I decided this is going to be my year. 2011. Mine.

Im going back to Europe.
and appreciate it this time.
appreciate the wine too.
as well as the natives.

Im going to run the NYC Marathon.
instead of selling my entry for $750.
again.

Im going to beat the balls off a cop at Madison Square Garden.
Battle of the Badges.
Look for it around October 1.

Im not going to drink anymore.
not going to drink any less either.
heheh.

I suppose theyre just belated new years resolutions, but it feels kind of nice to say them out loud or write or type them. This shits concrete now though.

xxx

I just got home. It was a free day for me. No work, but sometimes it feels like these days are busier than my work days. Boxing in the morning. School at night. McSoreleys for the after party.

At this point, Im only 50% efficient; I spend half the time typing, the other half trying to keep the cat off the keyboard. He's funny. Not as funny as he thinks he is, but still.

So at McSoreleys, I half a bite to eat. I drink a few rounds. The menu piques my interest.

"Liverwurst."

I dont know what it is. Heard of it of course, but never had it. Never investigated it. Certainly never ate it.

Until now. Well, until soon.

I anticipate either loving or hating it, and either way, I wont feel like writing about it later.

Ill tell you what was a distraction though; getting on the 6 train at Astor Place, and this girl got on.

She was chinese or japanese... More importantly, she had this slick, snot mustache. The shiny kind, and it went from the corner of her mouth on one side, to the other side of her nose, and then up. Like half Mexican federali, half Salvadore Dali.

I really wanted to do "dirtykneeslookatthese," but all I could think was "snot mustache."

Thankfully, Im home and I dont have to look at her/it anymore. I snatched a Foster's out of a bodega, and I got this sandwich...

I dont know that I could do it sober, so while the irons hot...

Reviews to come on my first ever liverwurst sandwich!!

Since Brian moved to Colorado, the cats been way more talkative and attentive. He doesnt seem to like when I leave. Wont leave me alone when I come back. Separation anxiety? I didnt think cats got that.

I know for sure what he does get though: Thirsty. Only for what Im drinking though, and only when its water. So much so, that I cant even drink out of cups anymore. It has to be a bottle; water, coke, beer...

So last night in the process of shutting this place down, I fill up a gatorade bottle with water, set it on the bedside table and shut off the light.

In between the meowing and walking on me all night, at 4am the little fucker turned the bottle of water over onto my head.

Bucketed. In bed. By a cat.

And after keeping me up all night? Sleeping in the closet.

It had to be over 20 years ago.

My Grandparents were deeply involved in the local chapter of the Moose Lodge in St. Pete and we, the newest, youngest generation of the family, were quite possibly the most bountiful beneficiaries.

Easter and Christmas were well known and excitedly anticipated days, where parents got to goof off and we kids got to enjoy the fun of a party without the burden of blowing out candles.

On odd occasions though, we'd drop in on our Grandparents, for reasons still-and quite possibly forever- unknown.

Past the front doors was a bar, complete with a jukebox and billiards table.

An openable wall separated a larger room which doubled as a cafeteria (when the tables were out) and a parquet dance floor (when the tables werent).

Most of our time in the bar was spent simply passing through, as we hadnt yet even attained a double-digit age at the time.

HOWEVER, that did not mean it was invisible, or impervious to our youthful shenanigans.

I cant remember if it was me or a cousin of mine, but as we left one day and passed through the bar area, quarters had been dropped, a billiards game had begun, and after the initial rack had been broken without a ball being sunk, someone in our party walked by the table, reached up (at 7, 8 years old, we still had to reach UP) grabbed the 8 ball, and slam-dunked it into a pocket.

The guy-girl duo who had just started the game were baffled as to what to do. The mix of shock, anger and confusion that washed over their faces while the 8 ball rolled into the bowels of the table was unmistakeable and readily apparent.

My Dad hustled us to the door, scolding us and threatening to "talk about it outside" as we walked hurriedly toward the door.

If we were ten years older, we'd have a had a fight on our hands; it was clear that the couple would have preferred we would have been, but as we were, theres only so much of a beating you can dole out to an 8 year old before you cross the line of socially acceptable and being branded a child abuser.

Plus, Im sure the limited family we had on hand at the moment still wouldve fucked them up.

So we walked. And they stayed. The game; all the balls on the table, except the 8 ball, the end game, the only one that really matters... gone.

xxx

I came home from work this morning. Detailed out for the second half of an up-and-down to 37 truck.

Nothing really wild to speak of- accidentally breaking a window, that was goofy- but still a busy night nonetheless.

The phone rings, and its Laura. As we talk, shes surprised to hear Im working tonight. She'd made plans to meet a friend, and had intended to work me into it.

In most lines of work this could be a problem, but a few phone calls later, the stars were suddenly aligning and here I was with the night off.

As the sun set, I hit the road. She was apprehensive about seeing me. "Guilty" was the word she used, as her husband had made it abundantly clear in the past that he did not approve of her being in my presence in any capacity, going so far as to bar her from traveling to Florida without him.

As an aside, with the amount of time Ive spent in Florida over the past few years, he may have just as well told her he was not comfortable with her traveling to Alaska.

Rather than wait for her to arrive at "better" judgement, I took the decision out of her hands. I said Id heard this town was nice this time of year, and since I had the night off anyway, I was going to go and see for myself. If by chance, we bumped into each other, great, and if not, that was okay too.

"Youre under no obligation to see me. Expectations are a burden," I told her, "and I have no interest in putting a burden of any size on your shoulders."

It reads like bullshit. But its not. 55 miles to see someone you want to see? It wouldnt even register on your hearts odometer. If it had one...

As it worked out, we did in fact, bump into each other. The night went fast though. Late starts all around. Early morning responsibilities. It felt like no time went by, before we were saying goodbye at the cars.

She said she'd intended to have much deeper conversations. She said she was concerned that Id end up hating her; that she felt she was being unfair to me and to her husband.

I told her to make her priority her kids and herself. That she owed me nothing.

She said she couldnt, and that she didnt want, to leave him. That they have their issues, but he's a good person.

I discarded the generalities, saying its what you want. That all of the prioritizing, and intentions and concerns, it all comes down to what you Want. And I said I just wanted to see her happy.

She said she was uncomfortable knowing that she was done with having kids; that she felt she'd be cheating me, should we become involved again.

