September 19, 2000—Annual Report

Hello Everyone!

Next week marks the one-year anniversary of the official debut of A Rock In My Shoe. Can you believe it's been that long? I remember when I started it on that Labor Day weekend a year ago. I didn't know diddly about any of this stuff. Those first few efforts were pretty crude. Remember those gray pages with no graphics? So, many thanks to all of you who have supported and encouraged me in this endeavor during this past year. Now it's time for me stop rambling, griping, and complaining for a moment and report back to all of you "stock holders."

Looking back, initially I was disappointed with myself in that I did not write more chapters. There are only five chapters posted thus far. But then I realized that I have also written sixteen Ramblings, many of which could be chapters in themselves. So if you've just been waiting for "chapters" you might want to peruse this Ramblings section. Read, for example, I Want My Pinot Grigio or Bird Droppings, further down on this page.

In order to keep moving forward at a faster than crab-dancing pace, I bought a new computer this spring. It's a Macintosh G-4 with lots of bells and whistles. No, I'm not one of those Mac-addicted people who act holier-than-thou when they get into discussions about which is better, Macs or PCs. It's just that I started on a Mac back in the mid 80's and have had five of them before getting this one. But I am also conversant with PCs. I used a Dell at my last job. Secretly though, having used both, I do prefer the Macs.

To go with the new computer, I got some professional web design software, Dreamweaver and Fireworks, and then I took a course in them. But the course was not long enough and I'm still struggling to learn how to use all of the features of these truly remarkable programs. But I guess I've at least learned a little, because a couple of people have asked me to help them design their own web sites. It's fascinating stuff—and I do get engrossed it in easily—but believe me, I have no desire to be a full-time web designer even if I really did know what I was doing.

One of the things I'm most excited about is that I now own the domain name, www.arockinmyshoe.com. So you no longer have to remember that long www.geocities.com/soho/rich1nyc/blah/blah/blah. All you need to remember is A Rock In My Shoe Dot Com. The geocities URL, however, still comes up in your browser's address bar. That's not supposed to happen, but Yahoo!Geocities has thus far not been able to explain to me why this happens. I get very frustrated dealing with them, because you can never just pick up the phone and talk to a real person. You have to submit your questions by e-mail, and then after waiting two or three days for an answer, it usually comes in the form of some automated response that doesn't help you. More about this in my next Ramblings, which may make another chapter.

Speaking of the new domain name, I also have a new e-mail address. It's richardbradley@nyc.rr.com. I hated to give up the interport.net address. I always felt it had a certain cachet. Interport used to be a great little Manhattan-based ISP. Sometimes I would even walk over to their office on Broadway and ask a question or pick up a copy of their latest software. No more. They sold out to a company called RCN about a year ago and my service has never been the same. My main complaint was that I kept getting disconnected—as many as six times a day! But I was also ready for a high-speed connection. I considered a DSL line, but there have been tremendous problems with DSLs in Manhattan. Apparently, Bell Atlantic (Verizon) only calculated the distance from building to building for their lines and sub-stations. What they didn't calculate was the extra distance of going UP the buildings! Lot's of people are unhappy with their DSLs here.

More than one corporate IT director recommended that, at least for the time being, I go with cable. So I got Time-Warner's Roadrunner service. I've had it a week and so far it is terrific. Web pages practically blast onto the screen. And it is always on. No more dialing up or getting disconnected. Now I just have to make sure I don't forget and design something into the site that will take a long time to load with the more common 56K or slower modems. But don't worry. I'm a long way from using Flash and Javascript!

There is, with this posting, a new chapter. It's called The Company Laugh. I think it's pretty funny, but then I'm my own best audience. It's a spoof about the way people laugh when they're on the job. It's an amalgam of my experiences working at several different companies, but people's names have been changed to protect the guilty. Check it out and let me know what you think. I have two others in my head that will also deal with work and will complete my "work trilogy." Those are, "Get a Job," and "Help Wanted." Stay tuned.

Finally, I'd just like to say a few words about where I see A Rock In My Shoe going in it's second year. I'm hoping it will become more interactive. I'm thrilled that so many of you have signed the Guestbook, and I guess that is a form of interactivity. But I would really love it if some of you would post your own "rocks" in the Guest Appearances section. So far, the only thing in there right now is an article written by my dad.I know some of you are great writers (some even published) and profound thinkers. Send me your stuff! Let's get it published on the web.The only thing I ask is that it be at least somewhat humorous and not obscenely profane—mild cussing is OK.

