Uncategorized – Page 26 – Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc.

Pomegranate — Book 4

Marc enjoyed his drinks with Jen. She was as pretty and nutty as ever. Just the way he liked his ladies. They spent about two hours in the bar, kissed on the lips, and went to their respective train stations.

They didn’t make plans to see each other again. But knowing in due time they would. That’s how it goes. He hopped on the arriving E subway and headed back to Forest Hills. Little did he know the woman who was following him earlier was in the next car. She walked between the cars and sat several seats away from where he was standing. Marc was not drunk. He was just calm and happy that he spent time with Jen.

The woman was dressed in all black — black running pants, a black athletic skirt and a long-sleeved black tee shirt. She wore red lipstick, black nail polish, and had a chamsah chain dangling from her neck. She’s in great shape. Her ear buds was in her ears and was listening to Bauhaus.

Marc got off the train and so did the Goth chic. Marc hiked over to Duane-Reade to pick up some stuff. For a guy who orders most of his stuff online, he spends way too much time in stores.

He was moseying down 108 Street. Alana, the girl who has been tracking him was not far behind. She slowed down for a moment or two. Marc also stopped. He was paranoid. Not alcohol. Jen.

He sensed he was being followed. He knew people might catch onto him eventually. But he was doing good things. He heard Alana’s footsteps getting closer. He turned around and there she was. Her gorgeous green eyes with black eyeliner and perfect body were approaching him.

“Alana Elias?”

“So you remember me?”

“Of course.”

“I always liked you, Marc. I know we played a little. Remember when were both always dressed in all black? I know you still do.”

“Yeah. We had some good times.”

“They were limited. Hell, I refused to admit it. But I even enjoyed when we cut few days of college and went to that camp you call your temple. I complained. But thinking back those two or three days in the middle of nowhere and swimming in the lake were the best for me.”

“I loved our bathing suits, ha, ha…”

“I bet you did. But you burned me. I really liked you.”

“I burned you? Nah. You were always talking about other guys. I asked you not to.”

“Because I’m just a little daffy. But I’m better now. And I will have you. “

Her eyes turned blood red.

“Maybe you will.”

She looked so hot.

“Are you still lighting candles on Friday nights? “

“Yes. But I have my vices. Sometimes I light black candles or red ones. Sometimes I need to play Joy Division, as I’m lighting and keep listening. How about your vices?”

“Well yeah, I try but I have them. When the Yankees play well, Friday night and the boys from ‘da Bronx are needed. Sometimes a Brennan & Carr roast beef sandwich is needed. We all have issues.”

Marc smiled, waved goodbye, and started walking down the block. He loved her. But knows she’s a head case. So is Jen. But Alana is tougher to handle. They grew up together. As he was walking, Alana yelled at him for going. She started to scream. He didn’t want to fight.

She caught up to him and grabbed him by the neck. She then started kissing him. She was slapping him, too. He threw her down. She hit the ground hard. But bounced up so fast that he didn’t even see what was coming next.

Her tan face turned red. Her hair was flying. Her green eyes were blood red. Her toned arms wound up like a pitcher. She waved them a few times. She gritted her teeth. Alana’s legs stomped down. Marc was not sure what to do. He didn’t want to unleash his powers on her. He didn’t trust she wouldn’t put onto YouTube. He tried to back up. As he did she pitched several bright red enlarged apples. They flew at a high speed. One of them hit him right in the jaw.

He retaliated. His eyes bulged and he looked straight at her face. He unleashed a few pomegranates laced in honey. The two of them volleyed their weapons back and forth for several minutes. They were in incredible form. If only they were partners. Unlikely.

Marc was about to release barley as an apple smacked him the head and broke open. Apple seeds infiltrated into his mouth, nose, and eyes. He was momentarily blind. Alana didn’t stop.

Marc shot out the barley and stuck her hands together with honey. She looked at him and took a breath.

“This is just for starters, Marc my boy. I’m sure our paths will cross again shortly.”

She walked off. Marc just stood there.

