Life in the "hood"

New York, New York it's a wonderful town. Take a moment to set the stage with Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra and Jules Munshin in this great number from "On the Town."

While this blog will continue my love affair with this city, I will confine my remarks to just 2 blocks on Lexington Avenue from 70-72 Streets. You might ask how much can take place in such a small area. If you are not familiar with this city, it is a fair question. Let me tell you about two things that separate this city from all others:

1. Water Towers... here is one of the towers that grace the skyline as viewed from my window. Every building at least 80 feet tall in New York City must have a water reservoir to meet the fire codes, and water tanks are also used to provide water service. A large office building can use 40,000 gallons of water an hour. Rosenwach the largest supplier of water towers was founded in 1866, builds 200 to 300 cedar tanks a year and can erect one in a single day. These towers are primarily constructed from wood, but some new buildings use metal tanks. Metal tanks are much more expensive, and wood provides excellent insulation to fend off the effects of fluctuating temperatures. A cedar tank lasts about 35 years.
2. Retail Stores... Unlike most other places, New Yorkers never have to get in a car and drive to a mall. Underneath most apartment and office free standing stores offering a myriad of products and services stand ready to meet the needs of shoppers. For the purpose of this piece, I will concentrate only on a subset of this diverse marketplace, and that is coffee shops. 

While many people think that the center of the coffee world revolves around Seattle, Washington others believe that New York (especially Manhattan) can make an argument that this city is the coffee capital of the country, if not the world. If that is not so, then we must take the prize for the diversity of the product and without a doubt, for the most expensive.

Before I go much further, I must tell you that I am far from a coffee expert as my drink of choice is Decaf. I allow myself one cup a day and that's all my system can tolerate.

I still remember my first.... coffee not where your mind may take you!

It took place in July 1957, in the Garden State, New Jersey at an army base called Fort Dix. Fort Dix at that time was the largest camp on the East Coast designed to train and indoctrinate new "recruits." Most of whom did not arrive there voluntarily. I was one of those.

I will never forget my third day/night in the service of our country. After three sleep deprived days of processing, we were loaded in buses and arrived at the basic training area where we would spend the next eight weeks in the largest sand box I have ever seen. It was 3:00am, and we (and all our equipment) hit the ground running for our barracks where the Sergeants who would make life and death decisions for us for the next eight weeks awaited us.

We were told to get into full combat gear and fall out for formation in ten minutes. To make life even more challenging, this was accomplished while being yelled and cursed at by the cadre. It was the very moment when I learned to conjugate all the four letter words I knew and some I never heard before and realize that this was the only language the trainers knew.

After a "stroll" of two miles (interrupted by sessions of push-ups), we staggered back to our staging area and were now deemed fit to have breakfast. My tray was filled with food and colors that I never imagined existed.    Chief of which was a delicacy known as "chipped beef on toast", or as it was to be known as "S--t on a shingle."

My metal cup was filled with a dark black, thick, liquid that I was informed was coffee. It was at that very moment I made a decision to never again let that foul stuff pass my lips again.

I kept that pledge for over 45 years.

When we returned from our sojourn in New England, we had to reacquaint ourselves with our neighborhood and see what the action was for people our age. We discovered that along with the myriad of retail establishments in a two block radius, there were five places dispensing coffee. Two were of the Greek coffee shop category, and three were purveyors of quality coffee products.

I think we have finally finished the preamble and get down to my observations about the offerings of the three premium coffee houses in our neighborhood.

Corrado Bakery is located on the southeast corner of 70th Street and Lexington. It is just one of a few branches in Manhattan that is known for its baked goods. It is a bakery that sells coffee.

As you can see, they offer a wide variety of baked goodies and breads. We are true connoisseurs of bran muffins, and can assure you that these are beyond compare. They actually contain real bran and raisins.

When we are not being so pure, we can highly recommend their corn bread and bread pudding brioche. The latter is a cholesterol nightmare, but it does the system some good to get a jolt every once in a while. At least, I pretend that I am not doing permanent damage to myself.

The coffee is not up to the high standards set by the other two I will discuss, but certainly quite acceptable. The place is cramped with most of the space taken up with the display case containing their baked goods, bread and sandwiches. There are a few tables jammed into the remaining space. Not a comfortable place to sit and relax, but that changes during the warm weather when there are outdoor tables. Later on, I will discuss how we get our fix for the not-to-believed bran muffins.

Just a few doors down from Corrados sits our very favorite coffee establishment, Sicaffe. To just call it a "coffee establishment" is to diminish Sicaffe's importance in our lives. If Corrado is a bakery that sell coffee, Sicaffe is a coffee house that also sells baked goods.