Also, would anyone be interested in seeing a bulletin board brought back? I tried it during the first few weeks, but nothing much got posted. It was kind of awkward, anyway. But I might be able to find a more user-friendly bulletin board. Let me know if you think it's worth a second go at it.

So that's about it for now. Thanks again for all your support. Until next time. . .

Richard

 

August 25, 2000—Pay to the Order Of

I promised myself when I started this project almost a year ago that I would strive to control my anger and not let A Rock In My Shoe become a bitching forum for every little thing that bothers me. Nobody likes a whiner—least of all me—and that's why I try to focus mainly on the funny side of things, pointing out the ridiculousness of some the events we are confronted with every day. But dammit, I've got a head of steam worked up again today and this time I'm going to break my own rule. My topic is—yet again—the Long Island Rail Road. Nothing irritates me more than this monopolistic, bureaucratic, idiotic and hypocritical “public service” institution—with the possible exception of my health insurance provider.

Two events happened this week that's got me all riled up. The first was Thursday evening when my wife and I decided to take the train out of Penn Station to Long Island to attend a retirement party for some former colleagues of mine. As some of you know, I stopped working on Long Island about five months ago, so that miserable daily ride I did for ten years had faded into an almost distant memory. Until, that is, we got to Penn Station and learned that there was no 5:11 to Mineola.

Now why did I think there was a 5:11 to Mineola, you ask? Because that's what it said on the LIRR's Website. And silly me, I believed it. Sometimes I just never learn. Fortunately, we got to the station early because we had planned to buy tickets at the window since it costs an extra $2 a ticket if you buy them on the train. That's when we learned there was only a 4:54 and a 5:25 to Mineola—no 5:11. We had figured that a 5:11 would make us just fashionably late, but since the party was starting at 5:30, we made a frantic mad dash to Track 18 where the 4:54 was just finishing it's boarding.

The second event, though, is what really triggered me off. I got a collection notice in the mail today from the Trans-Continental Credit and Collection Corp. Oh yes, the old TCC&CC. I know you well. This is the forth time you've written to me and each time I just throw your letters into the trash. So now you are going to take “possible legal action,” huh? Wow, I'm shaking in my shoe. Maybe we can even go to court if I let this thing drag on long enough. But I don't think so. I don't think you're going to tie up your expensive lawyers with my case. Not for $145. Go chase some victims of the credit card companies.

The reason Tee Cee Cee and Cee Cee is on my case is because they are trying to collect a debt that I owe to—you guessed it—the Long Island Rail Road. I've been jerking their collective chains for almost a year now.

It all started back last December when I failed to make payment on my $135 monthly Mail & Ride ticket before the 3rd of the month. If the LIRR doesn't get your money by the 3rd of the month, they don't send you a ticket the following month. You have to go stand on line with all the other poor schmucks and buy your ticket at the window. They also tag on a $10 late fee. So the bottom line is, after you've paid your $145, bought a couple of tickets at the window, waited for the mail and everyone's paperwork to catch up with each other—you're back on track (no pun intended) from your December mistake by about the time trout season opens.

This happened to me once before, years ago. That's why I know the drill. But this time I decided not to play. I figured, what the hell, they owe me at least one free month after my putting up for ten years with their shitty service. Call it a rebate. Call it customer goodwill. Call it, “I'm mad as hell and I'm not taking it anymore!”

Naturally, the notices soon started coming from the LIRR. Every couple of months I'd get a nice letter offering me the opportunity to get back into their good graces. Meanwhile I'm buying my tickets at the window, which I soon learn is really no more hassle than having to write a check every month.

I suppose I may have been cutting off my nose to spite my face. Sooner or later it had to all catch up with me. And now it's time to pay the piper. I mean, I don't want to get a black mark on my credit report or anything, right? God forbid. By the way, have you ever ordered copies of your credit reports? There's a scary one for you. I did it recently and have never seen so much erroneous information in one place in my life. Took me months to straighten it out, and I'm sure by now it is all screwed up again. The idea that a lending company would place any value whatsoever in what's in someone's credit report is mind-wobbling. It says a lot about the state of business today. But I digress.

So now my “debt is being evaluated for possible legal action.” I have this image in my head of all these lawyers and their flunkies sitting around a conference table up in White Plains, NY trying to decide how to proceed with my case. “Say F. Lee, what are we going to do about this Bradley guy down in New York City?” So I decided to send them a check today. But I'm sure I'll hear from them again. There's at least one more chapter to the story. I made sure of that.

