Any of several oxlike Old World mammals of the family Bovidae, such as the water buffalo and African buffalo.
The North American bison, Bison bison.
To intimidate, as by a display of confidence or authority: “The board couldn't buffalo the federal courts as it had the Comptroller” (American Banker).
To deceive; hoodwink: “Too often... job seekers have buffaloed lenders as to their competency and training” (H. Jane Lehman).
To confuse; bewilder.With one exception, and that was two years ago, I have spent every Thanksgiving weekend since 1989 four-hundred miles away in Buffalo, New York. Actually, it's not exactly Buffalo. It's a Buffalo suburb named North Tonawanda. For me, however, it's all Buffalo. Niagara Falls is Buffalo. Orchard Park where the football Bills play, is Buffalo. Attica where the famous prison is, is Buffalo.
For me, Buffalo has never been the butt of jokes. As a city, Buffalo has always been a friendly lady. On every return, she greets me with her familiar cold breath and bare trees and warm homes and abundant food. Buffalo gives me the opportunity to be Polish once a year. It allows me to gather and act gregariously with familiar faces. Buffalo is my social club.
Although the flavor and timbre of Buffalo is mid-western, as Washington, D.C. is also incongruent with its southern feel, Buffalo was my first exposure to the east coast of the United States. In 1986 I was here for a wedding that didn't last long. I was dating my wife at the time and her cousin was getting married. My then girlfriend insisted and insisted that I go with her to this wedding event. We were living in Tucson, Arizona at the time. I had never been to the east coast and the trip presented itself with the opportunity to stay a week after the wedding and parlay a visit to Toronto, Ontario.
It was a memorable trip. We stayed at my girlfriend's grandparents' home for that first visit. I got to hear mass in Polish, I ate duck blood soup and ate hot wings at The Anchor Bar, I visited Canada, saw Niagara Falls, read a plaque commemorating the site of where U.S. President William McKinley was shot to death, drank beer I've never heard of, I was introduced to an army of family and friends. Family whose last names had many consonants and many ended with the letter "I" or "Y", and I was a very popular polka partner. No palm trees, no sand, no surf......Buffalo, baby!
Three and a half years later, my girlfriend who is now my wife and I, decided to move away to the east coast to seek career advancement. We moved to New York City. Having done that, Buffalo then became a second home. My wife was able to visit her grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins much more often over on the other side of New York State. I then got the opportunity to get to know that side of her family fairly well. I also incorporated a new stable of guy friends: all the husbands, the cousins and their friends.
So, since 1989, the last Thursday in November it's over the hills and through the woods to grandmother's house we go and into a world of excess. It is a world filled with the cackle of family, of alcohol, cigars, food, guns, sports, pool playing, guy talk, bars, snow and extreme weather. All this just 400 miles away. It's just like living in Nogales. A different border city, but it lies along the U.S. border nonetheless.
Truthfully, I have learned to like going to Buffalo because it can be difficult to get there on Thanksgiving weekend. And that weekend seems to be the only one I'm ever there for.
Some years back, Thanksgiving 1995, before we had children, my wife, the loyal Rottweiler and I left New York City on Wednesday Thanksgiving eve at 6pm. Traffic was very heavy leaving at that hour. Soon enough, traffic slowed dramatically as we approached the Poconos. Eventually, we realized what was happening. Cars were becoming unable to climb into the Pocono plateau soon after entering Pennsylvania from New Jersey. It was snowing steadily and it had been cold for some days before, so the snow was not melting as it hit the asphalt. Snow was accumulating. Fortunately, we were driving a four wheel drive, a heavy vehicle, a Chevy Suburban. I engaged the 4X4 and steadily forged forward until we leveled off into the Poconos.
