spoke to say the lab will only test what’s on the prescription. She told me I was diabetic. She also said I had nonalcoholic liver disease and needed a liver test. Then she said she is an elite runner and a trainer and tried to sell me her services. This nut thought I was going to have lung failure. That’s when I said goodbye.
The scary thing is she billed my health care provider $2600 per session. They paid her $520. Therefore, she made about $1600 for around two hours’ worth of work. Is she stupid? As a dietician, she is the dumbest of the dumb. Her eating recommendations conflicted with what the urologist said. Her scamming was off the charts. Thankfully I did not fall for it. She said, I needed to see her for at least a year to correct my lung, liver and other issues.
The bottom line is to stay healthy. Jumping back to Peter Gabriel, picking a doctor can be like playing games without frontiers.
Pre-Covid-19, lunch at the office used to be fun. Most of us ate at our desks. Of course, there were times when we went out to lunch. Either a group from the office went to get out, or we went alone. We used to see which place had the best pizza, burger, pasta, or taco. Sometimes, we would grab something from the salad bar, deli, or fast-food joint, head back to the office, and eat in a conference room, someone’s office, or the break room.
Occasionally, we took someone out to celebrate a birthday, engagement, divorce, or promotion. At times, we met a friend who worked nearby. Or even better, had a lunch date. That was the way to do it. You and the person you were with knew you were on your lunch hour. So, you had a couple of slices and got to know each other. If it worked, you planned something. If it fell into the usual case, you returned to your desk thinking you should have gone to Walgreens at lunchtime.
How COVID-19 Wrecked the Fun Office Lunch
Then came COVID-19. We worked from home and ate in our kitchens, dressed in Yankees or The Cure t-shirts. The Cure or Depeche Mode was cranking. Eventually, we went back to the office. Some went back full-time. Most, like me, are on a hybrid schedule.
Back to Eating at Work
On the days I work in the city, I bring my lunch pail. I don’t slide down my dinosaur-like Fred Flintstone at lunchtime to go on my break and eat a pterodactyl bird or brontoburger. For the most part, I stick to salads. These days, most people bring their lunch. Why? Well, many of the places we used to go to are closed. It is sad to walk down NYC’s streets and see many lunch joints boarded up. Those that are still open are pricier than ever. You can make almost two- or three days’ worth of salads for what they charge for a small one with one or two add-ins. For the record, I preferred the salad bars where the hat, apron, and glove-wearing employee made your salad v. all-you-can-eat, slop everything into a dish salad bar, and weighed at the register stores. Too many people used their grubby hands to load up their bowls.
The Office Breakroom – Scary It Can Be
Let’s discuss the office’s break room. You remember those. It is a tiny or decent-sized room with a refrigerator or two, a filthy microwave, a beat-up toaster oven, a grime-filled sink, a Keurig and water cooler for hot water for the tea drinkers, and cold water to quench your thirst. The vending machines never work. You used to lose your dollar bills. You still lose them. But now you can tap your phone to pay with Apple Pay, and your M&M’s or Pepsi don’t come out of the machine. The room usually has napkins, paper towels, plates, coffee, and other cups, roaches and paper plates. People sometimes sit on chairs that are not rocking chairs. But the chairs rock. The chairs are placed by beat up tables that shake. The Department of Labor rules and the emergency escape plan are somewhere on the wall. Don’t forget the fire extinguisher. It’s probably not working. Good luck if there’s a fire.
Let’s go to the office refrigerator. Have you ever gone in to get your sandwich and couldn’t find it? Years ago, it happened to me. It was in a Barnes & Noble bag. Remember that store? I didn’t see the bag and thought someone had stolen my lunch. It happens. What boggles my mind is it was a homemade sandwich. I would be less upset if someone stole my lunch from the store. I would never steal anyone’s lunch. But it makes more sense to steal something that a store prepared. You have no idea what the person’s kitchen looks like. It could look like a slop pit. At the local bodega, you usually see the people crafting your meal. Sometimes, I’ve walked into those stores and right out after a quick look around. You probably have never seen the person’s home kitchen. Worse, the sandwich could have been made by someone picking their nose while slapping the roast beef onto the roll.
Let us return to my stolen bag. I went down to a store and bought lunch. Yeah, I looked around. The store was fine. I returned to the fridge to get something out and saw my sandwich. The person stole my Barnes & Noble bag. Not my lunch. Someone needed a bag. Why steal from the office fridge? They should have gone to the mailroom or reception area where there were many bags. Someone said maybe they wanted it to be used as a gift bag, and it looked nicer than the typical plastic or paper bag. Who knows?
