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."
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The New Meaning of "Bonus"
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Shameful. Outrageous. Height of irresponsibility. These are the words used by President Obama this week after learning that, in the midst of the worst financial melt-down since the Great Depression, Wall Street had just handed out some $18.4 billion in employee bonuses. That this figure should constitute nearly one-fourth of the $800 billion in taxpayer money loaned (supposedly) to bail out Wall Street is bad enough; that it was the 6th largest bonus payout in history is more disturbing still; that it should be announced the very same week 65,000 other Americans lost their jobs is loathsome beyond description. "The trouble with capitalism," Herbert Hoover once noted, "is capitalists--they're too greedy."
There are some who disagree, who believe that the bonuses have become an institutionalized method of compensation and are necessary to retain top talent, especially in times as difficult as these. And there are others who believe that the bonuses are necessary because they increase tax revenue and help stimulate the economy. Most people, though, find this hard to swallow as they lose their homes and find their 401-Ks cut in half, while at the same time reading that their own tax dollars are funding undeserved bonuses, the (attempted) purchase of private corporate jets, and the redecorating of executive offices that cost millions more. It's hard to feel sorry for Wall Street when its chief executives have no qualms about spending $1500 for a waste basket and $15,000 for an umbrella stand.
The philosopher Wittgenstein is attributed with the notion that language, by its very essence, is communal in nature. Its value lies in groups that share the same meaning for the same words. Words, of course, have little or no value if their meaning is left to the musings of one or only a few individuals. I believe this is what has happened to the word "bonus."
A bonus is commonly understood to mean an extra benefit bestowed on someone as a reward for achieving extraordinary results or for a performance that was better than expected. In the case of Wall Street, the very people who have presided over what may prove to be the worst performance in history are nevertheless laying claim to bonuses. Evidently, the Wall Street crowd has its own meaning for the term "bonus." Yet for at least the last century-and-a-half the term has retained a consistent meaning among the community-at-large.
The current edition of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines bonus as "something in addition to what is expected or strictly due; money . . . given in addition to an employee's usual compensation."
Thirty years ago the same dictionary defined it as "something given in addition to what is usual or strictly due."
And Webster's 1861 American Dictionary of the American Language defined it as "an extra dividend . . . out of accumulated profits."
Profits. Now there is a novel idea. Since many corporations issuing bonuses have declared losses rather than profits, and have begged the government for taxpayer money, the decision to hand out bonuses defies the commonly accepted meaning of the term. It is indeed strange that after such a poor performance there are still people on Wall Street who think they deserve a bonus. No matter how well, for example, a particular money manager may have performed, his company still lost money--so what will be the source of this manager's expected bonus?
All of this reminds me of the story baseball Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner once told. For years he played for the Pittsburgh Pirates, then a losing team. After one particularly productive year in which he led the league in home runs and other offensive categories, Kiner asked Pirate general manager Branch Rickey for a raise in salary. Rickey's response: "We finished in last place with you; and we can finish in last place without you."
I'm sure this story will be lost on most Wall Street regulars. Therefore, I propose that we no longer call the money paid to these rascals "bonuses." A more accurate word is "plunder." As defined by Ambrose Bierce in The Devil's Dictionary, plunder is "property {taken} of another without observing the decent and customary reticences of theft." Enough said.
A Resident of Woodside
Shameful. Outrageous. Height of irresponsibility. These are the words used by President Obama this week after learning that, in the midst of the worst financial melt-down since the Great Depression, Wall Street had just handed out some $18.4 billion in employee bonuses. That this figure should constitute nearly one-fourth of the $800 billion in taxpayer money loaned (supposedly) to bail out Wall Street is bad enough; that it was the 6th largest bonus payout in history is more disturbing still; that it should be announced the very same week 65,000 other Americans lost their jobs is loathsome beyond description. "The trouble with capitalism," Herbert Hoover once noted, "is capitalists--they're too greedy."
There are some who disagree, who believe that the bonuses have become an institutionalized method of compensation and are necessary to retain top talent, especially in times as difficult as these. And there are others who believe that the bonuses are necessary because they increase tax revenue and help stimulate the economy. Most people, though, find this hard to swallow as they lose their homes and find their 401-Ks cut in half, while at the same time reading that their own tax dollars are funding undeserved bonuses, the (attempted) purchase of private corporate jets, and the redecorating of executive offices that cost millions more. It's hard to feel sorry for Wall Street when its chief executives have no qualms about spending $1500 for a waste basket and $15,000 for an umbrella stand.