What began was a contest between my driving skills and the elements. A battle with mother nature that lasted until 10am the following morning. The drive from the Poconos to Buffalo (a leg of 320 miles) was conquered at 30 to 35 miles per hour. At times during that long slow drive, for long stretches on the interstates, it was quite a lonely dance with the blizzard, the windshield wipers, the radio, the loyal panting co-pilot, my slumbering wife and the snow plows along the highway. I would say that outside of service vehicles, I may have come across no more than 50 other cars until daylight broke. It was just like the opening scene in the motion picture "Fargo" for 14 hours.
And at the end of the New York Thruway, at about 9:30 am, fifteen and a half hours after starting the drive, there she was.......Buffalo baby! With all her warm indoors there she was. Buffalo waited with all the hugs, smiles and kisses. With the smell of breakfast cooking. With the two courteous mom & pop neighborhood convenience stores by grandma and grandpa's house that sell the Polish to everyone in the neighborhood. Buffalo awaited with my wife's cousins, their husbands, their guy friends to take in a Sabre's hockey game and a Buffalo Bills game and revel intensely before it. Buffalo is where we save the Thanksgiving leftovers and opt to dine on orders of sheets of pizza and boxes of hot wings that feed 15 adults for about 30 dollars sans coupon.
When my Buffalo lulls and takes a breath for a few hours on those weekends, I'll don a coat and walk over to one of the many neighborhood bars. I'll fill the jukebox for an hour, watch what's on the TV, and small talk the barkeep. I sometimes buy the bar patrons a round of drinks. It's never very much. Over this past summer, I paid NINE DOLLARS for a Bud Light draft at a "Sex In The City" trendy assed style bar in Manhattan. I enjoy spending my money in Buffalo much much more. I'm never in the bar long before one of the family finds out where I've gone and I'm met there soon enough. Buffalo and her children then demand I play 50 cent pool table games. Another 75 cent draft another 50 cent round of 8-ball and then more drafts. I never say no to Buffalo, her allure is always intoxicating.
Sometimes I wonder what Buffalo was like at its peak and in its prime. I've gone on dog walks and entered mothballed steel plants and walked inside of them. The abandoned Roblin Steel plant in North Tonawanda, New York could have served as the back drop for some MTV hair band music video for sure. Buffalo was such an industrial center once that its influence still colors some old timers. But, there is evidence that Buffalo has always been a fun town. Is it possible to envision Buffalo as a place that people went to on their honeymoons? A place associated with sex? Perfect for propagation? A place of lust by men for women? The lyrics for the song "Shuffle Off To Buffalo" composed in 1933 for the famous Broadway play "42nd Street" show us that Buffalo was a place for young love.
http://www.harrywarren.org/songs/0460.htmThrough the 90's and halfway through this millennium's first decade, my Buffalo has experienced some major cast changes. Many people have unfortunately passed. My Grandpa and Grandma-in-law are both gone. Father Joe, the family uncle who was a priest passed suddenly last year. Joe, my wife's cousin, who moved to South Carolina with his family, will be back without two of his three teenage children this year. Little Joey and Samantha were killed in an auto accident thirteen months ago. He just couldn't make it last year he was too distraught. We were all distraught as well. Thanksgiving dinner last year was one of welled eyes. It was because of the children at the dinner table, and they being children, that offset the use of napkins for tissues. Empty dining room chairs along the wall of that large dining room signified the sense of loss.
My wife's cousin Sue and her three young children have been without their husband and father for the past two years. He's been the property of the United States government through the U.S. Army and The N.Y. National Guard. He's been in Tikrit, Iraq. He's home now. He arrived last week and he's back to stay. Sue's been very gushy about having him back and the rest of the family have been very happy to have him back also. Some more than others. Some of those steady play dates hosted by some of Sue's friends and family have suddenly cancelled their appointments. Jeff's home and he can now very well pick up the slack. So, other people besides Jeffrey's wife are very happy to see him back for good!
Let's go Buffalo and welcome back Jeff.