Have you ever seen those TV segments where someone from a bank talks about all the strange objects that checks have been written on and presented for cashing? You know, like checks written on napkins or on the backs of photographs? There was even a check written once on the side of a cow or a pig, I forget which. Supposedly these checks are legal, as long as they are properly signed and all the necessary information is included. So that's how I decided to end my saga with the Long Island Rail Road and TCC&CC. I created my own check.

I had a momentary lapse in judgement when I thought about writing “Pay to the Order of TCC&CC” on the side of my dog. But I wouldn't wish anything to do with the LIRR on any dog, let alone my own. The city is full of cow statues this summer—some call it art. But conscripting Elsie into service didn't seem fair either. Toilet paper seemed the most apropos, but I wasn't sure it would hold up.

I finally settled on your basic copy machine piece of paper. I was nice though. I typed it out so that it was perfectly legible. I mean, why be an asshole, right? At the bottom, where you would normally put a memo to yourself, I wrote down an expletive regarding the purpose of the check. Then I dutifully deducted the $145 from our checking account. I also included my phone number, which is something I rarely give out. But I don't want to miss the opportunity of enjoying the reaction from the folks at TCC&CC. I'm sure I'll hear from them soon. After all, they are trying to collect a debt. And since I gave them my phone number, “Any information obtained will be used for that purpose.”

 

August 3, 2000—I Want My Pinot Grigio

One of these days I'm going to devote an entire chapter of this book to all the assholes and idiots I've run into over the years. In fact, I'll title the chapter—you guessed it—Assholes and Idiots.

Unlike apples and oranges, assholes and idiots fall pretty much from the same tree. What separates them is a distinction of very little difference. Both species are irritating. Both pop up in the most unexpected places. Both are usually rude, obnoxious and oblivious to the effect they have on other people.

However, all things being equal, I prefer idiots over assholes. At least idiots usually can't help themselves. They often suffer from lack of experience or education or from poor company training. They are usually coping the best they can, straining every corpuscle in their walnut-sized brains to figure out how, for example, to make the correct change when they've already rung up your ten-dollar bill and then you decide to pay with a twenty. But assholes, on the other hand, seem to go out of their way to be jerks. These are the people who lean on their horns when there's no way the traffic can possibly move. Get it? It has to do with being inconsiderate. I'm back from fishing now and I want to talk about the assholes I observed up close while on that trip.

We made one mistake on this trip—the timing. Little did we realize (we were idiots) that the one week of the summer we chose to fish in the Poconos was the week leading up to the Pennsylvania 500. By Friday afternoon the hills were alive with thousands of NASCAR enthusiasts. On top of that, it was also Parents Week at all the summer camps in the area. Parents Week, for those of you who don't know, is when the folks come to visit their kids at camp and collect their $4000 ashtrays that little Jared and Chelsea made in arts and crafts class. What all of this means is that there was not a hotel room to had within a hundred miles of the area. We were lucky to find any accommodations at all.

So on Friday, after our second day of fishing, Allan and I go our motel lobby bar. I ask the bartender, a pleasant woman, if I could have a class of pinot grigio. Pinot grigio is my "default" wine. I generally don't care for red wines, chardonnay is too smoky for my taste, and if I'm going to drink that other staple of non-New York bars—white zinfandel—well, I might as well drink Kool Aid.

Of course there was no pinot grigio, so I opted for the chardonnay—which actually wasn't bad, considering. We then got into a friendly conversation with the bartender and a local couple who had stopped in. Seated in the lounge area were a few other people, including a couple of women and their children—obviously up for Parents Week. It was starting out to be a most pleasant pre-dinner hour.

And then the assholes arrived. In swaggered a handful of thirty-something New York males in their carefully-faded designer jeans, chic sunglasses and $100 haircuts. I know they were New Yorkers because they were still complaining about the traffic on the West Side Highway. A couple of these guys were the husbands and fathers of the women and children in the lounge. They proceed to conduct a family reunion. They talk too loud. They let everyone know how their BMW performed on the trip and how they were going to have to rough it staying at this little motel with no room service.

With his sunglasses still on, the designated head swaggerer swaggered over to the bar to order drinks for his entourage.

"Do you have pinot grigio?" he asked the bartender.

"No sir, just chardonnay and white zinfandel."

HARRIET, THEY DON'T HAVE PINOT GRIGIO!