The philosopher Wittgenstein is attributed with the notion that language, by its very essence, is communal in nature. Its value lies in groups that share the same meaning for the same words. Words, of course, have little or no value if their meaning is left to the musings of one or only a few individuals. I believe this is what has happened to the word "bonus."
A bonus is commonly understood to mean an extra benefit bestowed on someone as a reward for achieving extraordinary results or for a performance that was better than expected. In the case of Wall Street, the very people who have presided over what may prove to be the worst performance in history are nevertheless laying claim to bonuses. Evidently, the Wall Street crowd has its own meaning for the term "bonus." Yet for at least the last century-and-a-half the term has retained a consistent meaning among the community-at-large.
The current edition of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines bonus as "something in addition to what is expected or strictly due; money . . . given in addition to an employee's usual compensation."
Thirty years ago the same dictionary defined it as "something given in addition to what is usual or strictly due."
And Webster's 1861 American Dictionary of the American Language defined it as "an extra dividend . . . out of accumulated profits."
Profits. Now there is a novel idea. Since many corporations issuing bonuses have declared losses rather than profits, and have begged the government for taxpayer money, the decision to hand out bonuses defies the commonly accepted meaning of the term. It is indeed strange that after such a poor performance there are still people on Wall Street who think they deserve a bonus. No matter how well, for example, a particular money manager may have performed, his company still lost money--so what will be the source of this manager's expected bonus?
All of this reminds me of the story baseball Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner once told. For years he played for the Pittsburgh Pirates, then a losing team. After one particularly productive year in which he led the league in home runs and other offensive categories, Kiner asked Pirate general manager Branch Rickey for a raise in salary. Rickey's response: "We finished in last place with you; and we can finish in last place without you."
I'm sure this story will be lost on most Wall Street regulars. Therefore, I propose that we no longer call the money paid to these rascals "bonuses." A more accurate word is "plunder." As defined by Ambrose Bierce in The Devil's Dictionary, plunder is "property {taken} of another without observing the decent and customary reticences of theft." Enough said.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Vernon's Law--A Modest Proposal
by John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
"So I wanted to make a right turn from the avenue onto a side street," says my friend, Diane, "when I noticed that to do so I have to cross over one of those painted bicycle lanes. What if a bicyclist just happened to be in my blind spot as I made the turn?"
Good question. As cycling becomes more popular the City has tried to accommodate the increasing number of bike riders by dedicating portions of some streets and avenues to bicycle lanes. Given the instability of gasoline prices, the rising costs of insurance and car prices, and the growth of environmental awareness, it is hardly surprising that many people have opted for the bicycle as their principal means of commuting. This trend has caused some controversy in a number of communities, where existing traffic congestion is said to have been exacerbated by the bicycle lanes, which reduce the width of the streets and avenues. And although the City and State insist that cyclists are bound by the same rules of the road applicable to motor vehicles, some confusion persists. In Diane's case New York law requires that a right turn be made from as close to the curb as practicable. But what if there is a bicycle lane between the car and the curb? Since New York law also requires cyclists to travel in the same direction of traffic, it is only a matter of time before the inevitable occurs.
So I did with this problem what I always do when similarly perplexed: I sought trusted counsel. A full grasp of the dimensions of the issue required a wide range of experience, wisdom, thought and opinion. And where else could I find such diverse attributes than in the Shillelagh Tavern. So I took the issue there. Paddy Collins, a retired cab driver, was sipping a bourbon. "If you ask me," he said, "the problem would be greatly relieved if you simply banned bicycles altogether. They're nothing but a flippin' nuisance."
Doc Milano, so named because he is an EMT, chimed in: "Not only are they a nuisance, but a hazard, too. You have no idea how many cyclists I've had to scrape off the pavement after being struck by cars--and how many silly seniors, trying to recapture their youth, drop dead from heart attacks after a few minutes of cycling."
Tony the Greek ordered another beer and entered the discussion. "Let's face it, you're never gonna get rid of bicycles. I've got grandchildren. Bicycles are what I buy them for Christmas."
"Tony's got a point." I turned to see John Whitney look up from his Wall Street Journal. "Think of what would happen if bicycling were banned," he said. "Think of all the people who make and repair bicycles. They'd be put out of work. The economy is bad enough already."
Eighty-seven year old Marty Flanagan was sitting nearby nursing a scotch. "Marty," I said, "what do you think about the bicycles?" He turned to me with a vacant look, grunted and returned to his drink.