I let her know she's a walking anomaly; that what I always thought I wanted, and ideas and rules Id set for what I look for just didnt apply to her.

She saw me looking at the car seats in the back of her Jetta, and wondered aloud about how when we're little, we see adults and think theyve got life figured out, that adults know what they want. Then we get here and see thats not the case.

I suggested it was preferable to knowing exactly what we want, and having it not be available.

Then I told her about the billiards incident at the Moose; the analogy of having a seemingly fresh game on the table, but finding purpose in playing without the last ball, the end-goal, on the table.

We kissed. We parted ways. Again.

As familiar as its become, it remains perfectly bittersweet and never gets easier.

My heart is wearing sweatpants.

My work schedule parted ways, the weather gave us a break from the heat, and convenience and ease prevailed.

Yesterday was my Mom's birthday and everything was falling into place from the start.

We started off in Tompkins Square park, watching the foot traffic and antics of OPD's*, while getting our hands dirty with a local taco joint's lunch special.

She wanted to visit Ellis Island; reconnect with her roots, I guess. Plans were made, and like the savvy and strategic New Yorker she's becoming, she made the decision to dodge the masses and skip the weekend. So we'll be there Monday.

As the evening neared, our reservation for four across town took a turn for the better: a change to three. We got dressed and hopped in a cab.

Dont know if its the case or just in my head, but it sure seems like every time we do this, we pick Friday at 6ish. Kind of busy on the roads then...

So a little after 7, we step out of the cab on west 13th street and into Valbella. Never been, but Mom's excited. Within half an hour, the place would be packed, but for the moment we've almost got the place to ourselves.

The waitstaff -attentive, but not intrusive- was suddenly tableside, broaching the subject of wine and dropping "Bellissima" all over the place. Reminded me alot of "Il Cantore" from Saturday Night Live...

So we had wine, and there was bread and fresh crustacean appetizers. And out came the main course, my fish, Brian's filet, Mom's Maine lobster. She was in Heaven enjoying the dinner, and I was tickled it had worked out so well.

We talked about each other's lives; what we miss out on, on the day-to-day stuff. Where different people were, and what they were up to. Future goals, old memories, recent stories, and tentative plans.

I did notice at some point a brief lull in conversation- one second at most- where I found myself looking at the empty chair, and when I looked up, saw them both doing the same.

It made me wonder if they were thinking the same thing I was; who I would prefer to see take the spot. It was interesting, running through the possibilities I thought they might come up with. David- my Mom's... I dont know what he is, but... yeah. Maybe. One of her siblings? No. Florida friends? Possibly.

Wait, I got it: She'd pick Sting.

Brian would probably pick his girlfriend that shit* her pants in our apartment the other day (Id just suggest bringing a change of clothes for her too).

I thought maybe my Dad would be good. I could count on one hand the amount of times just the four of us have been together alone since high school.

But he comes with Jan now, who I love, but theres only one chair.

In reality, we'd obviously get another chair, but its just a game. A Who Gets the Spare Chair game (its really not that much fun of a game).

I knew who I'd pick. But the question never escaped my own head before dessert came out, and now I dont know if it was even an issue with the rest of the party at all.

It was a lot of thought to have crammed into a single second.

Chocolate Souffle was what was ordered. But the waiter was followed out by the owner holding a lava cake with vanilla ice cream, saying, "I couldnt let you leave without trying this; its the BEST." Cant argue with that.

And if that wasnt enough, the relatively subtle birthday song was accompanied by a candled, chocolate-shelled, chocolate-cherry ice cream.

I thought we were done there, but the coffee came out- I think at this point, no meal* should be without wine and coffee- and then a brief tour of the In-kitchen table option, and expansive wine selection (literally two volumes) was offered. Acceptance of said offer felt obligatory, and whats the rush anyway?

From there, we headed home in the taxi. Came upstairs to grab the cat, threw him in our own vehicle, and gave the Birthday Girl a ride home with feline-in-stereo just for fun.

Next stop: Ellis Island.

xxxxxxx

first *: Other Peoples Dogs
second*: NOT the first time shes shit her pants over here
third*: Not applicable to breakfast

Twice over the weekend, I was questioned, "What do you have to lose?"
The chinese fortune cookie shared with me said, "Dont submit just yet."
The weekends entire periphery, faded into an irrelevant blur.

The Central Park walk. The flowers in bloom. The kid and his dad catching a fish. The brunch off Columbus. The only cab ride Ive ever taken that I didnt wish would hurry up and end...

How did the "good" ever work its way into "goodbye?"

I walked home; close to two and a half miles. I have no idea how many people I crossed paths with. They may have well been ghosts. I dont recall hearing any words, or making any eye contact. 8 million souls in the city, and I didnt have an ounce of interest for the entire collective.

I stepped back into my building, finding I didnt have a door key; the same key I distinctly remembered grabbing on my way out that morning.

I called my Mom, knowing she had a spare, and that since she'd joined us earlier, was still out in the city. We met a little while later, sharing coffee in a park by Cooper Union.

She's intuitive, my Mom. Knowing it would have been easy to drop the key and be on her way, but she wanted to hear it from me, and so we talked; The events of the weekend and the emotions that had (re)surfaced.

"Tell her what youre feeling! Say what you think."

It took simple insight to remove the complication of the situation.

Why is it so hard to pick up the phone to talk to the person you most want to be around? That if you had five minutes left, that 10 times out of 10, youd pick them... and in this situation, the closer you get to the seventh digit, the bigger the swell of nausea gets?

"What do you have to lose?" It echoed through my head. Rather than becoming a distraction to what I needed to do, it lifted the delay of dialing the numbers.

"When you decide that where youre at, is not where you need to be, and when you decide that who youre with, isnt who youre supposed to be with... I would love to have you back."

And I meant it. It was the first time Id ever said something in that vein that I meant.

A few minutes later, I was off the phone. The apartment feeling impossibly and uncomfortably big, I started taking the contents out of my pockets and laying them on the table. Wallet. Cash. Keys. KEYS?!

Id had them the whole time. Funny how sometimes a seemingly minor inconvenience turns into a catalyst for a very necessary event.

And now, its one day at a time.

Im aggravated. And I feel like bitching.

But I already know its not going to do anything... like talking about the current of a river.

Work. Living here. People.

Definitely people.

And Im annoyed that I have so many of the same antisocial characteristics that Larry David does. And it bothers me that it comes so naturally, that I dont think I could shake them, even if I wanted to.