The coffee is not equaled anywhere and to my untutored taste pallet is Nirvana! The. Decaf is like no where else. It has a taste like we have never experienced before.

We try to get to Sicaffe as often as possible and spend one hour enjoying the ambiance and our daily fix.  Sicaffe is more than just coffee; it is a place to sit at a table, meet friends, have good conversations and if on those rare moments when we are alone read a newspaper supplied by the establishment.

A real home away from home.

As if that is not enough, their satellite radio station plays non-stop Frank Sinatra and friends. It is like being in Italy and on many occasions Italian (or some other language) is prevalent.

The people who work here are professional and friendly. While their bran muffins are not as good as Carrados they are improving. Bran muffins are in short supply, so I call at 7am to reserve one.

How can you beat the combination of a good cup of coffee, music, newspapers, a circle of friends, and good  conversation?

Our last stop on this tour of coffee establishments is Oren's. This compact establishment in on the southwest corner of 71Street. It has a loyal following and we have gone there on occasion to get a cuppa to take home. We do this when we have the urge for a real bran muffin from Corrado and the second best coffee in the area.

It amazes me at all three establishments that the servers recognize us and most times I do not have to verbalize my order. The only time I have to tell them what I want is when the seasons change and my desire for iced Decaf grows.

There you have it. The complete story of coffee in my life. I might have been a slow starter, but now I am an addict.

Wonder how much caffeine is in Decaf.

Probably better that I don't know.

The End of Clutter...Perhaps!

"Yikes, hit the brakes!"
"You're heading right for the cliff."


Those of you "mature" (old, or in some cases like me, over ripe), those words are familiar as they assured us that once again we would see if Pauline escapes one impending disaster and 15 minutes later find herself once again in mortal danger.


It seems in the last chapter of "Clutter!', we were faced with three burning questions begging for an answer:

• Would two simple folks from New England find happiness in the big city?
• Will they manage to move all their stuff to smaller quarters?
• Who would benefit from the stuff left behind?

As you remember, our problem simply stated is how to squeeze the accumulated stuff from our Mystic home into our apartment in New York City. In other words, a house of roughly 4,000 square feet of stuff had to be squeezed into an apartment of 1,400 square feet.

A challenge to say the least.

We decided the best way to approach a problem of this magnitude was to categorize what we had and then decide what could possibly come with us to New York. 

In other words, separate needs from wants. Not easy for the male of the species as there is no line of demarcation between needs and wants. To my eyes, all that I can see I need. Life is simple, but that is yet another reason why man needs a mate.

I realize that the accompanying picture might be a stretch, but after all this (once again ) is my blog, so as they say in the 'hood..."suck it up!"

Enough of this blather, back to the categories we found:

• clothes
• outdoor games
• toys
• audio tapes; radio shows, classical, pop, jazz, standards, etc.
• CDs and DVDs; same as above. Duplication is my life.
• books, magazines, journals, newspapers. Not of the tonnage  of the Collyer Brothers, but we did have a life beyond accumulating clutter.
• art including furniture pieces and paintings by Philip Barter, a Maine artist.
• Native American art including baskets, and story tellers

 The first thing we decided to deal with were the clothes. Since we lived in New England for all four seasons, we had accumulated more than enough. We segregated those few items of clothing that we felt could make the move to the city and started (yet another) pile we designated NYC. What didn't make the cut, went to local not-for-profits that would recycle to their clients. We also had a special "no charge sale" for people who worked or provided services for us during our six years in Mystic. 

Books presented a bigger challenge as in our ten years in New England we had accumulated a rather large library between our non-fiction and KIDS related reading material. The biggest challenge of all is the availability of space for this collection in our library. 

As you can see in this photo, our living room bookcase in NYC is not made of rubber and therefore unable to absorb any additional books. Our office does contain some bookcases with some available room, but certainly not enough room for a few hundred books. We contacted our local library and they provided us with a solution. They came in and took every book and some went into their collection and others to friends of the library for sale. 

I had to face the problem of what to do with the Charlie books when we lived in the city full time. I certainly could not forward books to Bobbie. Unlike Mystic, the local Post Office is a zoo! This meant that I would be at the mercy of the NY Public Library for books unless another solution were found.

KINDLE came to the rescue. Jane had started to use KINDLE and was adding no additional clutter to our lives. If it was good for Jane, why wouldn't it be good for me. We bought a second KINDLE using the same email address allowing us to share our booty. In no time, I had created more clutter, but now it was stored in a portable device and not visible to the naked eye. Just think 1,500 books fit into the KINDLE.

