By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Having left my accountant's office a much poorer man after leaving a check for my taxes, I decided that a trip to the Shillelagh Tavern would buoy my spirits, or at the least, drown my sorrows. On entering the bar I took a stool next to my buddy, Vernon Jackson, who as usual was seated at the rear end of the bar. I placed a $20 bill on the bar and Fran the bartender brought me a beer. "Why so glum?" she asked.
"Just paid my taxes," I said. "That $20 bill is dear to me now."
"Put his beer on my tab," said Vernon. After thanking Vernon for his generosity, he continued: "Taxes. I decided not to pay mine this year."
"What?"
"That's right. I figure I owe the State of New York about $600, but I have no intention of paying them."
"Why not?"
"Well," Vernon explained, "The State never sent me the forms and the instruction booklet. How am I supposed to file a return if they never sent me the forms? For forty years they have sent me the forms. Suddenly they stopped sending them. If they can forget about me why can't I forget about them?"
"But Vernon," I said, "you still have to pay your taxes." I explained that this year the State decided to forego the mailing of forms and instructions because of the expense involved. I told him that there was even talk of charging people for the forms if they didn't file online. "Just because they didn't send you the forms is no excuse for not paying your taxes," I said.
"Ridiculous," responded Vernon. "I made a reasonable effort to get the forms. I even called the State Tax Department. They told me I could get the forms in any library. I went to a few libraries in Queens last week. They had federal forms, but no resident state forms. But do you know what they had plenty of?" Vernon paused to sip his beer, then continued: "They had hundreds of New York nonresident forms. Now I ask you, how many people who live in New Jersey or Connecticut and work in this State are going to drive all that distance to pick up those forms in a Queens library?"
I had to admit he had a point.
"And I didn't stop there," said Vernon. "When I couldn't find the forms in the libraries, I tried the post offices. As I recall the post offices used to have the forms, but this year not a single one I checked had them. But did I stop there? Oh no, I called the State again and told them I couldn't find the forms anywhere. Do you know what they told me?" Vernon took another swig of his beer. "They told me I should file my forms on-line."
"What did you say to that?"
"It's unprintable," said Vernon. "But I did explain to them that not only do I not own a computer, but even if I did I probably wouldn't know how to use it to get the forms. What's the word for that"?
"Download?"
"Yes, that's it. Heck, look at my hands. Look here at these fingers. Do you think for one second that I could operate a . . ."
Vernon paused, searching for the word. "Keyboard," I offered.
"That's it, keyboard," he said. I looked at Vernon's hands. Again I had to admit he had a point.
We had another round of beers. "I don't know what to say, Vernon," I said. "Maybe you should just hire a tax preparer."
"Well, maybe they should have just sent me the forms. My taxes aren't that complicated. And maybe if enough people acted like me and stopped paying them the people who run this State would change their thinking." Vernon sipped his beer. "Didn't one of those revolutionary patriots say that "times like these tax men's souls'?"
"Something like that," I said.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Where Have You Gone, Jerry Kenney?
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Spring 1969. Forty years ago Sundays during the baseball season were special. Right after 8:00 a.m. Mass, my 7th grade buddy, Kenneth, and I, armed with baseball mitts and a five bucks apiece, would make our way to Grand Central Terminal and board the Number 4 Woodlawn train to 161st Street—Yankee Stadium. We would arrive at the players’ entrance just as most of the players did. As each Yankee crossed the street from the parking lot we dutifully hollered encouragement and begged for autographs. In those days the police barricades were set up so that the players had only a narrow pathway across the street and into the stadium. You could get so close to the players that you’d be able to tell if they had shaved that morning or not. We were particularly eager to see Bobby Murcer and Jerry Kenney, two prospects who had returned from military service and were now the face of the new Yankees. (Mickey Mantle had retired that spring.)
Not until we were certain that every player had arrived did we even turn our attention to buying tickets. There was no need to purchase tickets in advance, unless, of course, such special events as Old Timers’ Day or Bat Day had been scheduled. And with five dollars apiece there was no need to resign ourselves to the lowly Bleachers which cost 75 cents. Oh no, we could do better than that. So we’d line up at a ticket booth and pluck down $1.50 for a grandstand seat. Not only would this afford us shelter in the event of poor weather and permit us to visit the small Yankee Hall of Fame which then was located under the right field stands, but more importantly, it gave us closer access to the field and players before the game started and before we’d be forced to surrender our spots to those wealthy enough to pay as much as $4.00 for a box seat up close to the field.
Once through the gate and into the Stadium we raced to the lower right field stands. In those days the gates opened early so you would be able to watch both teams take batting practice. Our mission was simple: To position ourselves in the stands where we stood a fair chance of snaring a ball. Alas, it what was not to be that season, though the following year we finally had some luck. I caught one hit by Frank Tepedino and Kenneth caught one hit by Curt Blefary. I can’t recall anything of more importance that happened to us that year.
On Sundays the teams frequently played doubleheaders. Now I’m not talking about today’s idea of a doubleheader where after the first game everyone must leave so that a new crowd with different tickets can be seated. Back then a doubleheader was a doubleheader: two games for the price of one.
When the first game started our grandstand admission required us to take seats in the upper deck. However, by the fourth or fifth inning, after scouring the lower stands for such opportunities, we would note which seats close to the field remained unoccupied and we would move downstairs. When the usher responsible for the section of seats we had set our sights on turned his back or was otherwise distracted, we scampered like mice down the aisle and slunk into the empty seats. Then we held our breath for a bit hoping the usher hadn’t seen us or that some other patron hadn’t ratted us out. If we survived an inning we were home free.