I find it pathetic that so many of the guys I work with are retards. And it bothers me when take naps. Grown men. Naps.

Im tired of my brother fucking off. When he first got here, we were in the Bronx, which he didnt care for. He took every day for Manhattan, and I got a kick out of it. While I was working- which Ive done since Day One here- he was out learning the city. He was my vicarious 2nd life.

Now I wake him up with an afternoon phone call. I stopped though. I stopped because it would happen everytime.

Then he got a girlfriend. Shes equally lazy. And pushy. And needy. And shes here all the time, and eating fucking cereal all the fucking time, and there goes the fucking milk.

I dont drink that shit, but I like some in coffee. Which is a whole other subject.

When the milk is gone, guess who buys more? Me. I buy it. I buy it, because theres no place inside our apartment that sells it, and if youre velcroed to the couch, well that limits your options when it comes to aquiring outside milk.

So I buy it by the pint. Its my passive aggressive dig at the both of them.

Im a little weirded out that my ex-gf is posting pictures online of her and someone else I assume shes started dating. Aside from my inability to not peek- Just curiosity I guess, and I cant shake it- I just think its... weird!

And the guys a designer-shirt wearing guido fist-pumper type. We used to make fun of guys like that. The whole thing is comedic. I guess I just feel... well, I just had the bar set a little higher for her.

See the pattern here? Disappointments, all around. Maybe Im judgemental. Maybe a little arrogant. Maybe a huge asshole.

I call it, "Justification by Recognition."

Its too bad naming it doesnt make it stop happening.

If it did, Id be naming shit all over town.

At least I got the Harpoon Brewery on my side.

I remember sleeping in; waking up when the sun would come through the window.

I didnt have a normal bed. Just a mattress on the floor. It was covered in grey cotton 't-shirt' sheets. And two pillows. The rest of my room was furnished with a tv stand that held a stereo instead of a tv, a couple of magazine ads I thought were better than the rest of the magazine, and a bunch of photographs taped to the wall.

The tv stand was a garbage-find.

The bathroom had a towel rack that held a pair of purple towels. They did a nice job of hiding the hole I punched in the wall, when one of my roommates told me he saw my girlfriend at a movie theater with another guy. After Id made the awesome decision to break up with her of course. Security deposit aside, what was I thinking.

And while Im on the topic, movies make for the shittiest dates.

So I remember sleeping in.

Steve was home, Adam was not. I meandered into the living room, and down toward his.

"Did you hear this? A plane hit the World Trade Center. They're saying its terrorists."

I dont get the joke.

Its about 9:30, and I turn around to the tv he's got on in his room. Two panicked CNN reporters were talking over footage of the unfolding events. Not only had a plane hit a WTC tower, two had, and at this point, theyd both collapsed.

I was unfamiliar with NY/NJ geography then, but the smoke and dust cloud blanketing lower Manhattan told me everything I needed to know.

I took an opportunity today to work at a friend of mines firehouse, as they were having their company picnic. Theyre one of the busier companies in the city, due to their being stationed in a rough neighborhood, and for that reason, I take any opportunity that comes my way to work there.

Early in the day, its relatively quiet. Rather than watch tv, I went upstairs to the study, where I like reading old issues of WNYF. Today I picked up an issue from 1983, and in it, an anonymous poem titled, "The Indispensable Man."

It compares the impact you have on others to the lasting hole you can make with your hand in a bucket of water; that no matter how hard you thrash the water around, shorty after youre done, theres no evidence you were ever there at all.

It was humbling. But its true. "Life goes on."

A little while later, we got dispatched 2nd due to a "smoke." Its common. It doesnt really mean anything. But enroute, we get updated, "second source." We get updated again, "79 Engine to Bronx, 10-75!"

We arrive on scene to find 79 has started stretching the 1 3/4 up to a 4th floor apartment, the line still flimsy and light as it hasnt been charged. Their Control-man misjudged the stretch, and theres too much hose in the lobby, and too much on the stairs. Our lieutenant starts yelling to get this extra hose outside so it doesnt kink when the Chauffeur starts water.

I start making my up the stairs, positioning myself so I can help lighten up the line when the nozzle team starts to make their push. The rest of my company is doing the same. Suddenly the hose stiffens up, I throw a bow up in the air against the wall to free up a pair of kinks and make it easier to pull a few minutes from now when I head up another flight.

I pass the next half landing, and realize Im at the fire apartment door. One guy is pushing his way out past the Control-man, yelling for help. Hes got a woman in his arms, and shes been badly burned...

Before I worked here, I worked in the same area in the Bronx, in EMS. Before that, I worked in Florida, doing both of the jobs Ive had up here. And before that, I spent a year in Ocala, working through a paramedic certification. Somehow none of it prepared me.

Shes naked, and shes unconscious. Shes old, maybe in her 80's, and shes very thin. Shes burned... all over her body. My brother-fireman, shouting for help, sounds surreal. Hes clearly struggling to keep from dropping her, yet she offers no assistance to his cause, its like her body is completely without structure, and as he fights to help her, her skin is slipping off, and I have no idea when the next layer will be the last layer.

I reach out and grab her, under the knees, hes got her under her arms. Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse? Did she think shed fight through 80 years of her life to die in a fire in a shitty Bronx apartment? My concern for her life meets my concern for the sudden lack of justice for her situation meets my even-more sudden inability to look at her.

We are racing down the stairs.

Her injuries are so severe, I prepare myself for her literally breaking up, and falling apart as we're trying to get out.

We exit the building, the lobby being far too small to work in, and lay her down off to the side of the front stoop to do whatever assessment we can. She gasps for air. Where the fuck is EMS. Wheres the CFR-D Engine??

Theres a crowd of people, and no ones moving. The guy I brought her down with stays at her side, and I move to the nearest rig for whatever EMS equipment is available. I know every single one at least has oxygen and a BVM, and thats a huge priority right now.

Back at her side, another fireman has joined us. He's tearing open an oxygen mask, and while hes doing the right thing, I know its insufficient. Im opening the BVM. Which I know is also insufficient. In addition to what is obvious from 10 feet, her throat has been burned too, and its covered in black soot. Just to keep breathing for any amount of time, she needs to be intubated. And that too, would be insufficient.

Shes going to die. I hate this part of this job. I Hate it. I hate it so much, that it makes me want to walk away forever, and do something- anything- else.