It was like dying and going to Heaven.


Furniture is dispersed around Mystic and as far as we know are in good homes. The "art" furniture and paintings found a new life in our daughters' homes. When we lived in Maine, we started a collection of "art" from a Maine artist, Philip Barter. While I do not consider his work clutter, it sure took on a life of its own. With each passing year our collection kept growing. Our organic garden in Maine should have done as well. A few of his paintings actually made the cut and became part of our NY collection.


Once back in NY,I rolled up my sleeves and worked out my battle plan. The most critical problem I faced was what to do with perhaps 1,000 CDs that comprised my music collection. Realizing that I had to do something about this, I set about transferring all this music to my new computer with oodles of space on the hard drive. This transfer did not happen overnight and proved that "compulsive people do compulsive things" can accomplish any task the transfer took place.


I then realized that once I got rid of the CDs, if anything happened to the computer, I would be out of luck. I purchased a remote hard drive and not only backed up all my music files but all data on the hard drive.


Being by nature a worry wart, I now worried if both the PC hard drive and the remote one died what would I do. Along came a concept called "in the clouds." With much diligent effort, I managed to back up my all my data (including music) to the clouds.


One day AMAZON announced that at no cost, I could back up all my music to their cloud. Before you could say SHAZAM, I was now on the AMAZON cloud.  


Talk about clutter...I was creating it at a prodigious rate, BUT it was not my clutter as I could not see it.


Competition is a wonderful thing as in no time at all, Google came along with their own cloud. Since it did not cost me anything, I transferred my music to their cloud.


Now I would have to have a computer melt down, loss of my remote hard drive, my personal cloud and the AMAZON and Google clouds to lose all my music files.


Just when I thought that life couldn't get better, along came PANDORA. A service where I did not need my own library of music. I simply plugged in the artists I liked and in no time at all I had play lists with that artist and others of the same genre.


Just when I thought I could finally stop cluttering up the various clouds, the mother of all clouds descended on me, SPOTIFY. This particular cloud drifted across the Atlantic to our shores. Millions of songs from Classical to Sinatra to Peggy Lee to show tunes to...oh, well you get the message.


I have to come to the conclusion that clutter is good as long as it is not visible.


Welcome to the 21st Century.   

Books + Tapes + Cds + DVDs=CLUTTER

Clutter (organizing),is defined as a confusing or disorderly state or collection, and possible symptom of compulsive hoarding.


In my life there are two distinct types of clutter:

• Physical clutter as defined above, and
• Mental clutter- what my monkey brain is doing 24/7. We will not be "cluttering" this blog with mental clutter. This is best left in the hands of professionals as after all we need not add to the already high unemployment figures with high priced professionals.

This subject matter is so vast that it will take two blog postings to discuss. The first posting (the one you are reading) introduces the story of clutter in my life starting with the growth and takes you through the accumulation of stuff. The second blog discusses the realization that something had to be done with all this stuff and how I managed to gain control...sort of!

Clutter seeped into my life about twenty years ago when we bought a summer home in Kittery Point, Maine. We started to duplicate items that we deemed essential to life that we already owned, but were in New York. Also, we now had additional space to fill up; called a basement.

Lordy, that was like being a kid in a candy store with jingle in our jeans. Jane understood the difference between a "want" and "need." More than can be said about me!

While what I am about to describe does not come close to the legendary cluuter created by the infamous Collyer Brothers in New York City, but it does show how easy it is to add stuff to one's life.

Two educated brothers, Homer and Langley Collyer, lived in Harlem at the beginning of the 1900s and soon their house would have 180 tons of garbage, much of it newspapers, in it.The main impetus to save was when Homer went blind, and Langley, while taking care of him (like feeding him oranges for his sight), saved newspapers for him, adding to a collection that included 10 pianos, a disassembled car (or two) and a dozen gas chandeliers among other things. 


The Collyer Brothers only serve as background information as the clutter I managed to create till now is just a speck of dust in their collection.


At the time, we did not know that we would shortly buy a second house in Kittery Point (KP). This house would be a training ground for me in the art of collecting and storing in what would become my house of clutter. The original home in KP was a time for Jane to do the research and start writing her dissertation. No sooner did we get the house in shape, we made the decision to move to a larger space and while keeping our apartment in Manhattan spend more time in Kittery Point. We found a lovely Cape style home overlooking Pepperrrell Cove. While it was too small for our needs, we set about a massive renovation. The results of which was ample room to expand and expand we did.