Also, did you ever see what was in the office fridge? Some salads have turned colors other than green. The sandwiches had moldy blue bread. The office milk might have been sitting there since the flood. People keep liquids in containers that resemble the water on the tracks of NYC’s subway. Sometimes, the aroma you get when you open the doors could knock you out. Take a quick peek in the freezer. Sometimes, there is ice. It is often covered in crumbs or pieces of who knows what.
Then there are those people who bring their lunch in bowls or dishes. Did you ever watch them stand by the sink after they eat? They stand there for what seems like an hour. No one else can get near the sink while they are there. Ah, come on, people, give it a quick spray of soap and water and toss it in your bag. You will get much cleaner in your kitchen sink or dishwasher at home—the same for your coffee mug or teacup. Many people keep those at their desks or in a cabinet in the office kitchen. You can give those a little more cleaning love. But do it quickly. How could you keep a personal mug in a cabinet with other people’s mugs? Some could touch it or grab it by mistake.
Memories of Lazy Weekend Reading with the Newspaper
By Mitchell Slepian
My mom sometimes said, my dad was married to his New York Times (NYT). My parents divorced before I was a teen. I often spent weekends with him. I have distinct memories in the mid-to-late 70s of my dad reading his Sunday newspaper and, of course, reading his copy of the daily paper on his NYC subway train from Sheepshead Bay into Bloomingdales when he was a manager of its finance department.
In 1978, a great year (the Yankees repeated their World Series title), dad, mom, my sister and me left Brooklyn for an exotic place – Staten Island. Dad now had a much longer commute to work. He took his paper on the bus or the Staten Island Ferry.
“You can read it in the Sunday papers. Sunday papers.” We know Joe Jackson was criticizing the British tabloid press when he wrote “Sunday Papers” for his debut album “Look Sharp.” Much of it rings true. But I wanna talk about the Sunday papers in a different mode. I know most people get their news from their phones. I do love Apple News. But there is something about having the old-fashioned newspaper in your hands. I still get a Sunday paper. My mom taught me to read it by placing it on a beach towel on the kitchen table. She said you’d save our and eventually your table from ink stains. The stains that got on my hands that’s what the sink is for.
My memories of the Print Edition
Some of us are old enough to remember the old school weekend NYT. It had tons of thick special sections that were delivered on Saturday. The Arts & Leisure section had information about what was happening in NYC’s museums and elsewhere. Often, you’d see how if you went to one at a certain time you got in for half price or got a free something. My dad clipped out all of this, and on Sunday, we went to Museum Mile and other spots. I have an older cousin whose dad did similar, I loved the museums. My cousin hated them. I’m a member of nearly every museum in NYC. Years later, when both of us were laid off, I spent my time at the Guggenheim, Whitney, Tenement Museum, and others. I always asked my cousin to join me. He would never.
At home on Staten Island, we got our daily delivery of the Staten Island Advance (Advance). I read it. I loved reading Moss Klein’s stories in the sports section about my beloved Bronx Bombers. My first job was in politics, serving as a press secretary for a local NYC Council Member. I pitched our news releases to the Advance and was friendly with several reporters. My sister another newspaper reader became a reporter at the Advance. I was long gone from politics when she was employed at the paper, so we never worked together. That would have been interesting.
When I was a kid, my grandparents would come over from Sheepshead Bay for Sunday afternoon barbeques. We had the NYT and Advance on the table. As we were getting ready for our hot dogs and burgers, grandpa would read both. He usually read the New York Post or New York Daily News at home. In the metro section of the NYT, he always looked for stories about Staten Island. It was funny. That never happened. That’s why Staten Islanders swore by the Advance.
Eventually in the late 90s, I moved out and started buying my Sunday papers. I started in Rego Park and came back to Staten Island. I read all the dailies, the New York Daily News, the New York Post, and my eventual favorite of the bunch, The Wall Street Journal (WSJ). I would buy them before boarding the Subway or Staten Island Ferry. That’s when they sold papers all over. It was before you woke up, and your iPhone was buzzing like a madman with the latest from Apple News, social media, and Snaps from your friends, about, as Depeche Mode would put it, “the world we live in and life in general.”
I enjoyed reading the papers on the commute to and from work. Of course, the news in the morning wasn’t any different than the news on the ride home. I just read a different paper. So, the only differences could have been the opinions of the writers. Nothing was updated from the morning to the evening. We sometimes had the radio or news channels on at work. So, we followed Wall Street and breaking news with the available technology to the best of our abilities.