Pomegranate — Book 3

Marc got off the R line and was back in Forest Hills after a typical workday. Nothing unusual happened. Everything was chill. He strolled down 108 Street towards his apartment.

He saw all the usual folks along the way — The elderly with their aides taking them to the store, kids on their bikes and the religious folks with their noses deep in a prayer book as they walked down the block. It was amazing they could walk without tripping or walking into a tree. Perhaps a greater power was watching over them?

He strolled past his block and went to a few stores and started walking home.

Nothing unusual was going on. A light rain started. It didn’t bother Marc at all. He strolled along 108 Street. He passed a few of the shuls and went toward his apartment building. He walked in. Made chit chat with the doorman about his beloved Yankees. He checked the mailbox. As usual, he got nothing in the mail.

He was about the turn the oven and bake chicken when his phone rang. It was a friend he hadn’t heard from in a while. He always liked her. Years ago, they date. She said she was thinking about him and was wondering if they could meet in Long Island City for a beer. He grabbed his coat and raced to E train.

The train actually got him there quickly. He went to Citibank to get some cash and walked over to the bar. On his way, he heard some loud noises and saw some smoke. So he detoured a block or two to see what was going on. He saw a bunch of teens lighting M-80s and setting things on fire in the park near MOMA PS 1. Some parents were screaming at them. Their young children were getting scared.

Marc just wanted to see Jen. He always liked her. He dated many Jens in his life. They were always pretty, sweet, and a bit off the wall. Just what he lived for. But he knew he had to take care of things. He picked up his pace toward the park.

Quickly his eyes scanned the terrain. He noted there were four kids wreaking havoc. Two little boys were crying. Their moms were trying to calm them down. It seems the mischief-maker’s wares landed near the kids who were having fun on the slidin pond. They fell off and scraped their knees.

As Marc approached them a quarter stick of dynamite glazed his right arm. He began to convulse. People thought he was going to pass out. It didn’t look good. A lady came over to him to see if he needed help. As she approached him he began to shoot barley out of his eyes. The obnoxious teens started to laugh and taunt him. They quickly shut their mouths when the barley was making its way down their throats. They started gasping for air and choking. Marc backed up. He took a look around. People were staring at him. He knew he had to go. He took a look at the kids. They were still choking but coming around. As they got back on their feet he pomegranates flew out of his fingers. The kids were down for the count.

Marc checked his phone. He had about 10 minutes to get over to the bar and see Jen. Boy did he need a beer. He texted her and said he’s on his way. He started walking over there. Little did he know another woman was following him.

Pomegranate — Book 2

It was partly cloudy Thursday afternoon. Marc was bored at work. He had some time to kill. He usually brings lunch and eats at his desk. He decided to take a walk to mincha services (Jewish afternoon prayers). He liked the spirituality of the services. He also loves the rituals he did in the scouts based on the Lenni Lenape Indians. He quickly walked over to the temple. He often wondered which he liked better and mean more to him.

He listened to the rabbi speak after services for a few minutes and left. He took a call on the walk back to his office. He strolled along Madison Avenue and made it back to the dump he worked in.

About two hours later he went to the gym. He trained and had his usual discussions with his fellow gym rats.

He decided to run to J.Crew after the gym. As he walked through Rockefeller Center to the store, he heard a little girl crying. He kept walking. But her screams got louder. He figured it was nothing. She must have tripped or didn’t get ice cream. It happens every day over there. The kids run around too much.

He went into the store and tried on a few pairs of pants. He bought two and went outside. He still heard the kid shrieking. He heard her saying, “Please mommy. No more. Not again. Leave me alone.”

He turned his head and saw the poor child in a corner near the ice skating rink being slapped around. He was never one to rubberneck. But he did look for a moment. He walked over and asked the kid if she was ok.

“Mind your own business,” shouted her mom.

“No., mister, please help me. I get hit a lot. Mommy is so mean. I miss my daddy. We tried so hard to be a family. But mommy wasn’t nice to any of us. She lied so much. Daddy left,” cried out the little girl.

“He was bad,” yelled the mom.