There are three areas of interest that cried out for attention. They are:

• Books- both fiction (concentration on crime and espionage) and non-fiction (history and social justice issues)
• Music- (Classical, Jazz, Folk, Folk-Rock, Sinatra and friends (Peggy Lee, Doris Day, Tony Bennett, Dean Martin and a whole gaggle of others), and Country/rock ala Travis Tritt and Johnny Cash.
• Movies and old time radio- all the classics 

I made a connection with the Kittery Library and soon became instrumental in their selection of espionage and mystery books for their collection. I was a subscriber to Publisher's weekly (PW) and therefor had advanced knowledge of the new books. This did not add to clutter, but I went one step further.

I have a friend, Charlie, of well over 30 years and never knew that he was a voracious reader and liked the same types of books as I did. In addition, he liked to buy books. I was like a pig (in you know what) a dream had come true.

You guessed it! In no time at all, I sent my PW to him; he ordered and read the books and sent to me. The problem I had was that the library kept getting books and Charlie kept sending books. The shelves started to fill up and expanded to other nooks and crannies. Books started to show up in the most unlikely spots.

Before things turned critical, we moved into much larger quarters in Mystic, CT. Since this was a new construction, we were able to customize the house to fill our needs. That meant oodles of bookshelves scattered throughout the living and office space. Or at least what we thought would be ample for our needs.

"What fools we mortals be."

In no time at all, I had managed to fill the shelves and was back in the same predicament. Adding to my woes was a change in Charlie's distribution pattern and his having more time to read. Books started to flow north from Florida that in no time at all, the "empty" shelves began to groan under the weight of Charlies' books, library books, and sundry other forms of media.


When this overflow ended up on my bedside table, a voice from the other side of the room cried out that "enough is enough". A quick consultation with my Southern friend developed a plan reminiscent of the Marshall Plan that saved Europe after WW11. We enlisted my sister, Bobbie, who lived near Charlie, into the distribution pattern. The books now made a complete circle back to Charlie where he filled up his new bookshelves.


This worked well until we decided it was time to return to our real home in New York City. Our problem now would be what we were going to do with all the stuff we had accumulated in the past 16 years.


I think this is as good a place to take leave of this first installment of my battle with clutter. For those of you "mature" (old) enough to remember when the movies were proceeded with the Saturday's serials, I invite you to be patient and learn the answers to the following questions:

• Would two simple folks from New England find happiness in the big city?
• Will they manage to move all their stuff to smaller quarters?
• Who would benefit from the stuff left behind?

These are just some of the questions that will be answered in the near future, so stay tuned.

My Love/Hate Relationship With Technology

The other day our AM/FM Clock Radio died a sudden death. In the olden days, we would simply go to a store (you remember those places built out of bricks) and make our selection. The beauty of stores is that you can see and touch the item you are interested in buying.


I guess they still exist, but I simply fired up my computer and went to Amazon.com and was faced with hundreds of clock radios; from the very basic to the highly complex. 


I must confess that I am an addict. My addiction is not to booze, drugs or fast women, but to technology!


In this instance, my eye naturally gravitated to those clock radios that had the most bells and whistles. Simple just wouldn't do; I need a challenge that leads to frustration. My research led me to the Sangean RCR-Black AM/FM Atomic Clock Radio with iPod Dock.


What could be better than an "atomic clock radio"? My heart went pitter-patter as I read the description that promised to sync the radio with an atomic clock located in Colorado and keep perfect time for ever and ever. Not that I am programmed to last forever and ever. All I had to do was push a button and within an hour the radio would be ready to play.

I felt I was qualified to accomplish that without any problem. I did what I was instructed and waited for this miracle to take place. After the hour passed with nothing happening, I read the fine print. It told me what to do if I was unable to connect with this mysterious clock in CO. 


While the procedure was more complex and time consuming, the result was the same. After two hours of reading and following the instructions the clock still didn't work and ergo (three dots) I packed the clock up and sent it back to Amazon and replaced it with a low-tech model that worked simply by plugging it in. Voila! I pushed one button and it worked.

Just how did I arrive at this stage of addiction?


It started decades ago when I was in charge of marketing and sales for Golding Industries Inc, a manufacturer of textiles for the home furnishings industry. This was at the dawn of the PC and software development for business. I received a call from the person in charge of our computer department telling me about the interest of two people who had developed a "contact management" program for business applications. They were looking for companies willing to test the application. Not even knowing what "contact management" meant I immediately said, that I was willing to help test the program.


The program was ACT and over the years and decades it grew into the largest contact management program in the field. When I started, it was a simple program that a dum-dum like me could understand and put to good use. It has gone through various owners and with each new association, it got more and more complex. At first it was a stand alone program, but as other programs came into the field (primarily MS OUTLOOK) ACT learned how to interface with them. 