*!*
Almost two years ago, The University of Arizona Basketball team under the direction of coach Lute Olson played in Springfield, MA. Just two weeks later, the team played in New York City's Madison Square Garden. I had the good fortune of attending both of those games. This year, The Arizona Wildcats will not be playing in the eastern United States during the regular college basketball season. This shortcoming in their schedule has me recalling the events of the day the UofA played in New York City.
This day had been in the making for quite sometime. It started the day that I learned the Wildcats were going to be playing at Madison Square Garden this season. I can't remember when that was, perhaps back to October, but it was a day that I had blocked-off on the calendar like a soccer hooligan blocks-off a certain day for a certain match. Springfield was different, I had my family with me. MSG is more like a boys night out. Boys with a youthful zeal.
It's a great time of year to be out and around New York City. The sights, the smells and aromas, the nip in the air, the Christmas season trim everywhere that one turns. Everyone should come here at least once during this time of year sometime in their lives.
When I bought my tickets I purchased two. I figured I could find someone to go with in due time. My wife was not enthusiastic about going especially on a weekday. It compromises her shepherding duties. GOOD. This is an evening reserved for some level of Wildcats debauchery and she's not rough around the edges. That's a very good thing though.
I kept striking out with a taker. I even e-mailed the fellow that went with me into the eye of the tiger to catch an Arizona basketball game: Gampel Pavilion in Storrs, Connecticut. He's the kind of guy you want with you at an opponent's venue. He's burley and untouchably tough looking. Also, a UofA alumnus.
I also asked the another pal that went with me into the tiger's other eye: Penn State's Beaver Stadium. A Maryland alumnus who had gone with me to see the Penn State/Arizona football game three years back. No takers. The rest of the alumni I knew, were away on the road. It is a Tuesday you know.
Sooooo, I agreed two weeks ago to barter/exchange my ticket for a ticket to the Vitaly Klichko fight last Saturday at The Garden also. Seems like a good exchange. I'd get to see lots of under-cards that were not seen on HBO last Saturday. My friend Harry (Ohio State grad), a professional heckler with a Ph.D. (a player hating degree), gets to see his first Wildcats game live and I get to see a night of boxing.
Driving into Manhattan today, the day of the Texas vs. Arizona game, is a bit of a departure from the norm. It snowed heavily last Friday and Saturday and one still has to be careful driving around. I have to be, since I experienced two weather related accidents just last season. My first two ever. I figure that with the law of averages, I'm golden for a long time to come.
On this day, finding parking on the street is difficult. The snow is encroaching on the available number of spots on the Upper West Side. More than when there's a movie shoot. Today, I have to park about 9 blocks away, roughly the distance from Campbell to Old Main. It's a good leisurely walk. The sidewalks are fairly clear. Ten or so minutes later, as I close in on my building, I can see that there are some people languishing outside. Usually there are. We produce a nationally syndicated program and audience members tend to ease out at a slow pace sometimes. Ironically, Arizona alumnus Greg Kinear, is one of the guests today. It's about 11:15 am now.
As I attempt go around some of these people and into the revolving door, whoa! Father figure, mother figure and pretty daughter figure. Pretty daughter figure is wearing a pink Arizona "block A" cap. I immediately asked her, "Are you going to the game?"
She looked at me a bit strangely, she may have even been startled by this stranger's question on a New York street. I unbuttoned my coat to reveal my navy UofA sweatshirt. Yes! She said. She gave me the thumbs up and father figure and mother figure were both pleasantly surprised. A lively conversation ensued.
I told them about myself and they did the same. How cool is this? I'm talking to some Tucsonans about Tucson and I'm not skipping a beat. I find out that father figure is not, but rather a friend and he's the vice-president and general manager of a well known Tucson hotel. I have been there. Mother figure is the wife of a well known doctor in Tucson and daughter figure, very regrettably, I did not absorb her name or if she was one of the older adult's daughter.