During the games we were ever alert for the possibility of snaring a foul ball. And between games we’d have a hot dog and a couple of sodas. As the day wore on and the second game neared conclusion we’d secretly hope that the losing team (usually the Yankees that year) would tie the game so we could stay for extra innings. Either way, when the last game finally ended our excursion was not yet over. We would race down the ramps and out the exits so we could get a good spot to watch the players as they left. And there we would stand, as we did before the game, until we were sure that every player had left the ballpark.
Then we would get back on the subway and head for home. Our parents never worried or complained, even though we were frequently gone for a dozen hours or more. And after roundtrip subway fare, ticket expense, and hot dogs and soda, we came home with change to spare from the five bucks.
Until last year I had been to at least one Yankee game every season--some years I was there a couple of dozen times--for well over 40 years. As the Yankees and the Mets open this season in spanking new, state of the art stadiums, with big name players and big payrolls, I wonder if I'll ever see a game in either place. Not because most tickets are obscenely expensive (although that is certainly reason enough), and not because today's baseball stars are grossly overvalued (if the market can bear it so be it), but because today's experience of what the game has become is no match for my memory of what that experience once was.
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Madoff Shove
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Here are some of the most widely and frequently viewed news clips of all time: President Franklin Roosevelt's 1933 inaugural address in which he states that "all we have to fear is fear itself;" the 1937 explosion of the airship Hindenburg; FDR's December 1941 "day of infamy" speech; a sailor planting a kiss on a young woman in Times Square the day World War 2 ended; General MacArthur's "old soldier" address to Congress; Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech; Lyndon Johnson taking the oath of office aboard Air Force One after the assassination of President Kennedy; Jack Ruby's shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald; Neil Armstrong's "One Small Step For Man" statement upon setting foot on the moon; Richard Nixon's tearful wave of goodbye before boarding the Presidential helicopter after his resignation; the assassination attempt on President Reagan; President George W. Bush's attendance at Yankee Stadium to throw out the first pitch after the attacks of September 11, 2001.
Perhaps the most famous, or infamous, of all is the Zapruder film, which recorded the actual murder of President Kennedy.
But now, thanks to all the local news outlets, cable and otherwise, there is another news clip that surely ranks as among the most frequently viewed. In fact, it continues to be replayed ad nauseam day after day after day. You cannot escape it, because every news station in New York insists on playing it every time the television set is turned to the news. Decades from now when historians review the events of our time the verdict will doubtless be that this single clip was shown more often than any other.
And I bet you know what it is.
That's right. It's the one showing a buffoonish sort of older gentleman walking along a city street and suddenly being shoved by a news photographer. I call it "The Bernie Madoff Shove" in the same vein as the Rolling Stones' "The Harlem Shuffle."
Now I realize that Madoff is a scoundrel, and I have no sympathy for him. Personally I don't care how many times he is shoved. He has victimized so many with his multi-billion dollar Ponzi scheme. But why must the rest of us be victimized by the endless running of this news clip. Every time a news station begins a report on the latest Madoff news it opens with the "Madoff Shove." And in the course of the report it will replay the shove two or three more times. Try switching to another news program and all you get is more of the same. "Geez," I say to myself, "haven't they any other footage of this guy?"
It's gotten so bad that every time a Madoff story comes on the tube I turn my head and close my eyes. I can't stand it any longer. And even after I open my eyes they still manage to slip in another clip. There's no escaping it.
But there may soon be some relief. It's being reported that Madoff has struck a deal with prosecutors and may soon be off to prison. Good riddance.
Then we can turn our attention to the next big story of our times: What's next for Alex Rodriguez?
A Resident of Woodside
Here are some of the most widely and frequently viewed news clips of all time: President Franklin Roosevelt's 1933 inaugural address in which he states that "all we have to fear is fear itself;" the 1937 explosion of the airship Hindenburg; FDR's December 1941 "day of infamy" speech; a sailor planting a kiss on a young woman in Times Square the day World War 2 ended; General MacArthur's "old soldier" address to Congress; Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech; Lyndon Johnson taking the oath of office aboard Air Force One after the assassination of President Kennedy; Jack Ruby's shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald; Neil Armstrong's "One Small Step For Man" statement upon setting foot on the moon; Richard Nixon's tearful wave of goodbye before boarding the Presidential helicopter after his resignation; the assassination attempt on President Reagan; President George W. Bush's attendance at Yankee Stadium to throw out the first pitch after the attacks of September 11, 2001.
Perhaps the most famous, or infamous, of all is the Zapruder film, which recorded the actual murder of President Kennedy.
But now, thanks to all the local news outlets, cable and otherwise, there is another news clip that surely ranks as among the most frequently viewed. In fact, it continues to be replayed ad nauseam day after day after day. You cannot escape it, because every news station in New York insists on playing it every time the television set is turned to the news. Decades from now when historians review the events of our time the verdict will doubtless be that this single clip was shown more often than any other.
And I bet you know what it is.
That's right. It's the one showing a buffoonish sort of older gentleman walking along a city street and suddenly being shoved by a news photographer. I call it "The Bernie Madoff Shove" in the same vein as the Rolling Stones' "The Harlem Shuffle."