In no time at all, every year a new update was published causing me to spend countless hours on the phone with the support staff upgrading the program. I believe that everyone in support got to know my telephone number and learned to fear the call.


ACT is like eating a Lay's Potato Chip; you can't have just one. I have become so addicted to the program that life without ACT would be unthinkable. Without ACT, there would never have been KIDS. The program allowed us to operate as if we were a "real" organization with a full time staff, rather than Jane and me doing the daily work.


This next statement will strike fear into members of my family. It is almost September when the next ACT update bursts on the scene. This one will be compatible with all Google programs.


Just picture what life will be like here as I struggle to learn and incorporate the new and improved version into my life. 


Just think Atomic Radio.


Over the years I have graduated to other programs that promised Nirvana and in my hands turned to dust. Perhaps another day I will bore you with details of my continuing love/hate affair with technology.

From The Carlyle Hotel to Lenox Hill Hospital to Mt. Sinai Hospital or Heaven to Hell

How the "mighty" have fallen...all the way from the top of the food chain to the pits. 


Not a pretty sight or story.


Most of you probably didn't even notice that almost a month has passed since you last heard from me. Some of you are aware that on July 12, 2011, an event happened that changed our lives.


While it did not carry the same weight as the recent "debt crisis", it did thrust us into the not so gentle hands of this country's medical system. 


Early one morning as Jane and I were walking on Park Avenue on the way to a doctor's appointment, Jane suddenly pitched forward and crashed to the ground. She had tripped on a broken sidewalk. It was obvious that she was hurt, so I immediately dialed 911 thinking that in just a flash we would be on the way to Lenox Hill Hospital just a scant 6 blocks away.


Not going to happen. I made two more calls to see when the ambulance would arrive before we spotted one coming from the hospital and turning right on Park Avenue. The only problem was that he was heading in the wrong direction. Another call to 911, and we spotted the ambulance make a U-turn and with siren blasting was on his way to us.


Once in the ambulance I envisioned us speeding to the hospital, but I was wrong. No siren, but rather we stopped for traffic lights and people jay-walking. What seemed like hours but only was minutes we arrived at the Emergency Room.  Unlike the medical shows on TV, the first stop was to supply them with proof of medical coverage before entering the triage unit.

Not to worry, as we would be spending the next 10 hours as guests (prisoners?) of the dedicated ER staff. All started well, and the staff was attentive and it appeared that in no time at all we would be on our way to finding out what damage had been done in the fall.


What really happened was that I had to shed my mild mannered persona and become a overbearing advocate demanding action. In all fairness, the ER was crowded and the staff busy doing whatever the staff does. Lots of people in white coats moving around, but none seemed to settle near us. 


By this time, TEAM LEVINE (TL) had expanded by one as our daughter, Sandra, joined the fray. The mission of TL started simply to get help for Jane, but in no time we expanded our outreach to help the woman in the next bay who kept calling for help that never arrived. 


Finally an x-ray was taken that showed Jane had fractured her right hip and left wrist. In no time at all, a member of the orthopedic staff appeared to tell us that an operation on the hip was necessary and that speed was of the essence. At the same time our personal internist arrived and TL now grew stronger. At least a bit stronger, as we learned that the ER doctors rule in the ER.


The "orthopod" assured us that the hip operation would be a simple one and would only require "pins" and not a hip replacement. Shortly thereafter, we were told that the fracture was worse than it first appeared and a partial hip replacement was called for.


The orthopedic surgeon poked his head into our curtained cubicle and informed us that further study of the x-ray triggered the need for a CT-SCAN. After that, we were told that Jane needed a total hip replacement.


I figured if we remained in the hands of this doctor, we would be told about escalating her condition to one requiring a frontal lobotomy.


Our personal doctor sprung into action, and arranged for the Chief of Adult Reconstruction at the hospital, Dr. Jose Rodriguez, to take over the case. Immediately, we felt like we were in the hands of a professional, and subsequent events would prove us right.


The operation for that night was cancelled and rescheduled on a "stand-by basis" for the next day. We were released from the ER and were on our merry way to a private room. We felt this was necessary so that I would be able to stay with Jane 24/7 during her stay. We had heard horror stories about hospital personnel following the strict protocol demanded by Parkinson's medications (meds). 


The room was pleasant overlooking Park Avenue with a wonderful view of  nearby Carlyle Hotel. It was almost like being home, but reality set in quickly. In all her time at the hotel, no one appeared to take blood,  vital signs, and generally make sure that she never got too comfortable.