“No. He went to work every day and was nice to everyone. You spent your days drinking. He tried to ask you to stop. But you wouldn’t listen. I can’t wait to see him this weekend. We are going to Bronx Zoo and getting ice cream.”

“No, you’re not going. I won’t let you,” she blurted out as she punched the kid again.”

“I am going. Daddy gets to see me. And I am going to live with him. And you can never see me.”

The mom stared at Marc. “Why don’t you walk away? My daughter and I need to be alone.”

“No. Please help me. She’s only going to take me home and lock me in the closet. She won’t even let me out to go to the bathroom. The last time I had to go in my pants. And they were the new ones that daddy bought me,” she started to cry.

The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a makeup case. She lunged it at Marc. Onlookers were waiting for what was going to happen next. Someone called the police to report the woman. The 911 operator promised they’d get an officer over there right away.

Meanwhile, the enraged woman tossed more junk from her handbag at Marc.

Someone yelled over to him to see if she is ok. He didn’t hear that. His neck started bulging. His fingers got slightly longer, while the tips of them opened. He swallowed a few times. Then he began shooting date honey out of the openings in his fingers. The honey spattered all over the woman. He shot so much it was strangling her. She lost her grip on her daughter. The girl ran toward Marc. But he shot one more blurb of honey that knocked mom on her butt. The cops were arriving. The crowd made way for them to walk through. As they did, Marc walked away. They never even looked at each other. pomengrante

Pomegranate Man-Book 1

Marc woke up and said Modeh Ani, the wake up prayer. He slurped down a glass of Tropicana while wolfing down a bowl of Frosted Flakes. He put on a grey dress shirt, black pants and sneakers. He’d change into his dress clothes when he got to work.

He grabbed his bag containing his teffilin, talit and siddur and exited his apartment. He opened his shul and put on his religious materials and began to pray while awaiting a minyan.

Slowly folks strolled in. Prayers were said. People left.

Marc took off his kippah and went to the train. Marc is a good Jew. He doesn’t classify himself. He certainly isn’t a Chasidic or Ultra-Orthodox. But an observant person. Many people don’t even recognize him as a Jew. He looks like your typical New Yorker. Half the time he’s wearing his Yankee hat and t-shirt. The other times he’s in his usual Lacoste shirt and Gap jeans or dress pants.

He hopped on the train and went to Midtown to his office. He exited the M train and began to walk down Avenue of the Americas. The usual breakfast carts were bustling with customers. New Yorkers moved in their hurried way to them and raced to their offices.

Marc bumped into a friend on the way to his office. They chatted momentarily. “Hey, Marc Russo, what’s up my bud?”

“Nothing, Jimmy, you?”

“Marc I was invited for Pesach dinner at a friend’s house? What kind of wine do I need to bring?”

“Just make sure it is Kosher for Passover. To be safe get a bottle that is also mevushal. I doubt the people that invited you are ultra observant. I’m willing to bet they don’t know what mevushal means. But go that way to be safe. Bear in mind, we have so many dietary rules, we don’t even understand them all. Someone at the Seder might,” chuckled Marc. They fist bumped and went to their offices.

Marc’s friends ranged from Chasidic to secular Jews and people other faiths. He is always happy to explain customs to his friends. He’s a firm believer that understanding each other will promote a healthier lifestyle. Most goyim know of Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. But the reality is they really don’t understand the customs and meaning behind the holidays. Or Yom Tovs as Marc and his fellow Yids would say.

He got to his desk and tried to login. Of course, the network was down. That’s the routine in his office. He checked in with his IT buddy. He was told they expect to get things going in about 20 minutes. He waltzed over to the kitchen for a glass of water and grabbed an orange. from the fruit tray.

He did a little work. He put on his Yankees jacket and decided to jump on the train to get a haircut at lunchtime. The people he works for are clueless. He was sad when he saw the number of homeless on the train’s platform. And really disgusted when he saw a rat on the tracks. They usually come out in the evening. But the city so overrun that they come out anytime. Two late aged male teens started harassing a homeless man.