Now I realize that Madoff is a scoundrel, and I have no sympathy for him. Personally I don't care how many times he is shoved. He has victimized so many with his multi-billion dollar Ponzi scheme. But why must the rest of us be victimized by the endless running of this news clip. Every time a news station begins a report on the latest Madoff news it opens with the "Madoff Shove." And in the course of the report it will replay the shove two or three more times. Try switching to another news program and all you get is more of the same. "Geez," I say to myself, "haven't they any other footage of this guy?"
It's gotten so bad that every time a Madoff story comes on the tube I turn my head and close my eyes. I can't stand it any longer. And even after I open my eyes they still manage to slip in another clip. There's no escaping it.
But there may soon be some relief. It's being reported that Madoff has struck a deal with prosecutors and may soon be off to prison. Good riddance.
Then we can turn our attention to the next big story of our times: What's next for Alex Rodriguez?
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Give My Regards to Broadway
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
When I was a child I played with erector sets, Lincoln Logs, Tonker toys, train sets and other items that let you fantasize that you were the grand builder of cities. It was great fun.
But when I became a man, to cite St. Paul and most recently President Obama, I put away childish things.
Which brings us to Mayor Michael Bloomberg, North America's answer to South America's Hugo Chavez. Here for all to see are the evident ramifications of a frustrated childhood. Even Donald Trump must go to bed each night wishing that it was he, and not our beloved, if ego maniacal, Bloomy who got to use the City of New York as his own little plaything.
First it was a West Side stadium. Then it was congestion pricing. In between there was the ban on smoking and trans fat and a host of other such proposals, such as a surcharge for supermarket plastic bags and restrictions on the use of salt. Now it is the closing of Broadway in Midtown Manhattan so that it can be used exclusively as pedestrian space. Where it may finally end is anyone's guess. When you permit a frustrated child to impose his personal dictates on millions of people, unchecked by a worthless City Council, there is no telling how far he can and will go.
Never mind that the traffic downtown along Seventh Avenue, to reach among other venues places like Penn Station and Madison Square Garden, is and for decades has been, painfully clogged. Never mind that the alternative artery downtown will be Ninth Avenue, which is the access to and from the Lincoln Tunnel and the Port Authority bus terminal. Never mind that the congestion this will create, with its attendant pollution, is one of the very same reasons cited by this hypocrite Mayor when he advocated congestion pricing. After all, dictators need not worry about such inconsistencies.
But I will admit that in at least one regard this plan is an improvement. Not long ago, in his ceaseless efforts to Europeanize New York City, the Mayor cordoned off a portion of Broadway in the vicinity of West 40th Street. He narrowed the avenue and created a plaza on the avenue's east side. He put some tables and chairs there so that, presumably, people could utilize the space to relax, converse, read and eat lunch. The problem is that this little plaza juts out into the middle of Broadway, with no meaningful barriers to protect the plaza-users from the onslaught of downtown traffic, which of course includes MTA buses, trucks operated by Teamsters, and taxis driven by mad Russians, Arabs and recently laid off stock brokers. I don't know about you, but sitting amidst all this to peacefully eat lunch does little to ease the digestion.
But now this problem will be solved.
And I think we should expand the program. We should insist that the route the Mayor takes to work be closed to traffic. This should be no big deal to the Mayor because, as a true man of the people, he takes the subway to City Hall each morning--except for the route between his luxury apartment and the subway station. You see, the Mayor is chauffeured there in a gas-guzzling SUV. But I'm confident that the Mayor will exempt himself from the new law--and that the City Council will endorse the exemption. End of another problem.
A Resident of Woodside
When I was a child I played with erector sets, Lincoln Logs, Tonker toys, train sets and other items that let you fantasize that you were the grand builder of cities. It was great fun.
But when I became a man, to cite St. Paul and most recently President Obama, I put away childish things.
Which brings us to Mayor Michael Bloomberg, North America's answer to South America's Hugo Chavez. Here for all to see are the evident ramifications of a frustrated childhood. Even Donald Trump must go to bed each night wishing that it was he, and not our beloved, if ego maniacal, Bloomy who got to use the City of New York as his own little plaything.
First it was a West Side stadium. Then it was congestion pricing. In between there was the ban on smoking and trans fat and a host of other such proposals, such as a surcharge for supermarket plastic bags and restrictions on the use of salt. Now it is the closing of Broadway in Midtown Manhattan so that it can be used exclusively as pedestrian space. Where it may finally end is anyone's guess. When you permit a frustrated child to impose his personal dictates on millions of people, unchecked by a worthless City Council, there is no telling how far he can and will go.
Never mind that the traffic downtown along Seventh Avenue, to reach among other venues places like Penn Station and Madison Square Garden, is and for decades has been, painfully clogged. Never mind that the alternative artery downtown will be Ninth Avenue, which is the access to and from the Lincoln Tunnel and the Port Authority bus terminal. Never mind that the congestion this will create, with its attendant pollution, is one of the very same reasons cited by this hypocrite Mayor when he advocated congestion pricing. After all, dictators need not worry about such inconsistencies.