Once settled in the room, Jane sent me home to gather up all her meds and bring them back to the room. Her foresight was proven right the very next morning when the nurse arrived with the first scheduled dose of her meds. Jane's schedule starts at 6am and continues 5 times a day every three hours. 


The nurse not only was late, but the medicine was not the right one. We were furious, and in front of the nurse I gave Jane the right meds from our private and illegal stash. 


This proved to be the opening salvo of a battle that would continue unabated until after her operation when we finally were in a position to blackmail the nurse. The day nurse continued to show up with Jane's meds whenever the mood struck her. She informed us that it did not matter if the meds were not given exactly on time and she was allowed leeway of one half hour in either direction.



Shortly after the operation, she was late with the 3pm meds. After a half hour I went out on the floor and the following conversation took place:

ME: Where were you, it is now 1/2 hour past the time for my wife's medications

NURSE: Why did you wait until now to come and get me? I have told you that you are not to administer to her and if you did I would turn you into security.

ME: Sounds reasonable to me, but I have another possible solution.

NURSE: What!!!

ME: If you get off my back and show up on time from here on in, I will not turn you in to your supervisor for endangering a patient and your unprofessional manner.

After this short "discussion", the problem disappeared.

We met the surgeon Wednesday morning when he and his entourage made their rounds. When he entered the room, TL knew that we were in the hands of a top professional and the medical version of a rock/movie star. As Sandra remarked, "he was gorgeous!" He explained that Jane could not eat (her second day without food) as she was standby for an operation later that day. 

At 4pm, she was taken to the operating floor to await surgery. Sandra and I were in the waiting room until 10pm when she came out of the recovery room and went back to her room. The operation itself only lasted about 1 1/2 hours, and was a resounding success.


A really cool thing that they do to enhance the patients' stay is fostering a connection between the food service personnel and the patient. This takes the form of a visit to the room by a member of the "nutrition" team to discuss the day's offerings with Jane and deftly exhibit a hand held computer and enter the next day's selection into the system. The only problem with this hand on approach is that on two occasions, Jane received no food.


Our stay at Lenox Hill came to an end on Friday with the transfer to Mt. Sinai Hospital Rehabilitation unit. One of the top rated rehab centers in the city and the country. As we climbed aboard the ambulance, I could swear that the entire hospital breathed a deep sigh of relief with our departure.


We arrived at the rehab center in the late afternoon. It was chaos as our arrival seemed to be a surprise and confusion reigned supreme. We also found out that all the physical and occupational services were closed on the weekend except for an evaluation of Jane and my getting certified to operate a wheelchair. Both of these were done early Saturday morning and we were free to hang for the weekend. 


Before I describe the ordeal we encountered during this phase of our travails, let me say that the therapists were outstanding and almost worth the lack of support by the nursing staff.


If we thought that we had problems at Lenox Hill, in no time at all we discovered that there was a major disconnect regarding patient care. A cardinal rule of this center was that no patient was allowed off their bed unsupervised. This was to make sure that no one would fall. Sound policy with only one major flaw. When Jane (or anyone else) pressed the call button, there was no response. Early in our stay, I saw Jane's 80+ frail roommate crawl out of bed, get her walker and stagger to and from the bathroom. She did not set any world speed records and in the time it took her to complete her journey, not one member of staff appeared.


I was awakened at home one morning at 1am by a phone call from Jane saying that she had made it to the bathroom herself, but could not get back into bed. She had pressed the call button many times with no response. I managed to get someone on the phone and after much yelling and screaming got them to send someone to the room to help Jane. The nurse delivered a strong message that Jane should never call her husband and upset him.


Another example of patient care redefined was after waiting one night foran hour for someone  to answer the "call bell", she walked out into the hallway heading towards the nurses' station. Like good "old St. Nick" much to her surprise what did she see but all the floor nurses gathered around the desk laughing and having a good old time. When one of them spotted Jane, she quickly rushed over to see why she was out of bed and what she wanted.


On Thursday, the therapists wanted to release Jane, but the doctor felt that a little more therapy would be helpful. Facing the thought of another non-productive weekend in the clutches of the staff, we opted to be discharged on Friday.


Yesterday we received a bill for the private room charges at Lenox Hill. To our dismay, we discovered that we were charged for an extra night's stay. After calling and pushing 1, 2, 3 etc. buttons as directed I finally spoke to a "live" person. Waiting for a call back and notification that they have corrected the mistake and they will correct their mistake and refund the money.


Then again, I am by nature an optimist!


One of the things we learned through our experience at the rehab center was if you could handle the lack of care exhibited by the staff, the therapy was well worth most of the angst.