But then someone else would have to do it.

Shes going to die, and theres not a fucking thing we can do about it. It might not be on the sidewalk, it may not be in the ambulance, but leave the hospital? The burn center? How about just make it out of the ER and to an upper floor? Nobody deserves whats happening to this poor woman...

As the three of us work to do the breathing for her, another group of firemen suddenly come to help. I know Im out of position, so we pass her off, and head back upstairs.

I make it back to the same half-landing, just off the fire floor, and look out the window. EMS has finally arrived. Shes been covered, and placed on a stretcher, someone still bagging her. The smoke in the hallway, while light, is nauseating. I feel the wall, and its plaster. The whole inside of the building is covered with this stuff. Her apartment had to be like the inside of an oven.

A little while later, the inside operation is done. The hose is withdrawn from the building, and prepared to be repacked on 79's engine as we head outside. And people are smiling. And talking, and laughing, and excited that they got to go to a 'job.'

I walk back to the rig to pull off this mask; this air cylinder which I barely realized I was wearing half an hour ago, now feels like Im carrying sack of bricks.

I think back to the guy who helped me carry the woman down. To the men who helped us on the sidewalk. It dawns on me that I had no idea who any of them were. It was a lone, comforting thought, that we could all be so in tune and focused on the same goal, that it could dominate the entire interaction, and forego any usual formal niceties.

But this is not normal. There is nothing normal about this job, or these men.

The neighborhood crowd floods the sidewalk, like theyre here for some spectacle or a show for their amusement.

Dont they know? Didnt they see? Every woman I see in the crowd, suddenly every person, I see how delicate this whole thing is... I think back to the poem Id read prior to lunch... Who out here is "Indispensable"? What we find beauty in, what graces the covers of magazines, what we work so much for... so superficial... I watch a chubby girl, maybe late teens walk up the sidewalk with a pizza. And she doesnt give a fuck. Judgement aside, but she doesnt, for whatever reason; or for no reason. And again, I think back to the poem.

The irrelevance of what we do when we're here, to so many people we come across is astonishing. But by God, if this day didnt make my Mom get a much bigger hug than usual; if it doesnt make me do everything I can to help the next person experiencing the worst day of their life. Or their last... and make it a little better...

I guess Im just not interested in making my mark on the water. I just want to see people get a fair shake.

Today it just didnt happen.

Im smitten. I forgot what this was like- I dont even know if I forgot, Im not sure Ive ever been smitten before, but here I am. Just assuming that I have, I mean. The point is: Smitten. Me.

And as good as it feels, theres a problem. A bigfatstupid problem, and its all my fault. Shes married. She has a pair of kids. Im not a homewrecker. And yet somehow... Smitten.

And at one point, I could have prevented everything thats taken this from something that should be a no-brainer to a fucked up mess. In my head. Because its not going to turn into a mess, because Im not going to tell anyone. Yknow... because of the homewrecker thing.

Because she used to be mine. I had the option. I declined. I built a pile of worthless excuses Id probably be embarrassed to recollect, and then I parted ways. All that matters, is I wasnt ready then. I made the selfish decision. Now I regret it. Regret: A dish best served disguised as a giant shit sandwich. A cold, giant shit-sandwich of course.

On the lighter side though, we got together today. Shes been running. Not from, or for anything in particular. Thats what I like about her decision. To just... do it. But like most things, runnings more fun when you have a partner. She didnt. Not today anyway, and I didnt waste a breath accepting the invitation. I think that surprised her. But I have time. I have to, for some people. Shes one. For others... no time.

Where was I... The run. In Hartford. She invited me once before, and just like now, I happily accepted, but weather was not cooperating. Neither was traffic.

Today was hot, but traffic attempted to make up for the lack of paralyzing weather. I hate traffic. Ill brave it when I have to, but I curse every asshole motherfucker on the road when I do. Today was no exception. Some white-knuckle shit to try and make up time for the time I spent parked on the parkways.

I made Hartford just in time to be 15 minutes late for the start of the race. The run. Lets call it a run, being the point was not to win. The point... Lets go back. Leaving New York City, when all things seem to go against me, I consider it a sign. That Fate is getting its dirty little rocks off at my expense. Sometimes, I say go with it. Swim with the current. Its a sign, and the sign says "this is where you need to be."

But sometimes, I say "fuck that sign." I turn salmon, and fight the current. I cross my fingers that the decision doesnt blow up in my face. I make a mental note of this turning point, this conscious decision to engage the struggle. Then I cease looking back.

So the point. The goal... I still dont know. I caught up with her halfway through the race. At the finish, theres water, and sports drinks. Popsicles and food. Beer and a band. Lots of cheering. It all takes place along a river. The crowd is lively and good natured, and I wonder how none of her friends would be up for this.

I dont know what the point was, but I know what happened. I know what happened to me. Dusk approached, but I dont recall ever seeing the sun. We talked lot, but I dont recall much of the specifics. She smiled at me. My train of thought derailed.

Being trapped in a moment felt amazingly good. I really thought that emotion had fallen by the wayside. It was nice being wrong.

Then I realized why it felt like the cards were stacked against me earlier. And the last time. Its because they were. Like protection from the spirits. Because, really, who needs this in their life? Completely taken with the company of someone completely untouchable...

You know what I did then? I brushed the thought aside. The 'revelation.' Maybe its true. Maybe I tapped into something I shouldnt have, but I did it unapologetically, and still have no regrets about it. It was fun. The whole day was fun. I enjoyed catching up with an old friend. I relished getting lost in her smile. I found a bit of inner peace in realizing our commonalities, both old and new, and if theres nowhere left to go in the situation, being left on cloud 9 is a nice place to be.

She thought I was nuts for taking her up on the invitation. Id have driven twice as far for half the time. Because it was that good.

Its happening. Again.

Im beginning to hate my girlfriend.

I dont know if its part of my perennially late internal clock, but assuming it is, I could blame it all on Spring Cleaning. Of life. Its happened before. Sometimes, Ive been able to fend it off and its gone away. On other occasions, it turned into more of what Id describe as a turd catapult in a room full of low hanging fans.

Im doing my best to hide it right now. I really am. Lauren's great company and shes a great person. Past being friends though... my eyebrows go up, I run out of words, and it doesnt feel good.



I have to go to work. To be continued...