Our conversation taps on mutual friends and acquaintances. I'm intrigued. I could've talked and rambled for the entire day. They needed to know where there's a good restaurant and I made a suggestion of one a block away. I told them that it is trimmed for the season and that we're having our company's Christmas party there tomorrow. "It should provide you, even at 11:20am, with a good dining experience". We hailed our good-byes, pleasantries exchanged, and the obligatory "hope to see you at the game" comment. Yeah right.
I spend the day at work. I'm hoping that nothing blows up and I won't be able to make the "meet-and-greet" with Lute Olson. For me, today is a self declared holiday. Eleven-thirty to 5:45 WITH a lunch break. Don't get me wrong, the vast majority of my days are longer than the average Joe's out there. But hey, The University of Arizona Wildcats Basketball Team is in town and damn the torpedoes it's full speed ahead today all the way to tip-off! BEAR DOWN!
As soon as I can, 5:45pm, I briskly leave the building, walk the six blocks to the subway and it's off to The Garden. In the past month or so, the president of the New York area Arizona alumni club has been e-mailing furiously. More in the last month than what seems the entire past year. She has secured "Play-By-Play", a restaurant inside The Garden, specifically for this alumni gathering. Even though I get the e-mailings, I rarely go to any of these gatherings. Recently, the club tend to meet at these extremely noisy sports bars. It is difficult to talk to anyone over the din. Unless one is much younger, no salt in the head young, young enough to still find one of these venues interesting and fun, I tend to find places like these boorish and vulgar. I got my Ya-Ya's out years ago.
Perhaps you have seen this: some venues don't have their ticket-takers physically rip the tickets upon admission. All they do is do a UPC type laser scan and the ticket is nullified. That's how to get to this restaurant inside The Garden. One actually submits for admission and stays at the restaurant until the gates open before the sporting event. This is great, I get to keep a non-ripped ticket. Cool for a souvenir I think. As I ride the escalator, and approach the entrance, I see that this place is big, slightly cavernous for a restaurant that's within The Garden. No table for me, I don't need one, I go to the bar and order a "sud" and one.
Just a few minutes later at 6:25pm, Lute Olson enters the restaurant with his new wife Christine Torretti in arm. Lute is sporting his de' rigueur look. Christine is in a cardinal red winter coat. There is scattered applause. Some people begin to hover over Lute and Christine. An introduction is made and Lute Olson is handed the microphone.
Lute states that he feels good about the team after they get some more game experience. He mentions that Stanford is a contender in the Pac-10. He does give Stanford their props. He brings up Mustafa Shakur being a recruit from out these parts, Philly. That Mustafa will become a crowd favorite.
Lute then takes questions. The only well heard question was the first one from some guy who congratulated him on 500 wins at Arizona. On 700 college wins coming up
soon. This guy knew that Lute is approaching 1,000 total wins going back to his high school coaching days and is about 25 away from that mark. His question is does Lute think he'll hit 1K before the end of this season? Lute downplays its numerical significance in few words.
A gentleman asks about what do you do about height problems? Lute answers that he then gets the players to jump higher. Another gentleman's question is over early exits from his players. Lute's philosophical answer is that he's convinced that younger and younger NBA players hurt the NBA game much more than the college game. That there'll always be kids around and coming up to be good college players.
Lute states that he'd like to take a question from a lady, otherwise he'll hear about it in a not so good light. A question about leadership arises from one. Isaiah Fox will be providing that from the bench this season. Andre is able to do that on the floor as can Channing and Salim. Channing is up to 248 right now with a great touch. He talks briefly about Tangara, McClellan and how a recruit from Melbourne, Australia had a big game back in Kentucky the previous night at 29 points and 13 rebounds. He also teases the crowd with an announcement of another commitment coming up in a week or so.
Unbelievably, Lute breaches the subject of basketball to Arizona Football. That Arizona has gotten a "really good coach". That it is exactly what "we" need.......enthusiastic. Big round of applause from the crowd for that one. That it's a thrill to have Mike Stoops at Arizona.