Probably the greatest lesson learned from Lenox Hill and Mt. sinai was that some people make friends wherever they go, The Levines make friends whenever they go.

"If you climb to the top of this lamppost, you might see something."

Friday started out like any other day, but the moment we stepped out of the building we knew something strange was taking place. 


Usually at 7:45am, what little foot traffic there was would be heading west towards Central Park. Not today! Lots of people out and about and streaming east away from the park. Like salmons swimming upstream, we went against the tide and  fought our way to the 72nd Street entrance.


Lots of noise coming from the theater housing Summer Stage where every Friday morning Good Morning America presents a live concert. If you remember, this blog described a day when Lady Gaga performed and the crowds she drew to this venue in the park. 


As they say in the 'hood, "You ain't seen nothing yet." They were here to see and hear Beyonce in action. Only those blessed by God would actually gain entry to Summer Stage.


The crowd waiting outside the park entrance was enormous; far exceeding the Lady Gaga fans. So large, that normal (?) people like us, were not permitted entrance to the park and had to walk another four blocks to 76th street to gain entry. The attendees were of a different caliber and while very vocal lacked the costumes sported by the Gaga followers. These were in traditional jean garb and except for the shrieks emanating from their mouths appeared no different from any of today's younger generation.


When we finally got into the park we were able to get relatively near the center of action. It was at that point that Jane heard a park attendant telling a young girl that  "If you climb to the top of this lamppost, you might see something."


He was definitely smoking hemp as there was no way that would happen. Where we were standing the concert was only a rumor. Beyonce could not be heard over the din and there was nothing to be seen, but the bass was pounding in our ears.


I have a dim memory of the first time I actually got involved with a situation like this. It was in 1944 when I was 10 years old. My sister was a member of the bobby sock generation and their idol was Frank Sinatra. The venue was the Paramount Theater theater on Broadway. I grew up with that man and his music, and he remains a favorite until this day.


My Sinatra story took place at a recording session I was privileged to attend one early morning. It was not anything like they depict in movies. It consisted of a bunch of motley looking people in a control booth looking out on shirt sleeved musicians and  a not so relaxed and cool Sinatra. The session lasted over three hours until a cursing and short tempered Sinatra accepted the final cut. He was a perfectionist and long after the producer said "that's a wrap" Sinatra insisted it be done again, again and again. To this day, when I hear "It happened in Monterey", it causes a shiver to run down my spine. 

Central Park had concerts performed by the Philharmonic Orchestra until this year. They promise to start again in 2012 as it was a great loss for the Classical music lovers when it was discontinued for budgetary reasons. The highlight always was at the end when fireworks would accompany the music. These concerts drew thousands of people to the Great Lawn. They would come early to claim their territory and typical of New Yorkers great feasts and wine would be a central part of their evening in Central Park. 


On the night of September 19, 1981, the folk-rock duo of Simon & Garfunkel reunited  for a free concert on the Great Lawn of Central Park. For those of us who were there it was an experience that would never again be repeated. It was  attended by more than 500,000 people which at that time was the largest audience to ever attend a concert in the park.


People started to gather and "reserve" their spots on the lawn two days in advance. We were so late in getting there that we actually never found a spot of earth that was not already taken, so we joined the never ending line of people circulating around the outer perimeter of the Great Lawn. We never stopped moving as the NYPD was there to insure that we could not alight anywhere.


As we approached the park, we noticed that there was this strange looking fog bank covering the Great Lawn. We thought that was peculiar as the night was perfectly clear. Once in the park, the reason for this fog was perfectly evident. Nearly everyone had lit up an illegal substance and were busily enjoying The Sounds of Silence (this clip is from the concert) and other songs, and enhancing the music with whatever they were smoking. This mixture was lethal and that unlike President Clinton, I did inhale. AND never felt more mellow in my life.


As Archie and Edith sang..."those were the days."

'Tis The Season

Nope, I am not rushing things, as I am not talking about the Christmas season. Rather Spring starts the season when parades and street fairs in the city are in full swing.


I am not sure of this statement, but from all indications, this city must take the award for the most street celebrations held. It is no surprise when you look at the diverse makeup of the citizens of New York.


In just the last few weeks, we had two parades and one street fair 
on the east side of the island. Since the street fair is the least glamorous event, let me dispense with it quickly. For those few folks who live west of the Hudson River (known to a true New Yorker as "others"), a street fair is similar to county or State fairs in the outer territories. The main difference is the sheer size of a NY street fair. It is held on weekends and only on major thoroughfares. This enables a fair on Third Avenue to tie up traffic in the entire borough of Manhattan. A sight to behold as long as you have made no plans to be somewhere on time.