On my ferry rides, I often sat with a group of friends on the a.m. commute into the city. We discussed the latest news. Most of us had a paper. Usually, our conversations focused on the Yankees. We did discuss politics and movies. We compared the opinions of the writers in the different papers.
When I was back on Staten Island, my sister got an apartment in the same building complex as mine. On weekends, I would read my copy of the NYT and walk over to her building, throw it at her door, and scream out, “Mr. Flintstone.” During the holiday season, I put a card into the paper and begged for a tip. She gave me a dollar. It was so sweet of her.
As you have realized, I love baseball. I remember sitting at my table reading the NYT, which we know is not known for having a great sports section. I read its feature about the orthopedic surgeon Dr. James Andrews (now retired). You got nervous when you heard your favorite athlete was going to see him. You knew he was down for the count. The article gave an in-depth feature about how he evaluated and treated the athletes. It was a great learning experience. Holding the paper in my hands and reading about baseball feels more real than scrolling through my phone or tablet.
The Arts & Leisure section of the NYT offered similar. When “Wicked” was still starring Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel, it did a terrific feature about how the two Tony winners were brought up and how they began their storied acting careers. Jumping ahead to the WSJ’s Off-Duty section, Lettie Teague’s weekly wine column offers great advice on what to sip, buy, and order. The paper’s magazine sectionoften has beautiful watches. I want all of them. Sometimes, I get ‘em.
One more memory of dad and his paper. All the Sunday papers had many circulars featuring coupons of the latest sales at the drug store, supermarket, local clothing stores and restaurants. My dad called them “couponys.” He used to sit and clip them out. He stored them in an index card holder and had a filing system. He was one of those people, who would walk up to the register in Waldbaum’s with more groceries than you can imagine and pay about $10.
I Began Having Newspaper Issues
I moved off the rock and went back to Queens. I transferred my weekend NYT subscription. Eventually, I switched to WSJ’s Weekend Journal. Pre-Covid, the paper used to be delivered to my apartment door. During the height of the lockdown and today, all the papers are in the lobby. We rarely had any problems. There was a pile of newspapers on the radiator. On Saturday morning, I would walk downstairs around 6 a.m. and take mine. The walks up and down the steps prepared me for the day. I would start reading. Sometimes, I would finish the main section and go to morning services or elsewhere— hopefully, Yankee Stadium. They returned to deliver the paper to my front door a few months ago. Then it went back to the lobby.
Most people I know stopped getting newspaper delivery or stopped buying them at newsstands. Many newsstands are only selling junk food. Several have closed. Just walk along NYC’s streets and you will see many locked-up newsstands. Most of the people I know, just get their news online.
Sadly, since the beginning of 2025 my WSJ stopped showing up. I go downstairs and see other papers. I have emailed and spoken to the WSJ’s customer care countless times. They keep promising to get it right. Occasionally the paper comes late Saturday night. It is still the weekend. But by that time, I do not want to read it. I have already seen everything on my phone. I like a Sunday paper. I enjoy being offline as much as possible on the weekend. Like most people, I am on too much. While disappointed to do this, I will likely cancel my Sunday paper.
Alana’s looked like she was about to burst. She and Marc were chilling in his camp. Why they were there, no one knew. Even they couldn’t figure out why they weren’t home. The two had no clue where the nearest hospital was. Marc remembered a few hospital runs in camp after they went to Action Park. Someone always got hurt.
They had a mix of Adele, Joy Division, the Cure, U2, and Depeche Mode playing, and even a little Billy Joel, Elton John, the Ramones, and Beatles made the setlist. The fire was burning. The weather was perfect. Marc kissed her. He was very nervous. Their doctor didn’t know of their powers. They had no idea what would happen when the baby was born. They did their best research by reading Star Wars books.
Alana’s water broke. She was in the leanto that Marc slept in during his summer years. She was on the floor on top of a green blanket. The cots were long gone. She started to scream. March began to shake. Wi-Fi was nonexistent in this part of the camp. Due to the connectivity issue, they couldn’t find a video on YouTube showing how to deliver a baby. It was too late for Marc to get her into the car and use Google Maps to guide them to a hospital.
Alana’s face was redder than a tomato. Marc was pretending to be an OB/GYN. She screamed. No one heard her. Or maybe someone did. Suddenly lightning flashed. She cried. Clueless, Marc was holding her ankles. He almost fell. As Marc was falling, a hand pushed him back up. He freaked. He turned around and saw the Woodsman with his herd of buffalo. The Woodsman motioned to Marc, who stepped away. A buffalo waltzed up to Alana. It looked at her. Alana’s eyes froze. She laughed. Suddenly, a boy and a girl popped out. They were perfect.
Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc. 