Back to a question about team focus. Lute answers that focus is not a problem. That football is different than basketball with tension issues. In football players get a few hits in and it takes some of the tension off. That in basketball it is more of a finesse issue.
Questions are now over, and it is time to draw for the Lute autographed basketball. Ms. Torrretti is the honorable drawer. The winner is announced. It's not me. Damn. No consolation hats or T's at this drawing. Lute indicates that he has got to leave and a crowd then gathers around him. Some of the people there want to take a picture with Lute. A young lady does come up to Christine, and Christine genuinely lights up. She embraces this young lady and then Christine says to Lute....."look who's here"? I don't know who she was.
I'm now thinking that I didn't get an autograph with my opportunity up in Springfield, so I queue up in line as others have jockeyed so. Some guy hands Lute a "sharpie" and Lute very kindly turns for a picture and signs an autograph and turns for a picture and signs another item and so forth until I get to him. I hand him my un-defaced and pristine game ticket and ask him if he could do me the honor. He goes right at it but he's about to sign its back! I interject and ask him..."Coach! Please. The front if you would? He
didn't skip a beat, and autographed its front instead! Hot Diggity Dog! I'm having that thing professionally framed!
Moments later Lute does leave with Christine and the atmosphere then deflates. Elvis has left the building. I do the same and head into the arena. I keep holding the ticket from its edges to ensure that the ink completely dries even as I'm walking to my assigned seat. Harry's already at his'. I hail from the aisle, Hey Harry! I show him my ticket. He looks. I say, "I'm going to Sizzler, I'm going to Sizzler, I'm going to Sizzler!". He laughs it off and says, "Hey, in Tucson that's a "get-out-of-jail-free-card!"
Harry and I go and get some beer. We both head out to the concourse to get one.
As we start to walk back to our seats, this tall bald guy, who I recognized as someone I've seen by work on the Upper West Side on a couple of occasions, walks just past me en-route to his seat inside The Garden. His height is his distinguishing feature as is his shaved bald head. This elderly gentlemen turns to me and says, "you almost got run over by Danny Ferry". "That's Danny Ferry?", I asked. "I've seen him around work a couple of times", I said. "Yep that's him", the stranger says. Harry agrees. Harry (the player hater in him) calls him an "an angry out of work basketball has-been". I was afraid Danny wasn't far enough away from earshot, but I guess he was. The next time I see him around work I'll try to talk to him.
We're back at our seats at 7:09pm for the start of the Illinois game. I recall the dynamics of having two teams play separate games in one venue in one night. As it was for the AZ/Maryland and the Temple/Florida a couple of years ago at this very same place, some of the fans of the respective teams tend to show up for their team's game and that game only. So on television, it may have looked deceivingly sparse. Many of the Texas and Arizona fans were not there for the IL/Providence tip-off. It also works the same for the latter game.
Our seats are practically at mid-court one section up with a great vantage point. They are good seats. It pays off to buy early. Our seats have Texas fans in front of us and behind us. Not a good thing. Some Wildcats are some rows behind me. Harry tells me that our mutual friend and colleague Randy is here with his father. We agree to see if we can get them over by where we're at, as soon as the first game is over. It's a sure thing that some if many will leave around us.
This first game crowd is very Providence. The Illinois support is significantly not as rowdy and loud. When Providence took over the lead it was evident that Providence was really in the house and Illinois was somewhere nearby. It was all in stark contrast to the ugly way this game had started. Illinois was up 10 or 12 points to Providence's none until 12:18 remained in the first half. Accounts of this game are better left to videotape replay.
One thing, however, that I didn't get to see, was Lute Olson being interviewed during this game's halftime. The entire time that Lute was on at one end of the arena, a recording of the late Jim Valvano was on the big screen with an impassioned speech of support for the Jim Valvano Cancer Research Foundation. Afterward, during the Arizona halftime, Dick Vitale did some of the same and had some cancer survivors for the arena to meet.