No matter where the fair is located, today's composition is the same.
Street vendors plying their trade and bands, jugglers, clowns, food of all types and huge crowds milling about. In the olden days, this was not the case as each neighborhood had a celebration that was unique to their neighborhood. The sights, sounds and smells are not to be believed. Also, not to be believed are the hordes of people lined up to purchase grilled meat sandwiches from (at best) dirty looking vendors. Not to worry, as they have licences dangling from their necks issued by the City of New York insuring patrons that the food is deemed safe for human consumption.


Moving on to parades, in this era of full disclosure I must tell you I have a conflict of interest. I once marched in a parade on Fifth Avenue and enjoyed the experience. It was back in the dark ages when every year the city celebrated Armed Forces Day, and believe it or not, I was a member of the Army Reserves. (That should tell you how desperate this country was when they had to draft people like me). It is a story for another time, but I was a member of the 353rd Civil Affairs & Military Government unit. A company whose sole mission was to govern a country the size of the USSR or China. How crazy is that?


In any case, the first parade of the season was the Israel Day parade. By no stretch of the imagination is this a traditional parade. It lacks basic components like marching bands, military units, and lots of people in uniform. Rather you will see groups of people strolling up Fifth Avenue, dancing in the street or simply talking to the thousands of spectators lining the parade route. It is similar to a family party; and it truly is just that. After the parade, the eating places are jammed with people munching away, laughing, singing and having the time of their lives.

For the past 54 years, the second Sunday in June is devoted to the Puerto Rican Day parade on Fifth Avenue. It draws hundreds of thousand spectators along the parade route. In the past, this parade tended to get out of control and one year culminated in attacks on visitors to Central Park. Others celebrants roamed the streets of the city causing great damage to property. This is no longer the case as Police presence has been beefed up and Central Park has been in a "lock down" state to prevent anyone from enjoying the park on this day.


Despite all this, the parade is something to behold. The floats are creative and plentiful. The music is varied and has a Latin beat that really gets the spectators moving. This parade (along with the one on St. Patrick's day) never seems to end. Long after the last marchers have completed the parade route, the roar of motorcycles with Puerto Rican flag fluttering behind can be heard roaring up and down the canyons of New York.


On to the granddaddy of all parades, The St. Patrick's Day Parade, drawing the most participants and spectators of all the parades in the city.  My memories of this event date back to the time I lived on 96th Street made famous for being the termination point of this event. those of us who lived on the block, referred to this as "Hell on Earth." The sound of bag pipes, drums and shouting people was non-ending. 


To make matters worse, the NYPD members (and those from outlying areas could be seen imbibing liquid refreshment from bottles covered by paper bags. Some could hardly stand up, but all rushed over to the colleens passing by sporting large buttons saying "Kiss me, I'm Irish."   


And, kiss them, they did!

Meanwhile the local drinking establishments were doing a land office business. The sound of music (?) poured out of countless doors and those standing (?) in line waiting to enter. Not that they needed to gain entrance to share in the liquid bounty. 


I am sure that there were some who enjoyed the parade and then returned to their homes to gather around the piano and enjoy a quiet evening at home.


There is another major parade that takes place on Thanksgiving Day. I am going to hold this in abeyance for another blog. The Macy's parade is now known to the world through television, but it is not the parade I knew. More about this later. 



I do want to leave you with the most bizarre event I have ever witnessed in a parade. There is a little known and sparsely attended parade dedicated to General (Baron) Von Stuben. He was a Prussian general who along with his men aided General Washington during the Revolutionary War. The German American Society obtained the rights to hold an annual parade in his honor.


Yorkville used to be a German enclave and the parade ended on 86th Street. A street that before gentrification was lined with German restaurants and stores. I was walking home one day as the parade was ending. I looked up and noticed the helmets that some of the marchers were wearing and realized that they were WWII vintage, and not American. I was stunned, when I saw that some of the spectators were crying. In the background the band was playing the German National Anthem composed by  Joseph Hayden. The current version was usurped by the Nazis with the addition of two stanzas that are no longer sung.

I don't speak German, so I can't say if the people I heard singing were in their minds reliving those days. I do know that prior to the declaration of war between Germany and the U.S., this area was the home of the German American Bund. In 1963, when we moved into the area, George Lincoln Rockwell, leader of the Nazi party in this country, was still active in Yorkville. As a matter of fact, on the day before we moved into our new apartment his group was holding a rally on the block.


That parade sent a shiver down my spine and still does till this very day.