But I will admit that in at least one regard this plan is an improvement. Not long ago, in his ceaseless efforts to Europeanize New York City, the Mayor cordoned off a portion of Broadway in the vicinity of West 40th Street. He narrowed the avenue and created a plaza on the avenue's east side. He put some tables and chairs there so that, presumably, people could utilize the space to relax, converse, read and eat lunch. The problem is that this little plaza juts out into the middle of Broadway, with no meaningful barriers to protect the plaza-users from the onslaught of downtown traffic, which of course includes MTA buses, trucks operated by Teamsters, and taxis driven by mad Russians, Arabs and recently laid off stock brokers. I don't know about you, but sitting amidst all this to peacefully eat lunch does little to ease the digestion.
But now this problem will be solved.
And I think we should expand the program. We should insist that the route the Mayor takes to work be closed to traffic. This should be no big deal to the Mayor because, as a true man of the people, he takes the subway to City Hall each morning--except for the route between his luxury apartment and the subway station. You see, the Mayor is chauffeured there in a gas-guzzling SUV. But I'm confident that the Mayor will exempt himself from the new law--and that the City Council will endorse the exemption. End of another problem.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Paying . . . to Pay
by John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
"Are you comfortable now?"
"Yes, Doctor. Thank you." I stretched out on the couch, took a puff from my cigar and readied myself.
"You know, of course, that I am just a regular practitioner, and not a psychiatrist?"
"Yes, Doctor, but you are the only medical professional I trust. After all, you're the last of an old breed. You're the only M.D. left, that I'm aware of, who still treats his patients like human beings and doesn't lecture them as if they're children."
It was true. The Doctor (capital D intended) had served my neighborhood for decades. In some cases he even made house calls. And he wasn't the type to lecture you on the evils of alcohol, tobacco and firearms. He was a regular guy. Heck, you could even smoke in his waiting room, and in case he made a prognosis that wasn't, let us say, very optimistic, he'd offer you a shot of Jack Daniels from a bottle he kept in his desk draw. I have an aunt who is 97 years old. She has smoked her whole life. The last time she visited the Doctor her son pulled the Doctor aside and expressed a concern about my Aunt's continuing to smoke. "Are you kidding?" responded the Doctor. "If she stops smoking the shock to her system will kill her."
The Doctor had no shortage of patients, either. As I said, he was a guy you could really trust. So, even though he wasn't a shrink per se, I knew I could confide in him without receiving the usual lecture. He poured me, and himself, a shot of bourbon. He lit my cigar and told me to relax. "Now," he said, "tell me what's been troubling you."
Nightmares. For weeks I'd been having the same disturbing dreams. But these were not the typical kind, like the roller coaster sailing off the tracks, or showing up at the office without trousers, or opening up the liquor cabinet only to find it empty. Oh, no, these were very different.
"Tell me," said the Doctor.
"They begin with me being back in the '70s," I confided. "I'm at the front door of a popular disco with a girl I asked out on a date. There is a line. When we finally get to the front some thug at the door in a leather jacket asks me for $25. He says it's a 'cover charge.' 'A cover charge?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? Isn't my money good at the bar? And with what you charge for a drink my whole paycheck will be gone in an hour anyhow.' The thug summons a bouncer and the dream ends before I can learn what happens next."
The Doctor reflected for a moment and said, "There is nothing unusual about a 'cover charge.'
In fact there is no shortage of dives that continue the practice. What else do you dream?"
"Next I'm at the airport, about to embark to an exotic place for a desperately needed vacation. After waiting on a long line I finally get to the ticket counter. The airline agent checks my passport, my driver's license, my flight reservation and issues me a boarding pass. As I place my luggage on the conveyor the agent says 'Wait, you have to pay a separate luggage fee. Luggage fee?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? I already paid the travel agent in full.' The agent panics, pushes a button, and six Homeland Security Officers converge on me. At this point I wake up and wonder if I ever did go on that vacation."
"I see," said the Doctor. "But you know, these surcharges are now commonplace. What else do you dream?"
"For forty-two years I was a season-ticket holder for the New York Jets. Every year they sent me the forms to renew my tickets for the next season. Year after year, first when they played in Shea Stadium and later when they moved to the New Jersey Meadowlands, I dutifully and loyally sent them ever-increasing sums of money so I could watch my team play. Every season the price of tickets increased and every season I paid whatever they asked for the tickets. This year I received a notice that next year I have to pay not only for the tickets, but for the right to purchase those tickets. Something called a 'personal seat license.' They want $10,000 per seat. I have two seats. So I have to pay $20,000, not for the tickets, but for the right to buy the tickets. By the way, the price of the tickets themselves has again increased. So in the dream I'm seated before a loan officer in my bank awaiting a decision on my loan application when I suddenly wake up in a pool of sweat. I never do find out if I was approved."
The Doctor nodded. "I think I could use another shot of bourbon. How about you?"
After we consumed the bourbon the Doctor asked me to continue.
"Here's the worst of it, Doctor," I said. "Last night I dreamed it was April 15th and my State income taxes were due. I wrote out a hefty check and stuffed it into an envelope with my return. After mailing it I returned home and put on the television where I learned that if you do not file your return electronically you must pay an additional $10 fee to the State to process your paper return. Again I awoke in a cold sweat. I hadn't sent the additional $10, and as I figured it that $10 would mushroom into $20, $30, $40 or more by the time the State got done with it."
The Doctor remained silent. "You see, Doc?" I said, "I'm becoming more and more deranged."
"No," said the Doctor. "I fear this is a case of clairvoyance."
"Clairvoyance?"
"Yes," said the Doctor. "You see, the Governor's budget does contain such a provision about the filing of taxes."