I was spellbound. I couldn't wait to see how they were going to handle this catastrophe. Peeling a $100 bill off a wad taken from his pocket, Swagger Number One tossed it on the bar and ordered the women chardonnays. Then he bought Corona beers for himself and his buddies. Thank God, the bartender remembered the lime slices.

Embarrassed by the behavior of my fellow New Yorkers, I smiled at the bartender. She rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, we get them every year at this time," she complained.

Oh course I wanted to ask why, if these people came here every year at the same time, the motel just didn't lay in a supply of pinot grigio for the week. But I didn't.

The next night the same crowd was back so I decided to have some fun with them. The same bartender was there, as well, so I raised my voice a couple of decibels and ordered a "pinot grigio." Without missing a beat, she quickly poured me a chardonnay and set it in front of me. Clearly, the swaggers heard me order—and presumably get—pinot grigio. But they didn't say anything. They had tried to bring in their own beer—Corona, no less—and I think by now they realized they were pushing their luck. Maybe they thought I had my own private stash, I don't know. Anyway, I soon ordered another one and, for good measure, one for the front desk person that had just gotten off work and joined us.

There's a certain kind of person that just reeks of assholeness and it had been awhile since I had observed any of them up close. I had no interaction with these people, other than to have to listen to their shit. What bothered me the most about them was the way they just didn't seem to see anyone else around them—least of all the bartender, at whom they tossed their money. So I started to wonder why some people are this way.

I think it has to do with upbringing. Hell, that's no great revelation. Everything has to do with upbringing, right? As my wife is fond of saying, "Breeding will tell." These people were obviously affluent. But they probably were children of the nouveaux riches. In other words, their parents were the first in their clan to make any real money.

I don't know why, but most nouveaux riches I've met just don't seem to have any taste or manners, regardless of the values they may have been brought up with. Or if they do, then I guess I just don't think of them as nouveaux riches. They're just nice people who did well. Nouveaux riches carries a negative connotation. These people irritate. And they imitate. They do the things they think rich people should do. They buy "culture" and all kinds of stuff. Then they talk loudly about all that stuff they bought. And they spoil their kids.

Ironically, the children of these PWAs (Parents Week Assholes) were, for the most part, well-behaved. Hopefully, by the time they grow up their parents will have learned something from them.

 

July 15, 2000—The Hardly Waits

Remember when you were a kid and there was some big event planned that you were just dying to go to but it wasn't going to happen for several weeks yet? You know, like the circus or the state fair?  Or a trip? Or a visit from some far-off relatives? Or maybe it was just some regularly occurring event like your birthday or Christmas? You'd count the days. And as the days dwindled down at an ever more agonizingly slow pace, it would get harder and harder to stand the pressure. You would almost explode with anticipation. You could hardly wait for that big moment to arrive.

Well, that's the way I feel right now. I've got a bad case of the hardly waits.

You see, every year about this time I go fishing with my good friend, Allan. This year's trip is coming up in just three more days. And like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, I've been planning for it almost as soon as we got back from the last one.

This will be our seventh trip together. The first one was not much more than an overnighter at a small lake in the Catskill Mountains of New York State. We got our hands on a rowboat and we paddled around that damned puddle for hours. It rained, I recall. It was sort of chilly. I don't think I caught a single fish. Allan caught maybe one or two. But it was great fun, and I had just rediscovered fishing, after not having gone for almost 25 years.

The next five trips took us to Lake Champlain and some of the smaller lakes in the Adirondacks (see Adirondack Fishing in the Photo Gallery). With the help of Allan and some expert guides, I started catching fish—although Pam doesn't believe me because we never brought any home with us. I guess she thinks we just borrowed someone else's fish for those pictures.

Our trips grew in length from that first overnighter to five full days. But Lake Champlain—at least the part that we would go to—is right up there near the Canadian border. It's an eight-hour haul from New York City. So this year we've decided to see if we can cut down on the travel time which (duh) leaves more time for fishing. We are going to try our luck in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, about a two-hour drive from here.

You might find it interesting to know that this year we made most of our arrangements through the Internet. We got all kinds of information—and suggestions from other friendly fisherman—all by surfing the web and posting requests for info on newsgroups. We booked our guide, our lodging and a couple of days of boat rentals all by e-mails. All it took was a couple of follow-up phone calls to confirm things and find out what the fish are biting on this week. Armed with this information and a half-dozen maps I picked up from Hagstrom store, we should be in pretty good shape.