They started taunting him and laughing at him.

“Why don’t you kids shut up. If you only understood my situation maybe you’d have some sympathy,” blurted out the homeless man, who was about 30, frail with blonde hair.

The kids just teased him and said he’s probably a junkie.

“No, I’ve never touched drugs. A beer or a shot of Vodka once in a while, but I’ve done nothing else. My brother and uncle sexually abused me. When I spoke up about it, I was beaten and thrown out of the house. I’ve lived here and there all of my life.”

The teen huddled and one yelled out, “Great story sounds like a load of BS.” Then they opened a Coke and poured it all over him.

Marc was pissed. He hated the way these obnoxious have it all, never worked for anything kids acted. They were walking around with $1,000 iPhones and the latest in everything else.

“Why don’t you guys leave this poor soul alone and jump on the approaching train,” Marc bellowed out to the kids. “Shut up you dumb Yankee fan. Boston rules.”

Marc decided not for to get too crazy walked down the platform. He was surprised he even opened his mouth that much. He normally was not confrontational. He thought he was done with the chaos when a Coke bottle hit him in the head. He turned around and saw the belligerent kids approaching him.

“I’d get walk back to the other side of the platform if I were you guys. Or better yet, exit the station and forget about your little episode,”

“Why Yankee what are you going to do? There are two of us and we are bigger than you.”

“And stupider,” chuckled Marc.

The teens ran toward him. He moved away and they fell on fell on their butts. But were up quickly and readied themselves to throw punches at Marc. The taller kid tossed a punch. Marc blocked the punch. The other kid tried to kick Marc in the stomach.

Marc laughed harder. The two kids started screaming. A small crowd gathered. Someone dialed 911. But lost the connection on their iPhone. The crowd continued to gather. But no one approached any of the three. They were a captive audience. All had their phones out ready to shoot away. It says little about our society. That people would rather snap photos of criminals than trying to help the victim. But Marc was no victim.

The kids lunged at him. All of a sudden Marc tensed up, his muscle toned arms got bigger. His head started to shake. His huge legs stomped down on the platform. He quickly reached his enlarged left hand into the pockets of his jeans. In his hands was bright red oversized pomegranate. He held it up to the sky. Then he let it loose with the precision of a game closer waiting for the third out in the World Series. While airborne it split in half and nailed each kid in the knees. The kids fell down. One started to cry. He reached back into his pocket. As he reached in he heard the kids beg for mercy. Another pomegrante magically appeared. He wound up and let it loose. It nailed the first kid in the face and ricocheted off and smacked the one in the arm.

“Now boys, I think you’ve learned your lesson. Let this be a warning if you ever harass anyone, I will unleash the other weapons in my arsenal. I don’t want to get into fights. But I won’t stand for troubled people getting hurt.”

The kids nodded in acceptance. The R-train pulled in and those on the platform shoved their way on.

How hard is it to purchase sneakers?

10-23-17-SNEAKERSDSC_0004 copy

By Mitchell Slepian

My Asics have been gym worn for far too long. I have a tendency to fall in love with a pair of sneakers or be too lazy or cheap to go to the store and purchase a new pair.

I finally owned up to the fact that I’d get a better workout with new sneakers. I strolled into City Sports and saw the same pair I’ve been wearing for the last two plus years. See how long, I dragged this out?

I wanted more variety. But I knew, I needed Asics. They rock. So I walked to the Asics store across the street from Bryant Park. I found a few pairs that I fell in love with. I asked one of the sales associates a few questions. He answered and went to the next customer. I picked out a pair or two. Now keep in mind, I have a rule when it comes to sneakers. There is no need to spend much more than $70. Yeah, some of those $150 pairs are nice. Maybe they’d help me get a better workout. But I’d likely wreck them quickly. I train a lot.

I asked another sales associate if they had them in 6.5 or 7. Her jaw dropped. She said, “no, we start in 8.5”. I looked at a few other pairs with the price range I set for myself. Same deal. She did mention that a pair, which was way up high, is in the size I want. It was quite nice and cost $150. I said no way. She seemed to agree and recommended the Runners Shop, which is down the block. I was pissed. I tried a week ago in Modell’s. Same problem.