Lute and Christine sat behind the Illinois bench, but Lute left at about halftime. The Providence game eventually ends and Bruce Weber gets unmasked for his first true test.
Back to Randy and his father. Harry went to look for them and they all arrive close to the end of intermission in beautiful fashion: they are all carrying two beers a piece. Woo Hoo!
I greet Randy's father and tell him that I haven't seen him since we all went to the Nets game against Portland a couple of years ago. That game was really a showcase for Arizona players let me tell you. It was really a lot of fun to see. Kerr was with Portland at the time. Jefferson was rookie. Stoudamire and Chris Mills with Portland. Other Pac-10 schools were represented in both rosters.
We're all taking more notice to our Texas neighbors around us, and Randy and Harry know about my cheerleading propensities. They can get a little nervous quickly, and I don't know about Randy's very able 80 year old father.
In front of us, and to the side a cache of young professionals perhaps late in their twenties/early thirties. Affable types. Directly behind us are a young male with two females who look like they're freshly hatched on many levels. One of the girls continuously through out the game keeps screaming "GO TEXAS! WOOOOOOO!" That got old and grindy very quickly.
Just before the Wildcat game begins, I notice the trio that I met earlier at work is settling into their seats one section below. I catch their attention. They waive with wide smiles. How strange, I actually did run into them at the game! The hotel manager settles in but briefly comes up to say hello again. He gives me his business card and tells me to touch base at his hotel sometime. I tell him that I will do and that I hoped you all had an enjoyable day.
The Arizona game eventually tips-off and the first half turns out to be a hell of a dandy one. Arizona zoom, zoom, zoom and a "swisharoo" for two or three. Texas zoom, zoom zoom and not as many "swisharoos" for them. "GO TEXAS! WOOOOOOOOO!!" More zooming for both teams. "GO TEXAS!!! WOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Hey honey, I said! "Tex what"? She realized what I asked her with a chorus of chuckles from some few. I'm prefacing most of the Arizona shots with a very loud "swisharooo" before they do go in.
Fortunately, many of them kept falling. "Honey number two" behind me then picks up on this "swisharoo" cheer and she calls a "swisharoo" in the air for Texas that does not fall........"No swisharoooo for you!" More chuckles. Nothing more than good natured ribbing, really. "Hey Texas, this ain't Wofford you're playing tonight!" and "Remember The Alamo!".
Just before halftime, the folks in front of us, astute Texas football fans that they are, spot Mack Brown sitting directly behind Coach Rick Barnes. We are all intrigued. The conversation with the young-pros goes football at halftime. One of the guys hates Coach Brown. They feel they should be beating Oklahoma consistently. Harry says to him that you Texas football fans live in a different football world like the yahoos at Nebraska. You guys go 10-2 and it's not good enough some years. "What' up with that?" "And anyway, who could you possibly consider as a replacement?" "Jesus Christ?", I ask.
After he thinks for a couple of beats and I hear his gears grind a little "Steve Spurrier", he says. "Spurrier?" "He was tired of hearing it from the fans like Ron Zook is getting tired of it right now.", I said. "Spurrier is a good example of going 10-2 year-in year-out and the fans don't find that good enough."
I added that as far as Texas football is concerned, the biggest load of Texas-sized crap ever to drop in Arizona was John Mackovic. They unanimously all agreed. "Don't bring him up", one said. A lone Illini within earshot gave me the thumbs up on that one. If there had been a Kansas City Chiefs fan around, I'm convinced that I'd have his approval also. I believe that the dopey hatchlings behind me may have heard some part of that editorialization and commentary.
Well, for the most part, the second half to the game was all Arizona. I really didn't keep up with the razzing or the loud cheering except for the super-human displays of athleticism from Hassan, Andre and Shakur. Randy my buddy was very impressed with a second half lay-up Shakur made. He must have gone up about 95 inches over his defender in a blaze.