I'm doubly excited this year because, since Allan will be coming from the west, I am going to rendezvous with him in Pennsylvania by taking the easy chair to the Delaware Water Gap. The "easy chair," in case you didn't know, is the bus. I haven't ridden a cross-country bus since my army days. I've got a Jimmy Buffet book to read during the hour- and-a-half ride. It just seemed appropriate, for some reason.

Regarding this site, I'm starting to learn to use Dreamweaver, a web-building software program. I'm taking a class in it right after I get back from the fishing trip. Hopefully, in the near future you will see my new skills reflected in the layout of the site.

I know, I know, I haven't put any new chapters up in awhile. But I AM working simultaneously on two new ones. One is "Get a Job," and the other is "The Company Laugh." I'm cracking myself up writing them, so I think they'll be pretty funny. But it has been a slow go because I have a lot of other things going on right now in my life—like an extreme need to procrastinate. Also, I've been experimenting around with sound. I'd like to put a sound intro onto each of these new chapters—something like doop, doop, doop, doop, Get a Job, by the Silhouettes, and a laugh track voice for the other one. I've stuck my toe in the water and have actually made a sound file, but I don't understand yet how to get it into a format that will play (and loop) on the website without taking a hell of a long time to download.

After a long wait, Pam has an addition to "Pam's Corner."  Boy, does she have a rock in HER shoe. Check it out!

Finally, my sister, Jane, has been elected Recording Secretary for the Reflexology Association of America. Since there's an entire page on the Association's website about her, I put a link to it under "These Friends of Mine" on the homepage. Congratulations, Jane!

That's it for now. Until next time, tight lines! (hee, hee.)

June 17, 2000—All the News that's Fit to Print

The humorist Will Rogers used to say that all he knew was what he read in the newspapers. In fact, he often started his vaudeville routines by simply reading the day's news to the audience. Since I'm a little hard up for interesting material this morning, I thought I'd give it a try myself. After all, I've said more than once in these Ramblings that I can't make this stuff up. Let's see what happens.

Tomorrow is Father's Day, and right here on the front page is an article that says the Mississippi Supreme Court has ruled that the "Father of the Blues," Robert Johnson, has a son. Now maybe I missed something, but I thought the father of the blues was W. C. Handy. So who the hell then is Robert Johnson?

Well, it says here that Robert Johnson was a blues guitar player and song writer who, according to legend, back the early 1930s traded his soul to the Devil for his musical talent. Johnson produced 41 records and his work supposedly influenced artists like the Grateful Dead and the Rolling Stones. But he died penniless in 1938 at the age of 27. He left no will because he had nothing to pass on except his music, which few people seemed interested in at the time. He also had an illegitimate son, Claud, who for almost 70 years now was never recognized legally as his son.

Until now. Now, you see, there's some money involved. And of course, where there's money there's relatives—and lawyers. It seems that the elder Johnson's work experienced a revival in popularity in the 80s and now the royalites due his estate are $1.2 million. Obviously, Claud wanted to get in on some of that. But how could he prove that he was the son? Even though his mother swore in a 1992 deposition that Robert Johnson had fathered her child (Claud), that still didn't carry much weight in court.

Enter an eye witness, one Eula May Williams. Now an eye witness is someone who sees an act being committed, right? My first thought as I read this was that Eula May must have watched little Claud being born, since she was a friend of his mother. Maybe Claud had a distinguishing birth mark or something that would collaborate her story.  Except, wait a minute. That still wouldn't prove that Robert Johnson was the father. But silly me, read on. Eula May was an eyewitness not to Claud's birth, but to his conception. She testified in a 1998 trail that she watched Robert Johnson and her friend get it on in 1931 and that Claud was born nine months later. I guess old Robert liked an audience regardless of where he was performing.

Speaking of Father's Day, it says here on page B1 that two sons would like to make Happy Father's Day calls to express their affection, but they are barred by Federal law from telephoning inmates in other prisons. Let's all show a little sympathy for John Gotti and Carmine Persico. After all, they taught their sons everything they know, but now that the boys are in prison, as well, they'll both have to make do with just getting a card.
 
 

April 15, 2000—Baldy Bradley

Today is my birthday. I'm not looking for congratulations, cards, songs or sympathy. I'm just stating a fact. Some of you, no doubt, are still scrambling to get your taxes filed before midnight tonight. Sorry about that folks, I've already received my refunds. When your birthday falls on income tax day, the last thing you want to be concerned with is settling up with Uncle Sam.