"You mean I gotta pay a tax to pay my tax."
The Doctor did not respond. He stood up and headed for the door. "Where are you going," I asked.
"I need to buy more whiskey," he said.
A Resident of Woodside
"Are you comfortable now?"
"Yes, Doctor. Thank you." I stretched out on the couch, took a puff from my cigar and readied myself.
"You know, of course, that I am just a regular practitioner, and not a psychiatrist?"
"Yes, Doctor, but you are the only medical professional I trust. After all, you're the last of an old breed. You're the only M.D. left, that I'm aware of, who still treats his patients like human beings and doesn't lecture them as if they're children."
It was true. The Doctor (capital D intended) had served my neighborhood for decades. In some cases he even made house calls. And he wasn't the type to lecture you on the evils of alcohol, tobacco and firearms. He was a regular guy. Heck, you could even smoke in his waiting room, and in case he made a prognosis that wasn't, let us say, very optimistic, he'd offer you a shot of Jack Daniels from a bottle he kept in his desk draw. I have an aunt who is 97 years old. She has smoked her whole life. The last time she visited the Doctor her son pulled the Doctor aside and expressed a concern about my Aunt's continuing to smoke. "Are you kidding?" responded the Doctor. "If she stops smoking the shock to her system will kill her."
The Doctor had no shortage of patients, either. As I said, he was a guy you could really trust. So, even though he wasn't a shrink per se, I knew I could confide in him without receiving the usual lecture. He poured me, and himself, a shot of bourbon. He lit my cigar and told me to relax. "Now," he said, "tell me what's been troubling you."
Nightmares. For weeks I'd been having the same disturbing dreams. But these were not the typical kind, like the roller coaster sailing off the tracks, or showing up at the office without trousers, or opening up the liquor cabinet only to find it empty. Oh, no, these were very different.
"Tell me," said the Doctor.
"They begin with me being back in the '70s," I confided. "I'm at the front door of a popular disco with a girl I asked out on a date. There is a line. When we finally get to the front some thug at the door in a leather jacket asks me for $25. He says it's a 'cover charge.' 'A cover charge?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? Isn't my money good at the bar? And with what you charge for a drink my whole paycheck will be gone in an hour anyhow.' The thug summons a bouncer and the dream ends before I can learn what happens next."
The Doctor reflected for a moment and said, "There is nothing unusual about a 'cover charge.'
In fact there is no shortage of dives that continue the practice. What else do you dream?"
"Next I'm at the airport, about to embark to an exotic place for a desperately needed vacation. After waiting on a long line I finally get to the ticket counter. The airline agent checks my passport, my driver's license, my flight reservation and issues me a boarding pass. As I place my luggage on the conveyor the agent says 'Wait, you have to pay a separate luggage fee. Luggage fee?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? I already paid the travel agent in full.' The agent panics, pushes a button, and six Homeland Security Officers converge on me. At this point I wake up and wonder if I ever did go on that vacation."
"I see," said the Doctor. "But you know, these surcharges are now commonplace. What else do you dream?"
"For forty-two years I was a season-ticket holder for the New York Jets. Every year they sent me the forms to renew my tickets for the next season. Year after year, first when they played in Shea Stadium and later when they moved to the New Jersey Meadowlands, I dutifully and loyally sent them ever-increasing sums of money so I could watch my team play. Every season the price of tickets increased and every season I paid whatever they asked for the tickets. This year I received a notice that next year I have to pay not only for the tickets, but for the right to purchase those tickets. Something called a 'personal seat license.' They want $10,000 per seat. I have two seats. So I have to pay $20,000, not for the tickets, but for the right to buy the tickets. By the way, the price of the tickets themselves has again increased. So in the dream I'm seated before a loan officer in my bank awaiting a decision on my loan application when I suddenly wake up in a pool of sweat. I never do find out if I was approved."
The Doctor nodded. "I think I could use another shot of bourbon. How about you?"
After we consumed the bourbon the Doctor asked me to continue.
"Here's the worst of it, Doctor," I said. "Last night I dreamed it was April 15th and my State income taxes were due. I wrote out a hefty check and stuffed it into an envelope with my return. After mailing it I returned home and put on the television where I learned that if you do not file your return electronically you must pay an additional $10 fee to the State to process your paper return. Again I awoke in a cold sweat. I hadn't sent the additional $10, and as I figured it that $10 would mushroom into $20, $30, $40 or more by the time the State got done with it."
The Doctor remained silent. "You see, Doc?" I said, "I'm becoming more and more deranged."
"No," said the Doctor. "I fear this is a case of clairvoyance."
"Clairvoyance?"
"Yes," said the Doctor. "You see, the Governor's budget does contain such a provision about the filing of taxes."
"You mean I gotta pay a tax to pay my tax."
The Doctor did not respond. He stood up and headed for the door. "Where are you going," I asked.
"I need to buy more whiskey," he said.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Lights in a Box
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
This is my first law of cable television programming: The more channels that are provided by the cable company the less there is to watch. The past few days provide perfect examples. Yesterday was Valentine's Day. In the old pre-cable days, when there were available only a half-dozen or so channels in the New York City area, at least one of those channels would have had programming that recognized the special day. A classic romantic movie, such as, let's say, Casablanca, would traditionally be aired. But yesterday not one of the nearly 200 cable stations provided by my local cable company saw fit to present such a movie. In fact, on a day set aside for love and romance, the American Movie Classics (a misnomer if ever there was one) channel spent the whole day airing reruns of three of the most violent movies ever made: Casino, The Godfather, and The Godfather II.