I went back to City Sports and asked for the pair I saw moments ago. I looked towards one of the higher shelves and saw another pair of Asics that were really nice and about $10 more than my price range. I said what the hell. I asked the sales associate to bring out both.

She said the pricier ones they only have in 13-14. Are they selling to Bigfoot? I suppose. They searched and searched. Eventually, they found the last pair in a 7. They were shocked they even carried that size. I didn’t need to try them on. But alas, I did. They fit perfectly. I paid and walked out. I now have a new pair of identical sneakers. Both were purchased at City Sports.

But boy was I pissed. I mean why can’t stores carry sizes for all people. I realize the smaller sizes may not sell as well. But can’t they carry some of them?A year ago, I went to Skechers. Their sneakers’ are great for hanging out. I was looking for that kind of shoe. The ditz in that store said, “These are really nice. But we I don’t think we have 6.5s or 7s. Let me check”. I patiently waited and she came back and said, “Why don’t you try these 8s.” I walked out. Thankfully, Skechers.com had the size I needed.

You know, I train almost daily. I can bench around 40-50 pounds above my weight. I run at 7 mph on the treadmill. I feel so discriminated against that these damn stores and shoemakers do nothing to accommodate me.

Anyway, as I walked down Ave. of the Americas with my new Asics, I passed a man carrying a bag full of cans and bottles that he likely got from rummaging through trash cans. I’m sure he only wishes his major piss offs were the failure of footwear companies and their merchants to make sneakers for those of us with small feet.

Yeah, I felt for the guy. Let’s face it if I wanted to buy the $150 Asics I could have. While this man put things into greater perspective, I must admit, I am still pissed that every time I go shoe shopping I encounter this issue.

Farewell: Larry Leshay and other scouting greats

By Mitchell Slepian

Yesterday, I had the sad occasion to attend the memorial service for a dear friend and mentor “Scouuuut” Larry Leshay. I first met Larry during the summer of 1983 when I went up to Chappy Hill, Ten Mile River Scout Camps (TMR). My parents drove me up to camp for the first time. We pulled into Kunatah and were given permission to drive on the dirt road over to Chappy.

We climbed muddy steps and went into the “Palace,” our camp’s office. There was Larry sitting at his desk with the camp bank and his Smith-Corona typewriter. I made the rounds of the first day of camp and went to sleep. Actually, I didn’t sleep. I never slept in camp.

The next morning, I woke up much earlier than wakeup call and sat at the picnic table adjacent to the Palace and Larry’s leanto (a three walled structure with screening on the front that served as our sleeping quarters). Larry was coming back from his morning shower. He saw me and said what are you doing here? I said, I got up early and came here. He decided I was a vampire. And let the other scouuuts know. From that morning on, I was Chappy’s vampire. That name stuck with me during my entire TMR experience. Last summer, at the reunion weekend, people were talking about the day I became a vampire.

Under Larry’s leadership, I spent the best years of my life on the Hill. I became a patrol leader, senior patrol leader and was on staff for two years. Larry and I had many adventures. During my early years in camp, I earned several merit badges from him. One winter, I mailed him merit badge work. I hand wrote it. Those were the days before everyone had a printer or could email it. I didn’t have a typewriter as 12 or 13 year-old. My penmanship is poor. Up until the day we lost Larry, he still reminded me of the struggle he went through to read my work. He said I understood the badge requirements but it took him days to figure out my writing.

Every Saturday, we would swim in the Delaware and Ten Mile Rivers. Most of us would hike to and from the rivers. Larry always got a ride in the “Whomobile” or whatever beat up auto served as the camp car. Once Larry got back to the site, we would often stroll down to Rock Lake and I would paddle him around in a canoe.

Eventually, I was one of the people driving him around for the camp food pick-ups at the Kunatah or headquarters dining halls or the rides out to Peck’s and other stores. One day in the “Truckster,” a beat up blue station wagon, I got so lost. We wound up in Hawley, along the Lackawaxen River in Wayne County, Pennsylvania. We laughed about that trip forever.