Like New Year's Day, I usually spend a few quiet moments of my birthdays reflecting on the past year and thinking about the future. This often involves a trip down Memory Lane, such as flipping through old yearbooks and photo albums. This past year, however, I was presented with an especially touching piece of birthday memorabilia and I thought I would share it with you. This may only be of interest to my family or to those of you who know me extremely well. But I trust that everyone can relate to a least part of it. And some of it is very funny (at least to us Bradley's).

My mother, Doris Jeane, passed away about two years ago. When my father and some of my siblings back in Missouri went through her things they came across a diary she had kept during the first three weeks of my life. It was one of those little leather-bound five-year diaries that provide only about three square inches of space for each of its 1825 possible entries. Being my mother's first born, she must have wanted to document this process of becoming a mother and she clearly felt no need to be confined by the small spaces provided for each day. She wrote across the pages, with little regard for the actual dates printed on each. Interestingly, she stopped cold after about three weeks. There is nothing else in the journal—except a yellowed newspaper clipping of the poem "Above Tintern Abbey" by William Wordsworth. There is red crayon scribbling next to it.

---

April 21st, Easter Sunday. His daddy preached at Valley City. Mrs. Montgomery made R. A.'s footprints and our fingerprints. I see the baby every 3 hours when he is brought in to nurse. It is raining as it was a week ago! Visited by Mrs. "Frost"î Witt. Richard Allen received lovely iris from Russells.

April 23rd. Difficult to wake baby for night feeding—tires me trying. Dick comes to see us every day—usually twice. Dr. Cooper says we have a good baby. I sat in a chair today. Happy day. We go home tomorrow. Mrs. Addison Taylor and Charlene Stangiale [sp?] still there with babies.

April 25th. Baby's first auto trip! Daddy drove us home about 10:30 a.m. Baby dressed so sweet in white with blue touches—Anut Minnieís shawl.

April 26th. Baby Slept thru 12:00 a. m. feeding and were we worried. Margie Estes came to give his bath (oil). He's a live wire—won't hold still or tone down during bath. Never can wait to eat. Sleeps in a basket Daddy painted and I covered. Trimmed with blue ribbons.

April 28th (Navel healed). Grandmother Bradley stayed home from church to care for us. She peeks in when R. A. wakes at night. I got up for dinner—still woozie!

April 29th.  Mom B. gave his bath for first time—a little jittery, but efficient. Hazel, Bernard, and Anut Ida stopped in yesterday. R. A.'s birthday is same as Hazel's [I never knew that].

April 30th.  Jeane Connor Martini's baby Rose Mary born today. I hope our children grow up being friends some day—tho they live in New York.

May 1st.  Richard Allen makes so many little noises in the night Dick cannot sleep at night. He's a good hand to take care of baby.

May 2nd.  I bathed the baby for first time this morning. Mother B. helped. I still rest a lot and leave most of the diaper changing to daddy—he's an expert. R. A. is strong and gaining well. Seems nervous at times and [indecipherable] fists as though hungry. Wakes for night feeding about 3:00 a. m., then continues sleeping. Still nurses. Has 3 and 4 B. M.s a day, usually one during night, very loose and yellow. Difficult to keep on schedule.

May 5th.  Must have had touch of colic. Cried and did not settled [sic] down til 12:00 a. m. Daddy pretty worried. I try to rest but tire so easily. Grandmother, Dick and I took turns at rocking him. Applied heated cloths to his tummy. Seems all right today, tho gets rocked when he crys! Someone is ready to jump everytime he opens his mouth. We can't tell when anything hurts him and holding always helps in spite of the baby book admonitions. He wears pretty white batiste dresses—many of them Linda's—and tiny booties to keep his toes warm. He gets bundeld and cared for like a hot house plant—and is just as pretty as any flower—is still very fair with a clear complexion . . . very dainty features. Sleeps on back with head to one side and hands along side head. Feeds at 6, 9, 12, and 3 but tends to rush things and is fed 1/2 early often. Always burped. Has vomited a few times from overeating or eating too fast.

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April 12, 2000—Bird Droppings

This morning as I was on my way to get a take-out coffee and a doughnut I passed a fallen pigeon flopping around on the sidewalk. Clearly, it couldn't fly. Perhaps its wing was broken or it had gotten into some poison and was dying. Whatever, I felt a twinge of sadness as I passed it.