I have nothing against these movies. They are, despite the graphic violence, very fine movies with outstanding casts. But on Valentine's Day?
And take Lincoln's Birthday, February 12th. This year it was even more special since it was the bicentennial of Lincoln's birth. Yet all evening long and into the late night I searched in vain for those old movie classics that so inspired me as a child: Young Mr. Lincoln (with Henry Fonda) and Abe Lincoln in Illinois (with Raymond Massey). Not even something of more recent vintage as Gore Vidal's excellent fictional biography of Lincoln could be found. Instead we were treated to rerun after rerun of Rambo I and Rambo II.
Maybe I am getting old and maybe these old movies no longer command the same attention they once did. Or maybe I've become so old that movies like Casino and Rambo have replaced my idea of a classic. Maybe Casino and Rambo are now to a new generation the new "old" classics, my idea of a classic having been relegated to the status of what silent movies once were for me. But with all these new cable stations now available, some supposedly devoted to old movie classics, you still would think that at least somewhere one of those old gems would be presented.
Alas, all of this seems symptomatic of a larger pathology: a nation where the evident majority is transfixed by programs such as American Idol, various types of Survivor shows, and Judge Judy spin-offs. People have seemed more worried about who Donald Trump will hire or fire than they are about their own lives.
Of course, this pathology is not new. Fifty years ago Edward R. Murrow said of television: "This instrument can teach, it can illuminate, yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it is merely wires and lights in a box."
Fifty years later, it is pretty clear how humans are determined to use it. At any given hour on any given day, just use your remote to scan all the programming opportunities afforded by the cable company. It's depressing. Even more depressing is that, unlike fifty or even twenty-five years ago, you have to pay for this programming.
So what did I finally watch on Valentine's Day? Reruns of Hogan's Heroes, of course. At least they weren't violent.
This leads me to the second law of cable television programming: There's a sucker born every day.
A Resident of Woodside
This is my first law of cable television programming: The more channels that are provided by the cable company the less there is to watch. The past few days provide perfect examples. Yesterday was Valentine's Day. In the old pre-cable days, when there were available only a half-dozen or so channels in the New York City area, at least one of those channels would have had programming that recognized the special day. A classic romantic movie, such as, let's say, Casablanca, would traditionally be aired. But yesterday not one of the nearly 200 cable stations provided by my local cable company saw fit to present such a movie. In fact, on a day set aside for love and romance, the American Movie Classics (a misnomer if ever there was one) channel spent the whole day airing reruns of three of the most violent movies ever made: Casino, The Godfather, and The Godfather II.
I have nothing against these movies. They are, despite the graphic violence, very fine movies with outstanding casts. But on Valentine's Day?
And take Lincoln's Birthday, February 12th. This year it was even more special since it was the bicentennial of Lincoln's birth. Yet all evening long and into the late night I searched in vain for those old movie classics that so inspired me as a child: Young Mr. Lincoln (with Henry Fonda) and Abe Lincoln in Illinois (with Raymond Massey). Not even something of more recent vintage as Gore Vidal's excellent fictional biography of Lincoln could be found. Instead we were treated to rerun after rerun of Rambo I and Rambo II.
Maybe I am getting old and maybe these old movies no longer command the same attention they once did. Or maybe I've become so old that movies like Casino and Rambo have replaced my idea of a classic. Maybe Casino and Rambo are now to a new generation the new "old" classics, my idea of a classic having been relegated to the status of what silent movies once were for me. But with all these new cable stations now available, some supposedly devoted to old movie classics, you still would think that at least somewhere one of those old gems would be presented.
Alas, all of this seems symptomatic of a larger pathology: a nation where the evident majority is transfixed by programs such as American Idol, various types of Survivor shows, and Judge Judy spin-offs. People have seemed more worried about who Donald Trump will hire or fire than they are about their own lives.
Of course, this pathology is not new. Fifty years ago Edward R. Murrow said of television: "This instrument can teach, it can illuminate, yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it is merely wires and lights in a box."
Fifty years later, it is pretty clear how humans are determined to use it. At any given hour on any given day, just use your remote to scan all the programming opportunities afforded by the cable company. It's depressing. Even more depressing is that, unlike fifty or even twenty-five years ago, you have to pay for this programming.
So what did I finally watch on Valentine's Day? Reruns of Hogan's Heroes, of course. At least they weren't violent.
This leads me to the second law of cable television programming: There's a sucker born every day.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Welcome to the Digital Age
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
(For Exclusive Use of the Queens Gazette)
The phone rang at an unusually late hour, meaning only one thing--Vernon Jackson, my lifelong friend, needed help. "Have you hooked your television to the digital converter box yet?" he asked.
I explained to Vernon that because I received my TV signal through a local cable company, I had no need for a converter box. But knowing what a sports fanatic he is, I expressed surprise that he had not yet himself subscribed to cable television. "Oh, it's not for me," said Vernon, "it's for my landlady, Mrs. Lowery. She still gets her television the old-fashioned way. When she heard that she would need a converter box to get her signal, she sent for and received one of those $40 discount cards from the government. I took it to Best Buy and bought a box for her, but for the life of me I can't figure out how to connect this thing to her television."