I thought it would be fun to chronicle probie school here, but then I realized it was a horrible idea. Its like Groundhog Day, but without me ever realizing it and doing anything cool.

Run 5 miles, do a million pushups, raise a ladder, stretch a line, blahblahblah. Who would waste a sweet Groundhog Day for that? Maybe I should say, 'who'd waste a journal on that,' so I threw in the towel on writing, so I could concentrate on biting the pillow and surviving six months of that shit.

Today though, deserves a shout-out. Ive spent the past week at Engine-21 on 40th st. in Midtown. The company dates back to the installation of the FDNY as a professional department in 1865, and has been at its current location since 1940, during Fiorello Laguardia's tenure.

The strangest part of the experience hasnt been anything I expected... obviously... but instead, the constant and non-stop picture taking by the public of us, at every corner. Catch a role at a high-rise fire? The frigging NEWS is there. Get back to work, people!

Outside of that, Brian and my Mom came up here the other day. For my birthday. Im 30. I always thought Id feel different, but I dont. I just dont like the 'ring' of the word, when people ask me. Maybe Im just used to 'twenty-something.'

That was a nice 10 year stretch of textbook time expenditure on what GroundHog Day should be.

Have to admit now though, that Im kind of excited to see what the next 10 year stretch brings.

This academy is getting Real.

Ive been watching peoples faces, and the fun is definitely decreasing for them. This show lasts six months, and we're on day FOUR. People are already falling apart, and even Im crossing my fingers about my knee. I feel fortunate though that Im otherwise in decent shape, and aside from the pain the running brings to me, I thoroughly enjoy the rest of the day.

The workouts are a blast; the fact is undeniable, that we are getting paid to exercise. The classroom lectures and hands-on lessons are both interesting and fun. To that extent, its like going to college on that scholarship I never had. The only foreign part to me is the militant atmosphere that makes up the framework of the academy. Rather than sweat it though, its like a game. A really weird, sadistically fun... game.

What did we do today? Knocked the dust off our bunker gear, went to learn some different knots. Cake (though later in the day, two people would pass out doing this, and be carted off to the hospital). Then some jumping jacks and pushups. Fun! Next was a run, about 2.5 miles. Then some classroom stuff, basic Engine Company Operations, and intro to the Scott 4.5 SCBA. More than half the days outside. Whats not to like??

Home life is kind of a drag. I got home, read all day. Hopped in the shower and now Im getting ready for bed. I shouldnt even be doing this, but Im thinking at some point Id like to look back and see if I actually enjoyed it or not. So far, it looks like I do.

As for my aunt calling me asking where her towels are... Gotta love family.

Im a few hours late, into the 5th really. Im also a few hours late getting home. So here goes...

I slept in today. 10am. Thats when the phone rang, and the first thing I noticed since I laid down at midnight the night before. Lauren was tired, and driving home from some shindig with friends; a birthday party I think. I stayed on the phone with her until she made it. I know how hard it can be to drive tired, and rare is the thing that sucks worse than waking up behind the wheel.

She called to change the plans we made the night before, and rather than meet in Queens, she wanted me to come down to Long Beach. Shed be cooking. I got in the truck, and hit the road.

The holiday made for some real easy travel. Who knew the Van Wyck actually flows once in a while? The pavement is still horrible, but hey, complain in one hand...

Lauren came back from the grocery store with one of her roommates, the other still MIA from the night before. Chicken, mushrooms, cherry-tomatoes, zuchini and a big, bright-red pepper. We cut everything up, and skewered it all. On the grill they went, and we all chowed down a short while later.

She flicked on the tv, a Yankee game was coming on. But first, it was Lou Gehrig, speaking at Yankee stadium 69 years ago today. He'd just been diagnosed with ALS. No one knew it yet, but he would die less than two years later. It became a famous speech, cut cleanly of hope, humility and appreciation. This is what he said that day, in 1939:


"Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

"Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn't consider it the highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day? Sure, I'm lucky. Who wouldn't consider it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert? Also, the builder of baseball's greatest empire, Ed Barrow? To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins? Then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy? Sure, I'm lucky.

"When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice versa, sends you a gift - that's something. When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies - that's something. When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter - that's something. When you have a father and a mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body - it's a blessing. When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed - that's the finest I know.

"So I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for."


Gehrig was a diamond in the middle of a sack of coal; a classy, hard-working individual, surrounded by party animals. Great ball players, but knuckleheads off the field. How rare, a professional athlete that recognized what he had, what was really important, and appreciative of the good things he had going on, even after such a dark cloud cast over him. Hes the only athlete I can think of worthy of being titled 'hero' or 'role model.'

When I Long Island, I headed back to the Bronx. I got cleaned up, threw a sandwich and... get this sandwich: whole wheat bread, almond butter, banana, honey. Yeah, theres no 'negro-itis' with that combination. So the sandwich, some yogurt, a couple of fig newmans (like newton, but... different/better!) a bottle of water and another of iced coffee-by-me all into a bag and jumped a train. I had a date with my 'other woman.'

That being, Lady Liberty! The weather was borderline nasty. It was okay though, I was waterproofed (speaking of, I used to tell people I had myself laminated when it was disgustingly hot out in Florida, and they were a sweaty mess and I wasnt. Okay, good aside-story). I took notice on the way down of some super-fat puerto rican chicks wearing gaudy American flag inspired clothing they clearly picked out of the kids section. Maybe its a cultural thing to dress like sausages, but my own culture has deemed it ridiculous. Particularly when it comes to 'Freedom Sausage."

That was easy to let go of though. Youre gonna get fat when yours always 'Lovin' it!', but sometimes, consider loving a fruit parfait instead of another super-sized burger with so much meat it gives vegetarians diarrhea just hearing about it.

I think thats my second diarrhea reference in as many days.

Anyway, its now a little after 9pm. Ive arrived in Battery Park, near the Staten Island Ferry. Out on the boardwalk, people have gathered to watch a fireworks show, being launched out of New Jersey. The crowd was small and pleasant. The harbor rippled out as far as I could see in the dark, with the Statue of Liberty illuminated in the distance, more-so with every explosion. People around me snapped pictures, lighting up the small raindrops falling. Im sure it ruined their pictures, but looked interesting to me.