Pigeons are ubiquitous in New York City. If there aren't millions of them, there are certainly tens of thousands. And they're usually a nuisance or, at best, an eyesore. They drop poop on your clothes when they fly over head. They assemble by the dozens around a bag of opened garbage. They make irritating, gurgling, noises outside your windows. Once, one landed on our window sill—which in itself is not all that unusual. But because the window was open, it invited itself right on into our living room. Why not? It took us half an hour to get it off our bookshelves and into a position on the floor where an empty trash can could be clamped over him. So I don't have any great love for pigeons. But neither do I hate them. Pigeons and I just sort of occupy the same real estate.

But returning home with my bag of Dunkin Donuts I passed the downed bird again. I noticed many people were rubber-necking at it as they passed it by. Everyone seemed terribly embarrassed. But why shouldn't they be? How could anyone not look at that creature—disabled, certainly hurt, and most likely dying—and not feel something? Even the most hardened New Yorker is not that calloused.

By now I was only a block away from my apartment, but that block was becoming longer by the second. I couldn't get out of my head the thought of that poor little guy back there just flopping around on the sidewalk looking and hoping for some kind of help. I know I'm anthropomorphizing here, but he and I had, after all, made eye contact—something New Yorkers are loath to do. By the time I reached my building I knew what was in store for me. I had to go back and get that damned pigeon.

So, after dropping my week's sat-fat ration on the kitchen counter, I grabbed a pair of gloves and speed-walked back to the corner of 23rd and Lexington where I last saw the bird. By now he had managed to flop himself into the gutter and was getting dangerously close to the passing cars. A young student-looking fellow was standing there watching him, clearly concerned, but not quite knowing what to do. I smiled at him and said—I trust, reassuringly—"I'll take care of him." I pulled my gloves out of my jacket's pockets and slipped them on. Then I gently scooped the pigeon up into my hands and headed over toward 19th Street and the Gramercy Park Animal Hospital.

As I walked the few blocks to the vet's office I could feel the bird's little heart beating hard and rapidly. It must have been terrified. While waiting for a traffic light to change, I looked at it closely. You know what? He was pretty. I mean, really. For that one brief moment, he was more than just a "rat with wings," as pigeons are often referred to here. He was a fellow inhabitant of this planet, just trying to get through his day—like each of us—without getting stepped on.

I walked in with him into the vet's office, where several people were sitting in the waiting room with their dogs and cats. No one said a word as I approached the receptionist. When the vet came out I was half-way expecting a hassle. I had heard stories of how only certain city agencies could "dispose" of animals. If that was going to be the case I was totally prepared to just leave my new-found friend there on the hospital floor. I mean, what was I supposed to do, put it him back out on the street? But no hassle ensued. The vet, upon seeing I had brought the bird in in my hands and not a box, put on a pair of rubber gloves and took him away from me. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He didn't say anything much. He just nodded a slight acknowledgment and took it away, disappearing into the back room.

That pigeon has been on my mind all day. Not so much that I'm wondering what happened to it. I suspect the vet simply put it to sleep and tossed it into the trash. I mean, it was not like it should have been given a state funeral or something. But the incident did cause me to pause and reflect. Anyone who knows me well knows that I do not believe in coincidences. Since the past few weeks have been particularly challenging ones for me, I suspect that old pigeon was put in my path to remind me to slow down and focus on what's really important in life. And for that, little guy, I'm grateful.
 
 

April 3, 2000—Some Rocks in My Own Shoes

First of all, my apologies for not putting up any Ramblings for two months. As you can imagine, my e-mail in-box and the tape on my answering machine have been completely filled for weeks now with irate inquiries as to when the next installment is going to appear. So here it is, folks. Geez, give a guy a break!

You'll notice that I have given today's Ramblings a title. I think I'll do that from now on. Everything and everyone should have a title, don't you think?

I've really enjoyed reading your comments in the Guestbook. Thanks to all of you who have signed it. I especially get a kick out of what rocks are in everyone's shoes. Some of us share the same rocks, or maybe it's the same shoes, I don't know. Anyway. I wanted to get in on the fun and post a some rocks of my own. These are smaller rocks that will probably never find their way into any of the chapters of A Rock In My Shoe. But before I get into that, here's a brief update on what I've been working on. You see, I haven't just been sitting idle these past two months.