Approximately with 2 or so minutes remaining and with Texas making a run at a comeback, one of the "chickpeas" behind me, the "GO TEXAS! WOOOO!" one, says something to the effect of (it was loud all about) "Hey, I know "your" coach John Mackovic." "What?", I said. "Your" coach John Mackovic used to coach Texas you know?" Her male friend then whispered in her ear. Perhaps telling her that Mackovic was no longer the coach at Arizona.
"You know John Mackovic?", I say. "Why are you telling me this?" "John Mackovic is a mean spirited individual and is in need of a psychologist and a psychiatrist. He is very likely a sociopath."
"John Mackovic is like a second father to me", she said. "He's pathological and he needs help with his interpersonal skills", I tell her. Her boyfriend gets into it. "Hey Mr., you're not being nice!".
"What?" "What do you mean?" "He needs help from a psychologist".
"Fuck You!", He says. "He already "fucked" The UofA Mr.", I said. "By the way, if Mackovic is like your second father, who the hell is like your third father?" "Your mother!" he said.
I blast back, "You are an idiot, my mother and all the women that I've known have bigger penis' than John Mackovic!" "Ask any of your Texas brethren about John Mackovic junior, and step away quickly before they vomit all over you, OK?"
"Do you really know him?", I asked the girl. "Fuck you mister, shut the fuck up", the boyfriend screams. "I'm serious, he needs help!" I tell her.
"You want to fuck with me?", he says. "Why would I want to?", "You looked like you're fucked already!" Girl #2 pipes up and says "Hey mister, it's only a game." "Hey princess, this is big money, money that he extorted with his skills." "John Mackovic called himself a coach and wasn't."
Randy and Harry finally notice that this may degrade further and grapple my shirt and pull me away. The Texas dopes start to leave. Arizona is shooting fouls by now. Thirty or so seconds are left. It's a done deal.
"What brought that on?", Harry asks, he knows the story behind Mackovic. "She said John Mackovic is like a second father to her." The other Texas fans in front heard me say that. One said, "Why would she mention that?" "Don't ask me, ask her."
As they're going down the stairs, I'm compelled to say "Good-bye and have a good night Miss Mackovic!" Her male friend flips me off.
"Hey "Radio", that's two fingers for a Longhorn don't you know that?!?"
Game over and everything is good in the universe. The buzzer sounds and the tally is 91 to 83.....Zona baby!
Randy, his father, Harry and I all part ways. It's 11:45 and by the time I get home after the subway delay and having to walk to my car it is 1:30am.
What a great day it's been.
*!*
November 5th, when it falls on a Saturday, marks a special date for me.
In the early afternoon of that day, after having lived just a month and three days in New York City, I had the great pleasure of visiting The World Trade Center for the first time. It would be the first of many later visits. I, however, will never forget that first time.
Wifey and I had set that Saturday aside to specifically visit the World Trade Center. That Saturday, as is the case today, was the eve of the New York City Marathon. On this day, in addition to the average amount of visitors that the city embraces on a November Saturday, the weekend of The Marathon includes many more thousands. Not all of the participants are from the NYC region. And, those who aren't, and their accompanying supporters, tour the city and its venues on this day. The World Trade Center was a very popular destination for them.
We were living in Staten Island at the time. One wonderful aspect of living in Staten Island, is that of useing the Staten Island Ferry to get to the city. On the forward veranda of the ferry, one can appreciate the gradual approach into lower Manhattan. As the ferry draws near, lower Manhattan's skyline slowly reveals itself as the manmade miracle and wonder that it is. Aboard on this ferry ride were many people returning to Manhattan. Many were wearing running regalia and were toting cameras.
A funny thing about runners, is that those who run for the purpose of exercising generally have a healthy look to them. Those who run competitively, however, the endorphin junkies, they seem to carry a gaunt and sickly thin look and build. Human greyhounds. Test them physically and they are off the charts healthy. Take them out on the town to connect with the opposite sex, and they go home alone every time. I feel that they resemble AIDS victims. There were some of both kinds on this boat ride this morning.