A few minutes later, the explosions started going off behind us. I waited, taking a better place to stand while watching the NJ operation. Tons of boats tried to chase down the latest production spot. I know my train didnt have a flux capacitor in it, but it did cross my mind that the fleet on the water may have resembled the British Royal Navy 230 years ago. The water alone has been the object of my latest material infatuation. Tonight it played a part in me being mesmirized.

Eventually, I would walk. Past the ferry terminal, a few blocks down water street, I came south again, taking a place to stand a but out of the way. This time they were by the Brooklyn Bridge. The explosions were echoing off the skyscrapers dotting Lower Manhattan, appearing as man made canyon walls. It was quite intense. The fireworks being seen, heard, and now, felt.

As the show drew to a close, an older gentleman (wearing a VFW hat) with his wife made a comment to me.

"Great show," he said, "But it wasnt as loud as the bombs that were getting dropped on us when we were fighting the japs in WW2."

"Japs." I love it.

"Course, if you didnt hear it, it meant you got hit by one," he continued."Then you were dead. So I preferred to have my ears ringing all the time. At least I knew I was alive."

Any time an old-time war vet wants to chew an ear, Ill sit down with him and let him talk until his pacemaker goes off. I love the stories. The guts. The colorful way they talk. They make no apologies for their lack of political correctness. They dont even know what PC is, and in my opinion, theyre better for it. Theyre from a generation that struggled, fought, and earned their ways, their lives. They were so busy putting a country together and safeguarding the free world, they didnt have time to get welfare, or section 8 housing, or cry about being offended. The 'greatest generation' had no Al Sharpton's.

After the finale, I was so enthralled with the water, I decided to go for a ride on the Ferry. When I saw the crowd, I decided to wait. I walked back out to the boardwalk, toward Battery Park again. I passed a girl wearing a CCCP shirt. I was a little bothered by her fashion decision today, choosing a flag of repression to sport on a day meant for appreciating and celebrating independence. She couldnt have been more than 10 years old when the Soviet Union ceased to exist. I decided she was probably the contrarian East Village type, trying to look cool by appearing to have not tried to look cool. She half got it. And I let it go.

I had about 45 minutes to kill. I stopped by the edge of the water, peering off toward Ellis Island, this time far fewer people and much more peaceful. I kicked the fish heads someone had chopped off and left earlier in the day. Watching the little waves break, I wanted to set sail, take off for a week.

I dont know shit about sailing. It uses wind. But I could learn. It made my 'Get Mine in '09" list of things to do. Learning to sail, that is.

Theres a WW2 memorial out there too. Eight monolithic slabs, in them are etched the names of fallen soldiers from the war. A giant black eagle, with a prayer inscribed on its perch watches over them. So many people writing a blank check to their country, knowing full well it could mean getting cashed for anything, even their lives. Its sad that so many continue, 60 years later, to have that happen. The whole thing is humbling.

Eventually, I made my way back to the Ferry and got on. Its free. It runs every half hour, ALL THE TIME. You can get a close up of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Governers Island, and distant looks at the Brooklyn and Verrazzano Bridge too. While waiting for the return passage, I watched a cop with his dog. The pooch looked like fun; about the size of a 3/4 yellow lab, he sniffed out something delicious (beef jerky?) in the cops pocket and started biting his pants. When the cop pushed him off, he started jumping in circles. And didnt stop. Im guessing he got around 15, when the cop finally caved and threw him a piece of whatever he had.

Made me think. Im gonna need a dog to put on that boat I get. I hope he likes eatin' fish heads.

After that, I headed home. Hopped a 4 train to Grand Central, Metro North to Woodlawn.

I feel outraged enough, seeing everyday news of how everything takes a back seat to the almighty dollar; that blood money is whats running this country and that everything anyone ever learned from dirty politics, and corporate greed, and the scandals of those two in bed together, is so quickly forgotten and covered up.

Today felt like a break from that. Reaffirm a little bit of hope, and let me feel like, even for just a little while, things were just right in the world. I needed that.

Thanks again, Ms. Enlightening.

The first week drew to a close today.

The benchmark testing ended, and I avoided Remedial PT as Id hoped/planned. I thought my 50 push-up day wasnt bad, until I saw this other gorilla do 108 (get a hobby!). Seriously though, I was happy for him. And impressed, how the fuck does any human churn out push-ups like that? It was a nice a job.

Later this lady came in attempting to solicit charitable donations for just under a million different programs. Now I donate. I like to pony up for a good cause, but it typically has to be someone I know, personally stepping up for the cause and looking to raise a few bucks. But 7% "administrative fees"? Yuh right! And what asshole really sets up a charity for "Restless Leg Syndrome Awareness"?! Get outta here!

Some guys apparently were compelled/suckered by her... really, her Sally Struthers "for the price of a cup of coffee a day..." impression was quite good. Shaking voice and everything. But I passed. Id rather just wait until someone I know tells me they have something good going on, and ask me to chip in. Answers always been yes. Then I know 100% of it goes to something worthwhile, and not paying for someone photocopying their butt cheeks and having paperclip fights. Ive been in offices. I know what goes on.

The rest of the day went easy. Reading some of this, re-learning rope/knot stuff. We even (borderline miraculous) got out a little early. Im thinking tomorrow I may go ride the free cruise through the harbor (aka "Staten Island Ferry") or just hang out in lower Manhattan and watch some fireworks.

Either way, taking it easy through the weekend.

xxx

ALMOST as easy as the excellent "Shes Like the Wind" by Patrick Swayze on the radio on todays drive (idle?) home on the Deegan. And all his fans wanna talk about is 'Dirty Dancing.' Puh-lease, the guy missed his calling! (almost)

Im in pain.

I have a nagging knee issue, "Illio-tibial Band Syndrome." I hate it. Sometimes its under control. Sometimes its not. Today happens to be of the latter.

Looking back, it didnt feel like much went on. Bringing in bunker gear. Duct-taping/Marking everyones stuff. A 1.5 mile run and a pull-up test. The last two being part of a fitness benchmark, and a test that often leads to people disappearing. Failing to meet minimum standards earns you four months of 'remedial pt,' exercise to get your strength up, in addition to what the curriculum requires already.

The run has to be done in under 12 minutes.
30 push-ups
30 sit-ups, under a minute
4 pull-ups

The goals dont seem that lofty, yet people fail to meet them in droves. Not that Im going to be seen in any olympic decathlons anytime soon. I watched some guy sail through the run in just over 8 minutes. I saw another guy bang out 30 (thirty!!) pull-ups. My injury-anchored 11:15 and 13 pale in comparison.