If you entered through the homepage you may have noticed that I changed the opening graphics and put some actual shoes up there. This took me a good two hours with Photoshop to create—because I don't have much skill with it. I just love that picture, though, of the old guy adjusting his old shoes—courtesy of Geocities' photo gallery. Of course this meant I had to take down my own picture, so I guess now I'll have to create a whole new page just to feature me. Ha! Until then, if you're visiting for the first time and want to see what I look like (sort of) go the Gone Fishin' page.

I am working on several new chapters simultaneously. One is tentatively called "The Company Laugh"î It's all about how people laugh in the business environment. I've been cracking myself up writing it. It's the first time I've used dialogue in an essay. Another one is about thinking and I don't have a title for it yet. "Help Wanted" will poke fun at those stupid ads you see in the Sunday newspaper. Now here's a couple of rocks from my own shoes:

As most of you know, we have a dog named Darcy. She's a sort of pointer/lab mix and is not exactly the brightest bulb on the tree. But she compensates for this by being terribly cute and adorable. She's also extremely friendly. So much so that everyone wants to pet her. Which is nice—most of the time. But damn it, leave my dog alone when I'm at the ATM! Here in New York we take our dogs with us most everywhere, and that includes when we go to the bank to use the cash machines. So here I am, trying to punch in my secret code and collect my cash and someone behind me is playing with the dog. All 60 pounds of the dog, of course, is pulling on her leash, jerking me away from the machine. I'm trying to do my business but because the idiot behind me wants to play with the dog I'm dropping my Jacksons all over the floor.

I understand that at McDonald's they teach their employees, "If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean." Well, cleanliness may be next to godliness, but why do they always have to get religion just as I start to chomp into my monthly cholesterol allotment. If you don't get a heart attack from the burger, you'll get one from all the irritating noise that pimply-faced kid is making with his dustpan. And just in case you still didn't hear him, he'll gladly drag the chairs all around the floor for you as well. My favorite, though, is when he gets out the ammonia solution and starts to mop under my table.
 

January 25, 2000

Snow Day! I feel like a kid again. My office remained closed today because it was really coming down this morning. We have a whole "emergency" system for letting everyone know when the office is going to be closed. I got a call at 6 a.m. from the Executive Vice President, and then I called each of the people in my department and gave them the news (I woke some of them up, but they got over it real fast!) For me not going to work today was especially good—for two reasons. One, because schlepping out to Long Island in this mess on that railroad is right up there with having a route canal. And two, I'm still getting over a really bad cold and I think Pam has the flu. So an extra day will help in the old healing process. I've got to give my company credit on this one. They always have the sensitivity to close the office when the weather gets really bad. It only happens once every couple of years or so. I mean it's not like most companies are going to go out of business if they miss a day of work. And most people will come back tomorrow and work twice as hard. So this was a good thing, I think, although we did have some people in from out of town who no doubt had to find something to do at their hotel. They certainly weren't going to go home. The airports were closed.

Darcy is mortified. Whenever it snows in New York they put all this Halite stuff on the sidewalks to melt the snow. It's great for people trying to walk. But that's only because we don't walk on the sidewalks barefooted. Dogs, on the other hand, don't have that luxury. And those crystals on the sidewalks get in between their toes and it is very painful, if not downright debilitating.

So that's why they sell dog booties in New York City. Of course, I didn't plan in advance, so Darcy and I had to dodge most of the Halite this morning and get on over to The Barking Zoo on 3rd Ave. and get her outfitted in a new pair of shoes. It was a riot. First of all, they didn't have her size. Ever had that experience? "Well, you really need an 8D, Darcy, but how about a 9C?" So we got these shoes that are a little too big on her. Of course, seeing a dog walk around in shoes is a site to behold in itself. And when the shoes are too big—well it's just downright ridiculous.  She prances! It's so funny. And everyone looks at us like we're really weird or something. Oh well, I'm used to being considered weird.
 

January 1, 2000

After yesterday's Ramblings I really don't have that much more to say. I mainly just wanted to see what the new date looks like in print! Neat, huh?

But while taking a leisurely New Year's Day walk this afternoon with Pam and Darcy, I did have one other thought. A few years ago the "inner child" thing was all the rage in the self-help movement. The idea was that you should strive to get back in touch with that childlike part of yourself that you've probably lost as an adult. If you read my December 31, 1999 Ramblings (below) you'll understand what I'm talking about—I'm going to start keeping a picture on my desk of myself as a child. I want everything I do this year to be setting the right example for little Richie. Having the picture there will be a constant reminder. Here's the picture

:

About five years old. I think this was my kindergarten picture.

© Copyright 2000, Richard Bradley. All rights reserved.

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