One of the finer things about Larry was his graciousness and love of his scouts or “little funkys” (he used to broadcast a weekly or daily show “Uncle Funky”). I used to play Meteu in the Order of the Arrow ceremonies. So did he. I did many ceremonies in TMR. Sometimes older scouters would stand the during the ceremonies with the scripts and penlights to see how the kids playing the roles were doing. Then after the ceremony, they’d tell you what mistakes you made. This infuriated Larry. None of these people ever did a ceremony and in most cases that was the first time they ever looked the script. Larry always let us know that. And let the kids know how well they did.

Our last summer was 1988, the OA’s highest honor, the Vigil was bestowed upon me three weeks before camp started. Every Wednesday night was OA night. We wore our sashes to the dining hall. Troops would line up and they would ask all of the Vigil members to march in first. There weren’t many. One night it was only Larry and me. Everyone knew being Vigil meant the world to me. Much more than being Eagle. Of course, Larry helped me reach Eagle. They asked all the Vigil members to walk in. I started walking and realized I was alone. Larry hid in the back with his sash. He knew what it meant to me to be the only Vigil to enter when they called us.

That summer ended a few weeks later. But our friendship went on to the end. I will always have him in my thoughts.

Larry’s passing leaves a huge hole in my soul. I feel like we have an empty bucket. A little more than three years ago, Dr. Karl Bernstein, Larry’s closest friend passed away. Karl was TMR. In 2016, Staten Island Scouter Marty Poller left us. Marty, a Meteu taught me the role and how to build the fire. He was Aqeuhongian Lodge. His guidance when I was chief is immeasurable.

My dad passed away shortly before these great scouts. Of course, he played a monumental role in my scouting career. He had a similar scouting history.

I feel empty. I cling so much to my childhood. I cherish the learning, love and fun times I had with all of them. Until we meet again. Keep the fire burning.

Camp Memories

By Mitchell Slepian

BlowhornNew Type Layer copy — Blowhorn Rock, Chappy

I recently spent five days in the place I called home as a teenager – Ten Mile River Scout Camps. It was a phenomenal experience. I saw people I haven’t since the 80s.

We went to the remains of our favorite sites: Chappegat Hill, Kunatah, Picture Window, and Indian Cliffs. I can safely say for myself and the rest of the gang I was with, those sites will always be holy to us. Most of them are no longer operational. Being there flashed us back to our youth. That’s when the trails were teeming with scouts climbing the trail to Eagle.

While in camp, I spoke to current staff and campers. I relayed what we did. Bear in mind, this is when the whole world was not striving to be 100 percent politically correct. We were boys being boys. We wore our scout uniforms, Champion tee and sweatshirts, OP shorts, Gotchas, and other 80s fashion. We blasted Squeeze’s “Pulling Mussel’s from the Shell” out of our leantos. If we won our competitions, earned our merit badges we got to go to Carousel Park, Beach Lake, Pa. and ride go karts and dune buggies. We got to eat the “red sauce” in the now closed El Monaco’s, White Lake, N.Y.

We gave each other nicknames. They were based on how we looked, acted, and smelled. Some kids never showered. I’m sure that’s still the case. We roughed it. We threw each other out of canoes. No one ever got hurt. We all knew how to swim. In the middle of the night, we raided each other. We had food fights.

We had a five-seater tip pan latrine (the willy). Everyone sat down together to go. We played baseball in the willy. Scoring was based on what we produced… We took ice cold showers. That’s until we “housed” a hot water heater from an abandoned site. We ate gross camp food. Thankfully they still do.

Kids that misbehaved in the dining hall were “nuked”. They had to scrub the place after the meal or wash pots when we concluded our weekend BBQs. Some scouts spent all Saturday night at the willy’s sink scrubbing. As a camper and staff member, I dished out and suffered the punishment.

On our canoe trips, as we paddled down the Delaware River, we loaded up our canoes with dead fish. At different points, we bashed each other over the head with the fish. I still long for a dead fish fight.