Despite the hour I agreed to go over to Vernon's place to see if I could be of any assistance. Vernon lived nearby in one of the old Mathews Flats on Skillman Avenue. For years he had rented an upstairs flat from the widowed Mrs. Lowery. In minutes I was greeted at the front door by Vernon and his dog, Rawson. He ushered me into the front room where Mrs. Lowery was seated on a sofa, her cat, Bliss, sleeping peacefully on her lap. We exchanged pleasantries and Vernon motioned me to a corner of the room where the old television, equipped only with a rabbit-eared antenna, sat atop a small bookcase. Beneath it was the converter box and what appeared to be a dozen tangled wires. A look of frustration was evident on Vernon's face. "I've tried everything," he said.
Now anyone the least bit acquainted with me knows full well that I have no aptitude whatever for things electronic. But I offered to give it a try. "Where are the instructions?" I asked with a feigned air of confidence. Vernon retrieved the cardboard box that had packaged the device and withdrew the instructions. "Did you even bother to read these?" I asked with an equally feigned air of disdain. "I did, I did" insisted Vernon. He handed me the instruction booklet. It consisted of 48 pages, half English half Spanish. A separate sheet, labeled "Quick Setup Guide," was inserted in the booklet. I looked at the booklet and then at the Quick Setup insert. "Let's start with the insert," I decided.
An hour later I gave up on the insert and reached for the booklet. Mrs. Lowery brought us coffee. Vernon and I were seated on the floor beneath the television, which was turned about so we'd have access to the set's connections. The converter came with a red wire, a yellow wire and a white wire, but no similarly color-coded entry ports existed on the back of the television. And there were two black cables. There seemed to be too many wires altogether. Nevertheless, we had exhausted every possible connection to no avail. "I guess we'll have to read the booklet after all," I said. I detected a smirk from Vernon. Rawson yawned and repaired to the other side of the room to sleep. Mrs. Lowery returned to her seat on the sofa.
The first three pages of the instruction booklet consisted of the usual "Important Safety Instructions." "We can skip these," I said. The fourth page was the Introduction, which thanked us for buying the machine. It also contained a Special Note which stated that "Digital TV broadcasts require an adequate signal strength from the antenna." I looked at Vernon. "Are you sure the signal is adequate?" Vernon looked at Mrs. Lowery. "Never had a problem before," she said calmly.
Next came the Table of Contents, then two pages devoted to the remote control, and another page of schematics. Finally, we arrived at the section concerning the connection to the TV. "Here we go," I said.
The first part of this section contained three pages of schematics and technical jargon. Then came three pages labeled "Remote Control Overview," one page labeled "Zoom Functions," which prompted Vernon and me to look at each other blankly, and finally several pages labeled "Main Menu." We looked carefully through this section, which included subsections entitled Auto Program, Auto Scan Digital Channels, Manual Channel Set, Password Code, Parental Control Settings, Closed Caption, Language, Sleep Timer, Smart Antenna (Optional), Time Zone, TV Aspect Ratio, and Reset Default Settings (What would someone like Mrs. Lowery need with all this stuff, we wondered), but still we could find nothing about connecting the converter to the television. There followed a Trouble Shooting Guide, an Index and a Limited Warranty page. Here we reached the point where the instructions began again in Spanish. "Can you read Spanish?" Vernon ventured.
We returned to the Troubleshooting Guide, but all of the symptoms and solutions listed were inapplicable to us because they assumed we had gotten farther along than we had. In fact, we were where we were hours before: nowhere.
At this point Mrs. Lowery got up and inspected the television, the converter box and the wires and cables. She took the color-coded wires from us. "These probably have no use. They look like they're supposed to be connected to a VCR or DVD player, which I don't have." She tossed them aside. She then took the black cables and handed the end of one to me. "See if it'll fit into one of these holes on the back of the television." To my surprise it did. She gave the other end to Vernon and instructed him to insert it in the converter box. If fit like a glove. She took the other cable and had me hook one end into another port on the television; she had Vernon hook the other end into the antenna itself. "Try it now," she said.
Sure enough the television came to life with a signal indicating a successful connection. Vernon handed her the remote control. "I already inserted the battery," he said somewhat boastfully. Mrs. Lowery worked the remote and before long was able to set the necessary menus. Soon we were watching television. It was now almost daylight and a morning news program came on the air. The first news report of the day was that the Congress had voted to extend the deadline for digital conversion of television airwaves from February to June. Vernon and I just looked at each other. "It's okay, boys," said Mrs. Lowery, "we'd have to make the switch one way or another, sooner or later." After a little while, though, we noticed that despite the good connection there were times when the picture on the television froze and broke up. It was very annoying. "My dear," said Mrs. Lowery, "I never had this problem with just the antenna. Frankly, I wouldn't call this an improvement." To which Vernon responded: "Welcome to the digital age, Mrs. Lowery."
Mrs. Lowery thanked us for our help. Vernon woke Rawson and showed me to the door before going up to his own apartment. As we left the room we heard Mrs. Lowery mutter, "The future sure ain't what it used to be."
A Resident of Woodside
(For Exclusive Use of the Queens Gazette)
The phone rang at an unusually late hour, meaning only one thing--Vernon Jackson, my lifelong friend, needed help. "Have you hooked your television to the digital converter box yet?" he asked.