Tomorrow we finish the other two.

A representative from the UFA came to say hi, and pass out a buttload of paperwork. He also walked out with over $6000 in cash for union dues. Some boneheads then got a little comfortable with the whole thing; spreading out in the back rows of the auditorium, leaving trash around. It earned up some nice good-by pushups on the hot asphalt. One guy went home with blistered palms. Not good at all. Maybe Im a sissy, but I spit all over mine. It was a desperation move to get away from the heat on the ground.

I stopped on the way home at the dumpy A&P here. Big, long lines. Lots of empty lanes. I thought about punting the things I had gathered down the kosher aisle I had lined up in front of. I was slightly peeved that in this mess, someone had left her cart with a few things in it in front of a lane, and gone off shopping. Maybe I was only bothered that it was her idea and not mine.

Now Im back. 'Now' being post-nap. I washed clothes in the sink. Ironed a dirty shirt. Ate some nice leftovers, and decided before I got home that if Crazy Francis comes by, Im not even going to answer the door. Its pushing 10 at this point. The alarm goes off at 3:30 again tomorrow. I cannot wait for the weekend to start.

So I can sleep through the whole entire thing.

Lauren's not gonna like that...

The alarm, as expected, went off at 4am. Not that I needed it, not with my two-hour ocean of deep, restful, rejuvenating sleep.

Instead of waking up to the alarms impression of a roller rink circa 1987 (Debbie Deb/"When I Hear Music" anyone?), I labored out of the bed and onto the cold hardwood floor toward the bathroom, and my big weird toothbrush I love starting my day with, all the while wondering just how long my eyeball headache was going to last.

I took the hour I had before heading out to make breakfast. And eat it.

Then I hit the road. I like driving in the way early morning here, because none of the gypsy cab drivers have awoken from yesterday's vodka and booger binge (thats what I decided they do during the day), to start terrorizing the roads yet. No black Lincoln's means I get to where Im going in 15 minutes!

The work day kicked off with roll-call of 312 people all wearing the exact same thing. Except for the knuckleheads that chose something else. And earned us free push-ups. I found it kind of bizarre that the two guys next to me started shaking while we waited to start. This is the first class off a new list thats supposed to last the city until 2012. Tomorrow there will be more. Much more. Tomorrow could get ugly.

But more importantly, Swearing In! After the Chief came in to do the formalities, one of the DI's read off a quote from Ed Croker, FDNY Chief from 1899-1911:

"Firemen are going to get killed. When they join the department they face that fact. When a man becomes a fireman his greatest act of bravery has been accomplished. What he does after that is all in the line of duty. They were not thinking of getting killed when they went where death lurked. They went there to put the fire out, and got killed. Firefighters do not regard themselves as heroes because they do what the business requires."

Sobering, but matter-of-fact. And whos gonna argue with Boss Croker?

After that, we wasted like two hours of our lives listening to a bunch of retards make their pitch to us that EEO is a legitimate and necessary part of modern culture and crucial to creating and preserving a sufficiently diverse workforce.

The only part that amuses me is that anyone retarded or handicapped can request that any city job theyre capable of doing be changed to non-competitive status, allowing them eligible to take it from a non-retarded/handicapped person. At first, I thought that would be a devastating blow to someones ego. Then I changed my mind when I decided that person was doing a job a retard could do, and they probably didnt have much of an ego to begin with.

Ive always felt my days off are far busier than my days on. The past few have been proof.

Yesterday saw a pair of east-west transverses through central park, as well as a meandering, but casual, hike from 59th street to 90th, and back down another 16 blocks. That would only take care of the first half of the day.

The backside was a little road-trip, finding Jan on a delayed flight some 50+ miles away in Islip. Covering distance is easy, and the time is always a non-factor when it comes to collecting people I care about. It did add a degree of excitement to the day though.

It also added a round of Manhattan clam chowder, thanks to the ever-ready and always-satisfying Neptune Diner. While not the only thing delivered to the table, its the only thing that really tends to stick out to me the next day. I suppose you could call it the food equivalent of a wild slut's tongue ring, and the smirk and chuckle it provides, as you do the walk of 'shame' in a strange neighborhood, the morning after an unexpectedly good night.

Not that Id know.

xxx


Now at this point, Im ragged out. We tested a new diner in Woodlawn today (Eileen's, at McLean and Martha, is excellent, by the way). We took the free tourist cruise to Staten Island again. We noted the irony that like so many things in New York City, a necessary tool for the work-week warriors; the people actually laboring away in this city, turns its focus to catering to tourists on the off days, when it provides fantastic photo ops with the Statue of Liberty. So thanks for that, Staten Island Ferry.

Then I decided that if I was a hobo, If live in Battery Park, so I could eat all the weird plants and vegetables and shit they have growing in the gardens.

That just made me wonder what goes on there that keeps the current hobo's out of it, because all that green looked both tasty AND undisturbed.

We took in dinner at the Bridge Cafe, which if used as a date-setting... guaranteed sex. No doubt about it. Its small, the atmosphere is friendly, the food is always great. Have some wine. Share a desert. Go for a walk down the beach and look at the stars from underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Then get a fucking room you pervs! Like there arent enough sideshow freaks in this city?! We gotta watch you make out?? There could be kids out here!!

Seriously though. If the guys on Beauty and the Geek knew about this, there wouldnt be a show. Theyd all be nailing those chicks on episode ONE.

Anyway, now its 2am. We got back. I jumped in the shower. I hopped in the sack. I just miss LJ, thought itd be fun to start writing again. Im looking forward to the ZZZ's though. Now tomorrow... nowhere does it say that it couldnt all go down again, the saaaaame way.

G'night!

My Dad dropped into town yesterday. My brother a week ago. Jan is coming tomorrow.

I got a call the day Brian flew in that I had been selected to start training at the FDNY's fire academy on Randall's Island July 1. I did a little dance in walmart, still on the phone. I very rarely shop in walmart; I think theyre a very irresponsible corporate entity, and so my use for them is quite limited. However that day, I was there, and so it gets credit for being a scene in the story.