When the boat docked, and everyone disembarked onto the Financial District, we hiked towards the towers. It's was a relatively short walk. Without distractions it was ten or so minutes. A few blocks north and two or so blocks west from the ferry station and then the awesome, monumental and exalted view of the two monoliths from street level appeared. It was a daunting scene.
We took pictures, we had the film processed but, the images did not convey the sense of what we saw being there. The two buildings appeared so large and massive from the street below, they seemed to exert their own gravitational pull. We had to go in. After all, it seemed we were being pulled in.
The entire interconnected street level of the World Trade Center complex itself, was nothing less than a shopping mall. One minute we are out on the street admiring an architectural and engineering miracle, the next we are inside a mall that could be set anywhere in North America. A sixteen acre mall all on one level. It was difficult to process the idea that above the tall ceilings of this shopping mall, were two of the tallest buildings on the planet.
Forging forward, and immune to a mall's lure, we read the signs that directed one to the observation deck. We found the ticket booth and we could see that there was a long queue beyond the booth. We asked the ticket person what the approximate wait was to board the elevator up. She said one hour. It was a palatable length. We paid our pre-1993 terrorist attack fee of FOUR dollars apiece and stood in line amidst the psychedelia of nylon, spandex and running shoes and the chatter of different tongues. I remember the wait not seeming long at all because of the conversations that we struck up with several of these visitors. It was a delightful wait actually.
Eventually, Wifey and I got to the front of the line. At the end of this wait what awaited was a walk through a tunnel that resembled some sort of entrance to a Disneyland ride. At the end of this mirror trimmed tunnel was the single purpose elevator that jettisoned to the top of the earth. We entered the elevator. Once the doors closed I noticed that the elevator panel marked its ascent to the top in ten floor intervals. The ride up was approximately 90 seconds and about three ear pops.
When the doors opened at 107, the elevator shaft acted like a wind tunnel. As one stepped off and away from the elevator, a rush of wind would hit you. It was a natural effect created by the long elevator shaft itself. We walked into the enclosed observation area and the first view through the windows was to the east and over the East River.
It was a beautiful clear day. Helicopters and small planes were flying at lower altitudes than from where I was standing. I could see Brooklyn and Queens and out to Long Island. We walked around a little more. I could see all the buildings, and their rooftops, in Manhattan. I could see the end of Central Park, The Bronx and The George Washington Bridge. We walked around a little more. I could see New Jersey and points away in Pennsylvania. We walked around a little more. I could see the entire harbor, The Statue of Liberty, The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and Staten Island. I could see traffic's approach into The Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel in Manhattan and could see where the traffic exited in Brooklyn. And then I saw the escalator that led to the roof. The escalator that took you three floors higher and outside to 110.
We boarded the escalator and when we both emerged outside to a bright sunny sky.......
It was breathtaking, dramatic, grand, panoramic, picturesque, spectacular, striking, amazing, astonishing, astounding, awe-inspiring, awesome, exciting, hair-raising, heart-stirring, impressive, interesting, intoxicating, marvelous, magnificent, moving, overwhelming, phenomenal, spine-tingling, stunning, superb, terrific, thrilling, stirring, staggering, stupendous, sensational, unbelievable, unreal, wonderful, wondrous, vivid and thrilling.
Following that day, whenever family or friends would visit (and many did), and until the towers were destroyed, going to the top of the WTC was a requisite stop for everyone's New York visit. They all spoke in adjectives afterwards as well.
In addition to the many times I enjoyed visiting The World Trade Center, I also had the pleasure of dining at "Windows On The World" once and had the unusual experience of spending two consecutive over-nights at the 108th floor of the other tower.
Today, all that is like a dream.
*!*
As you will soon discover, this post does not fixate on a single topic or subject. To be perfectly frank and honest, it started out rather focused but I soon found, as I worked on my primary hypothesis and sought corroboration from other sources, that I have quite a number of different things to say about liberals and conservatives.