While I was sitting in the new Keowa Dining Hall, I spoke about these memories with those around me. Their jaws dropped wide open. No one could believe me. Some were grossed out. I guess dead fish fights and old school willys don’t appeal to all. These days, the camp has flush toilets and traditional showers. I’ve heard their canoe trips are more traditional.

These days, the scouts have fun. Lots of fun. It is a little different. But it is their fun. They are creating memories. They are soaring to the rank of Eagle Scout. Whose memories are the best? That is in the eye of the beholder. One day, these scouts will come to alumni events and tell their stories to the young staff and scouts. I’m sure things will have changed during that course of time. How much? Time will tell.

Mourning a New York Yankee hat

By Mitchell Slepian

About 12 years ago, maybe longer, I was with my dad in Tampa, Fla. We drove up to Legends Field, now Steinbrenner Field. It is the spring training field for the 27-time World Champion N.Y. Yankees and home to their single-A team, the Tampa Yankees.

It was my first time there. In the main lobby were several championship trophies. They are now in the museum in the Stadium. I was having a religious experience. We purchased tickets for the next day’s minor league game and I bought an official NY Yankee baseball hat.

I wore that hat nearly daily. It was like a body part. It has been to many Yankee games, including playoff games, Old Timer’s Day, Mariano Rivera’s last home game, BBQs, picnics, amusement park rides, etc. It was worn and torn for how much I wore it. And loved it.

Last week, it was on my head as I boarded Coney Island’s Cyclone. As the great coaster climbed the tracks it blew off my head. I got sick. Not from the ride. I’ve been on the Cyclone countless times. It is fun. But it is harmless. I was ready to puke over my missing hat. I figured landed in the empty seat behind me.

As soon as we pulled in after the ride, I looked and told the ride attendants. They looked in each car. It was missing. They told me to fill out a missing item report at guest services and they’d try to find it when they swept the tracks when the park closed at midnight.

I did exactly that. I was so sick. In tears, I filled out my form. I walked away. Five minutes later, I went back to make sure my awful penmanship was completely legible. The staff made some edits to make it easier to make out my phone number and email.

I went right back for another Cyclone ride. I don’t blame it. I blame me. I should have removed it from my head. The hat had survived many Cyclone and other rides. Perhaps its number was up. I don’t know.

For the next few hours, I droned around Luna Park like a dead person. I wound up winning a poop emoji and two Deadpools in the arcade. The emoji cheered me up. But not much.

A few hours later, I was seeing Echo and the Bunnymen and the Violent Femmes in the dump of a theater they built last year. The concert rocked. When it concluded, I went back to guest services. They said they called it in and they’d find it.

Days have passed. No word from Luna Park. My hat is somewhere along the tracks or in heaven for Yankee hats.

To help ease my depression, I went to the Yankee store on 49^th Street, NYC and bought a new one. I tried on dozens of official hats to find the one with the best fit. I asked everyone in the store, which looked best. I explained my situation. They all consoled me. I walked up to register, swiped my credit card and put the new one on my head. I hope this one lives up to the old one.

I am not done mourning my old hat. But the new one is striving to take its place. Newhat copy

Does my father want to go on a Norwegian Cruise? Does he want burial in Riverside Cemetery?

By Mitchell Slepian

The answer to does he want to take a Norwegian Cruise is one hundred percent, yes. Maybe even one million percent. As for the next questions, does he want to be buried in Riverside Cemetery in New Jersey, does he want FIOS, a new health care program or a hearing aid?

As for FIOS, not sure if it is offered in his area. But if it is, he might want it. Does he want burial in Riverside Cemetery? He does not. Sadly, he’s been buried in Mt. Hebron Cemetery since April 2014.

But everyday mail comes to my residence asking these questions. When he passed away, I had his mail forwarded to my address. I received his bills, magazines and junk mail from his Plant City, Fla. mailing address.

I was happy with the welcome to the community coupons from Bed, Bath and Beyond and other local businesses.

