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.
Marc and Alana went to camp. They were in the section that was closed. This was the spot that was Marc’s many moons ago. It was closed down my people called professionals. The only thing they are professional about is stupidity. Campers were running around the remainder of the operating camps. Both were under capacity. Marc set up the fire lay. He would light it later. Alana was in her black bathing suit, yearning to jump into the lake. The two’s eyes met, and they frolicked down the lake. They jumped in. They swam for over an hour. They walked out of the lack, hand in hand, like love cats. They got back to their site. Marc lit the fire. Alana changed out of her suit to her The Cure t-shirt from the concert the two attended in August of 1989. Marc still had his shirt. That was one of the best nights of their lives. Thirty-five years later the two were still in love and still argued nonstop. Perfect. The steaks Marc grilled were perfect. The ice-cold Genesee Cream Ale was perfect. As were the bags of Wise chips. Alana wanted to bake brownies. For some reason, she could not find the ingredients. She would bring this up with Marc. Supposedly, he had a friend who was an expert on getting brownies. It was getting dark. Love & Rockets was cranking out of Alana’s iPhone. They were sitting by the fire and nodded to each other. Off they went to Marc’s old leanto.
Marc and Alana were up early. They had to get to the “Israel on Fifth” parade. For many years, Marc was a reviewing stand assistant. He welcomed people with passes to that area, gave them a bottle of water, and a bag of Bamba, and escorted them to seats. It was the only area on the route that had bathrooms. They were porta potties. Often, when people got to the reviewing stand, their first question was is there a bathroom? Marc smiled and happily escorted them over. Alana had staffed previous parades.
Neither was staffing the event this year. Alana and Marc were ready to fight in case anything happened. Yes, they knew the NYPD was going to do a great job. But the two of them were more powerful. Anat and her strong kids also stationed themselves along the parade route. Thankfully, nothing happened. Marc and Alana raced up to Lincoln Center to see “A Midnight Summer’s Night Dream.”
After the ballet, they had dinner at P.J. Clarke’s. Alana and Marc continued their conversation about having a kid. They were strongly considering it. The issue was where the conception should take place. They thought about flying out to Israel for a few weeks. Marc was very high on this. But he was also very high on having this event occur in a hidden valley, a picturesque window or along a lake known to rock. They were not sure what to do. They didn’t even know if they wanted to go through with this. Alana is getting older. So, if they decide to move ahead, the time is now. They started preparing a music list to create their little superhero. It featured the Cure, Smiths, Joy Division, Sisters of Mercy, Depeche Mode, U2, Echo & the Bunnymen, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Ramones, Love & Rockets, the Clash, Big Audio Dynamite, the Sex Pistols, P.I.L and the Psychedelic Furs. The two of them sipped their Stella and dreamed on.
It was a party at Anat’s place. Marc, Alana, Jen, Tzipora, and Elan were there with their kids. Dan just got back from picking up some more wine and beer. All of the kids were playing. Anat was feeding Gillil. Not being shy, Alana yelled out, “Hey, Anat is that date milk she’s sucking out of you?” Marc has a friend who works on a dairy farm and knows everything about milk. Anat retorted back, “I have no clue. Why don’t you try some.” They all laughed. Tzipora’s eyes were fixated on Alana. Eran knew about the two of them. Marc and Alana mentioned the powers some of their kids had. This was the only group that knew of their powers. Alana said imagine if Marc and I had a kid. It’d be a monster. Our kid would come from two parents who have superpowers. The others are only from one. Marc smiled.
The party winded down. Marc and Alana, left hand in hand. The two of them began discussing having a kid. No, they would not get married. They just wanted to see what they created. They imagined what would happen if the Emperor and Princess Leia had ever gotten married. Or if Anakin married Ashoka. That’d be interesting. Imagine what the Force would wield. The two of them went home and started playing Love & Rockets. They woke up the following day and were still discussing having a kid.
Marc and Alana went to celebrate Lag B’Omer. Marc built the fire. He was not pleased. He was a master fire builder. Too many super-religious folks got in his way. He was anxious and annoyed. But finally, some of the cute kids made him smile. Of course, Alana was there looking hot in her all-black clothes and makeup. The two of them do not like rabbis. Toss in HR and real estate people. Anyway, the rabbi had to play religious music. Alana had her iPhone cranking Joy Division and Bauhaus. The fire lasted. But not long enough. But too many people thought you just keep feeding and pouring olive oil on it. It was a comedy of errors. The food usually was delicious. Sadly, the temple screwed that up, too. It was so dry.
Marc lit the fire hung with his friends, and sat hand in hand with Alana. Many people were upset with them. They are not married. They will never wed. Marc, at one point, wanted to get Alana a ring. He knew that would end their relationship. He would need many sessions with the Woodsman if that happened. We know the Woodsman rarely comes out. The rabbi was selling candles and trying. Marc and Alana were in the back of the yard, hiding from everyone and acting like teens in love. Their lips were locked, and their hands were all over each other. You could hear the Cure and New Order cranking from Alana’s phone.
The two didn’t anticipate any fighting that night. They were ready. They always are. Anat was having a nicer Lag B’Omer on the Upper East Side. Ben and Gillil helped build the fire. Dan ran the grill. All was quiet. How long would it last?
Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc. 