I explained to Vernon that because I received my TV signal through a local cable company, I had no need for a converter box. But knowing what a sports fanatic he is, I expressed surprise that he had not yet himself subscribed to cable television. "Oh, it's not for me," said Vernon, "it's for my landlady, Mrs. Lowery. She still gets her television the old-fashioned way. When she heard that she would need a converter box to get her signal, she sent for and received one of those $40 discount cards from the government. I took it to Best Buy and bought a box for her, but for the life of me I can't figure out how to connect this thing to her television."
Despite the hour I agreed to go over to Vernon's place to see if I could be of any assistance. Vernon lived nearby in one of the old Mathews Flats on Skillman Avenue. For years he had rented an upstairs flat from the widowed Mrs. Lowery. In minutes I was greeted at the front door by Vernon and his dog, Rawson. He ushered me into the front room where Mrs. Lowery was seated on a sofa, her cat, Bliss, sleeping peacefully on her lap. We exchanged pleasantries and Vernon motioned me to a corner of the room where the old television, equipped only with a rabbit-eared antenna, sat atop a small bookcase. Beneath it was the converter box and what appeared to be a dozen tangled wires. A look of frustration was evident on Vernon's face. "I've tried everything," he said.
Now anyone the least bit acquainted with me knows full well that I have no aptitude whatever for things electronic. But I offered to give it a try. "Where are the instructions?" I asked with a feigned air of confidence. Vernon retrieved the cardboard box that had packaged the device and withdrew the instructions. "Did you even bother to read these?" I asked with an equally feigned air of disdain. "I did, I did" insisted Vernon. He handed me the instruction booklet. It consisted of 48 pages, half English half Spanish. A separate sheet, labeled "Quick Setup Guide," was inserted in the booklet. I looked at the booklet and then at the Quick Setup insert. "Let's start with the insert," I decided.
An hour later I gave up on the insert and reached for the booklet. Mrs. Lowery brought us coffee. Vernon and I were seated on the floor beneath the television, which was turned about so we'd have access to the set's connections. The converter came with a red wire, a yellow wire and a white wire, but no similarly color-coded entry ports existed on the back of the television. And there were two black cables. There seemed to be too many wires altogether. Nevertheless, we had exhausted every possible connection to no avail. "I guess we'll have to read the booklet after all," I said. I detected a smirk from Vernon. Rawson yawned and repaired to the other side of the room to sleep. Mrs. Lowery returned to her seat on the sofa.
The first three pages of the instruction booklet consisted of the usual "Important Safety Instructions." "We can skip these," I said. The fourth page was the Introduction, which thanked us for buying the machine. It also contained a Special Note which stated that "Digital TV broadcasts require an adequate signal strength from the antenna." I looked at Vernon. "Are you sure the signal is adequate?" Vernon looked at Mrs. Lowery. "Never had a problem before," she said calmly.
Next came the Table of Contents, then two pages devoted to the remote control, and another page of schematics. Finally, we arrived at the section concerning the connection to the TV. "Here we go," I said.
The first part of this section contained three pages of schematics and technical jargon. Then came three pages labeled "Remote Control Overview," one page labeled "Zoom Functions," which prompted Vernon and me to look at each other blankly, and finally several pages labeled "Main Menu." We looked carefully through this section, which included subsections entitled Auto Program, Auto Scan Digital Channels, Manual Channel Set, Password Code, Parental Control Settings, Closed Caption, Language, Sleep Timer, Smart Antenna (Optional), Time Zone, TV Aspect Ratio, and Reset Default Settings (What would someone like Mrs. Lowery need with all this stuff, we wondered), but still we could find nothing about connecting the converter to the television. There followed a Trouble Shooting Guide, an Index and a Limited Warranty page. Here we reached the point where the instructions began again in Spanish. "Can you read Spanish?" Vernon ventured.
We returned to the Troubleshooting Guide, but all of the symptoms and solutions listed were inapplicable to us because they assumed we had gotten farther along than we had. In fact, we were where we were hours before: nowhere.
At this point Mrs. Lowery got up and inspected the television, the converter box and the wires and cables. She took the color-coded wires from us. "These probably have no use. They look like they're supposed to be connected to a VCR or DVD player, which I don't have." She tossed them aside. She then took the black cables and handed the end of one to me. "See if it'll fit into one of these holes on the back of the television." To my surprise it did. She gave the other end to Vernon and instructed him to insert it in the converter box. If fit like a glove. She took the other cable and had me hook one end into another port on the television; she had Vernon hook the other end into the antenna itself. "Try it now," she said.
Sure enough the television came to life with a signal indicating a successful connection. Vernon handed her the remote control. "I already inserted the battery," he said somewhat boastfully. Mrs. Lowery worked the remote and before long was able to set the necessary menus. Soon we were watching television. It was now almost daylight and a morning news program came on the air. The first news report of the day was that the Congress had voted to extend the deadline for digital conversion of television airwaves from February to June. Vernon and I just looked at each other. "It's okay, boys," said Mrs. Lowery, "we'd have to make the switch one way or another, sooner or later." After a little while, though, we noticed that despite the good connection there were times when the picture on the television froze and broke up. It was very annoying. "My dear," said Mrs. Lowery, "I never had this problem with just the antenna. Frankly, I wouldn't call this an improvement." To which Vernon responded: "Welcome to the digital age, Mrs. Lowery."
Mrs. Lowery thanked us for our help. Vernon woke Rawson and showed me to the door before going up to his own apartment. As we left the room we heard Mrs. Lowery mutter, "The future sure ain't what it used to be."
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