I get very little mail. Days can go by when there is nothing in my mailbox with my name on it. But my dad gets lots of mail.

The bigger culprits are the cruise lines. It hurts every time he gets their brochures. I know he would have been sailing. He loved cruises. He participated in every activity. He often won t-shirts, drinks, etc. from the cheesy games you can play with your shipmates.

As for the healthcare program being better than his current one, at this stage, I don’t think so. However, I called them and said, “I am calling on behalf of my dad. He’s older and asked me to field a few questions and then we’d decide.” The ever sweet woman on the phone told me to ask. I said, “Does it cover pre-existing conditions?” She said, “What?” I said, “He’s deceased.” She was aghast. After a few seconds of deafening silence, she apologized for the mailing and said she’d remove his name.

As for the cemetery, I did the same. I called them. I got a very pleasant woman well trained in talking with people who are preparing for their burials. We made some small talk at the beginning. I said what can you offer my dad better than where he has his plot? She read me the standard corporate line. I said “That’s nice. But he’s been buried in Mt. Hebron for over two years. What can you do better? And why are you sending this?” Again, the silence was deafening. Then she stuttered her way through saying she’d remove his name from the mailing list and hung up.

I didn’t bother calling the hearing aid company. I trust he’s listening to me when I speak to him and he hears me loud and clear.

Let’s face it we all get mail we don’t want or need. I get mail addressed to the people who lived in my apartment 15 years before I lived here. I toss it. But companies should really do their due diligence before they send their junk. So many of them talk of cost cutting. Just think of the postage and production costs they’d save if they did some quick research. Then they wouldn’t annoy people and may gain a customer or two.

Bleach Monster, Part XII

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Their dead on deep stare was very scary. Neither Murray nor Mark moved. It was like a dual to see who would break first. Murray would never break. Too much was riding on this.

It was business as usual for everyone else in the area, while the two men stood there. Mark was telling himself to remain strong. His stomach turned and he was drenched in sweat.

Murray was cool as a cucumber. Mark then suddenly realized he had a key position in D.C. He could have Murray removed from the area. But he had to act with prudence. Failure to do so would wreck everything he worked for.

Mark’s eyes moved slightly. Murray’s did not.

Mark waved his arms toward his buddy, Jerry, a capital police officer. Leisurely Jerry strolled over. Mark wanted to do this on a friendly basis. He figured he’d make introductions. Say Murray is an old friend and a sports freak. The two would get engaged in a conversation about baseball and Mark would sneak on into the House.

Mark was trying to prove how grown up was. But why should he have to prove anything? Yeah, he had a very rough teenage life. But he turned everything around. He got a good job, made new friends that really care about him and did a lot of interesting things. But for some reason, these blasts from the past unnerved him. He was much stronger. But he was not strong enough. Or maybe he still had hidden fears of his past lodged deeply within him.

Anyway, Jerry came by. Quick introductions were made. But Murray was onto Mark. Murray quickly brought up his pain over all the injuries his beloved Bronx Bombers had. But then he brought up how it was such a beautiful summer day and the memories he had of spending his teen years in summer camp.

Mark panicked. He started to shake. About 10 feet away, Dani was watching this all. She was ready to strike if need be. But somehow she knew Murray was in control.

Mark’s body was twisted. His conscience was telling him to stand tall. Tears were coming out of his eyes in buckets.

Jerry was perplexed. Murray smiled. Jerry asked Mark what was wrong. Mark tried to speak. But all that came out of his mouth was gibberish. He put his head down into his hands.

Jerry was thinking about radioing for an ambulance. Murray chatted with Jerry for a brief moment. They spoke about A-Rod’s constant mishaps. Of course one could discuss that for much more than a brief moment. A guy was having convulsions in front of them. But bring up baseball and that takes the stage.

Dani was in awe of Murray and the control he exhibited. It was almost as if the Force was truly channeling through him. She knew know that their little group was unstoppable.

Murray shook Jerry’s hand, told Mark to calm down and said he’d text him later and wandered off to a hot dog stand.