Brian and I then spent the week goofing off, eating out, staying up late and sleeping in. We saw the beaches of Long Island, watched basketball games in Astoria, contemplated a few subway rides into Brooklyn (but have yet to take the plunge). We ate found-food at Yankee Stadium (okay, not WE, I did) during Joba's fourth start. Even a rare head shaving. The week ended at the house at Putnam Lake, with a yard cleaning/laundry doing bonanza... and how often, really, do bona fide bonanza's actually occur?

The lawn mower, the weedwacker (aka yard tool from hell), the washer and dryer, all got put to work. Even the truck got some attention in the form of an oil change, new serpentine belt, gas filter, and a locking gas cap (to keep the jews out). It was busy work, just to productively burn time before my Dad landed.

We kept it simple the first night: Three block hike, a bite at a local pub, and back home to bed.

It was today that we'd be wearing ourselves out.

Started out benign enough, as most days usually do. OJ. Granola. Conversation about Al Sharpton. The usual. Train ride from the Bronx to Grand Central, always an easy 25 minutes. First stop in Manhattan, the NYC Fire museum.

I used to cringe at the idea of being a 'buff.' But ya-know what, I LIKE what I do. Everyone should be so lucky to be INTO what they do, so maybe I am a little buffy. At this point, Im comfortable with that. Besides, Im a history buff too, and the history of the department, parallels the history of the city. This city's rich in that!

We easily spent two hours checking out everything: scaling ladders, 200 year-old hand pumpers, horse-drawn steam engines, relic ladder trucks, political history, leather helmets, newspaper articles, photos, and I think the museums roped off third floor was the only thing that ended our visit when it did.

We were off! For food. Next stop: McSorelys (and Ive never been able to spell it right) Ale House. Serving probably the same shit for over 150 years! Theres plenty of redeeming qualities about a place serving your choice of "light or dark" and not taking credit cards. The food thats both good AND cheap is nice. The mustard capable of burning your tongue right out of your head is too, all as endearing as is the sawdust on the floor. You certainly wont get a chance to piss in a urinal installed in 1854 too often either. But what really makes the joint for me is the chandelier, a time capsule of humanity and respect, carrying dusty wishbones left by soldiers heading off to fight, leaving their intent to return above the bar, during WWI.

Fat and happy, we opted to depart, but the question I hate the most, "What are we going to do now?" could only be temporarily silenced. The Strand Bookstore was nearby, and though Id never been, I knew two things. First, I wasnt really in the mood to look at books. More importantly, I didnt have any other ideas. it would however, buy enough time to plan for the next time the question would be presented. That answer presented itself in the form of a big orange cup.

We'd raid the Astor Place Mud Truck! Parked across the street from a Starbucks, I chuckle every time I see it. I also make it a point to stop by for a cup if I even THINK I might have some urge to drink coffee before I can get home, because historically, theyve got some really good stuff.

The next suggestion was to walk the Brooklyn Bridge. The three of us were game. So again, we headed underground. This time, plans changed though. We skipped the stop, getting out at... South Ferry!

The Staten Island Ferry is a funny thing. SI, being the only burough requiring 2 methods of commuting into Manhattan, had its fare lifted when it was pointed out that city residents living there were getting the shaft on coming to work. So now, the ferry is free. Its a half hour ride through the harbour, between Governers Island and the Statue of Liberty, your choice of protection from the elements or in the open air, from the southern tip of Manhattan to the other station on the northern end of Staten Island. And I think it might just be the best fucking big city commute anywhere.

Once back in Gotham, we strapped back on our walking-shoes, and hit the pavement once again. We walked through the Southstreet Seaport, now void of its legendary fish market, as well as its historical river pirates and see hags, all being replaced with tourists. Yay.

Finally though, we made it to the Brooklyn Bridge. As nice as it looks from far away, its equally amazing up close. The towers, the anchors, the suspension cables... the construction worker in me LIVES. Todays hike across the span proved that.

We took the 4-train back north. The days journey saw four of the five buroughs making up the city. Queens... todays just not your day... and we made a brief stop to pick up some groceries, but for all intents and purposes, we were all done and were beat enough to throw in the towel.

Im pretty sure now, that theres not much left to do in NYC, so whats next? Jersey?

I am so fucking heated right now.

My regular partner came in to cover a tour on overtime to work with me. Simple enough. Always a welcome sight to work with someone Im familiar with. No surprises is a good thing in our line of work. The rain apparently kept people in and behaving for a change. For the most part anyway.

Toward the end of the night, a few blocks away from where we were, a Russian diplomat and his wife had an argument. It ended when she turned to a tool shed used before to assist her in getting to sleep; the Russian equivalent of Benadryl. Or so she thought. In a mix of frustration and concern for her, he called 911 looking for reassurance that she didnt just poison herself.

The call is assigned to us, we show up with a pair of NYC's "Finest," and the investigation begins.

No signs of physical altercation.
No lingering signs of emotional abuse.
Coinciding stories from both parties.
A 24 y/o female with no medical history, taking no prescribed medications, and no known drug allergies.
She conscious, alert and oriented to person, place and time.
No outward signs of overdose.
Normal blood pressure, heart rate and respiratory rate.

She has no interest in going to the hospital.

And thats where NYC and FDNY-EMS steps in and overrules someones rights because theyre pathetically too afraid of getting sued. Patient advocacy becomes a doormat to liability mitigation.

I am so disgusted at being made a pawn in furthering this change and progression to reducing rights in the name of potentially protecting money. One of the original factors driving me out of private sector industry and commerce, and into the intimate freedoms of improving peoples lives was a focus diverted away from "Bottom-Line" allegiance.

The telemetry staff of the FDNY acted tonight not in the best interest of that girl, but in the paranoia of protecting itself. Now that young couple will be billed for an unnecessary ride in an ambulance likely costing in the neighborhood of $1000, their work day tomorrow is trashed from the get-go, our goodwill with them is shot to hell, all under the threat of utilizing police force, because the guy was mistakenly concerned for the well being of his wife.

The air gets cleared. He changes his mind. And the the answer... a blanket coverall, "... because she has to be evaluated at the ER." All for not knowing the dosage of OTC benadryl?

Someday, I will look back on my experiences here in the Bronx. My partners, the calls, the little differences we made for people together, and the expressions of appreciation, be they handshakes, words or just a particular look, Ill recall fondly and without regret.

But to the the management, to the bean counters, to the rest of you unknown, Ivory Tower types, you kool-aid drinking scumbags at metrowreck, FUCK YOU!!