That left my friend Vernon Jackson who had been politely listening from the other end of the bar. "It seems to me," he started, "that a compromise is in order." He took a swig of beer and continued: "On the one hand we simply can't ban cycling altogether; on the other hand something has to be done to make it safer."
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"I've researched this issue, and the number one cause of bicycle accidents involving cars is 'dooring.'"
"Dooring? What's that?"
"When a driver or car passenger suddenly opens a car door into the path of an approaching cyclist, that's 'dooring.'" My first job out of school was as a messenger in Manhattan. My bicycle was my livelihood. I know all about 'dooring' and I've got the scars to prove it." Vernon sipped his beer and continued.
"It has always been a source of wonder to me that the law requires cyclists to travel in the same direction as traffic. It should be the opposite. There is nothing more unnerving as a cyclist than being forced to travel in the same direction as cars. You can't see what's happening behind you, no chance to ditch if someone loses control of a car or swerves too close. If you were required to travel in the opposite direction, you could see what's happening in front of you, just as the drivers coming toward you could see what's happening in front of them. And there'd be no more 'dooring' because the person about to open a car door would be able to see you coming."
I had to scratch my head. "That's a great idea, Vernon. We should lobby Albany for a change in the law. We can even call it 'Vernon's Law.'"
"I like the sound of that," said Vernon.
"Me, too," said Paddy Collins. "It would make cyclists less of a nuisance."
"Fewer injuries, too," added Doc Milano.
"I can still buy my grandchildren bicycles," said Tony the Greek.
"And the economy won't be further damaged," observed John Whitney.
We all turned toward Marty Flanagan. He just shook his head and asked for another scotch.
A Resident of Woodside
"So I wanted to make a right turn from the avenue onto a side street," says my friend, Diane, "when I noticed that to do so I have to cross over one of those painted bicycle lanes. What if a bicyclist just happened to be in my blind spot as I made the turn?"
Good question. As cycling becomes more popular the City has tried to accommodate the increasing number of bike riders by dedicating portions of some streets and avenues to bicycle lanes. Given the instability of gasoline prices, the rising costs of insurance and car prices, and the growth of environmental awareness, it is hardly surprising that many people have opted for the bicycle as their principal means of commuting. This trend has caused some controversy in a number of communities, where existing traffic congestion is said to have been exacerbated by the bicycle lanes, which reduce the width of the streets and avenues. And although the City and State insist that cyclists are bound by the same rules of the road applicable to motor vehicles, some confusion persists. In Diane's case New York law requires that a right turn be made from as close to the curb as practicable. But what if there is a bicycle lane between the car and the curb? Since New York law also requires cyclists to travel in the same direction of traffic, it is only a matter of time before the inevitable occurs.
So I did with this problem what I always do when similarly perplexed: I sought trusted counsel. A full grasp of the dimensions of the issue required a wide range of experience, wisdom, thought and opinion. And where else could I find such diverse attributes than in the Shillelagh Tavern. So I took the issue there. Paddy Collins, a retired cab driver, was sipping a bourbon. "If you ask me," he said, "the problem would be greatly relieved if you simply banned bicycles altogether. They're nothing but a flippin' nuisance."
Doc Milano, so named because he is an EMT, chimed in: "Not only are they a nuisance, but a hazard, too. You have no idea how many cyclists I've had to scrape off the pavement after being struck by cars--and how many silly seniors, trying to recapture their youth, drop dead from heart attacks after a few minutes of cycling."
Tony the Greek ordered another beer and entered the discussion. "Let's face it, you're never gonna get rid of bicycles. I've got grandchildren. Bicycles are what I buy them for Christmas."
"Tony's got a point." I turned to see John Whitney look up from his Wall Street Journal. "Think of what would happen if bicycling were banned," he said. "Think of all the people who make and repair bicycles. They'd be put out of work. The economy is bad enough already."
Eighty-seven year old Marty Flanagan was sitting nearby nursing a scotch. "Marty," I said, "what do you think about the bicycles?" He turned to me with a vacant look, grunted and returned to his drink.
That left my friend Vernon Jackson who had been politely listening from the other end of the bar. "It seems to me," he started, "that a compromise is in order." He took a swig of beer and continued: "On the one hand we simply can't ban cycling altogether; on the other hand something has to be done to make it safer."
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"I've researched this issue, and the number one cause of bicycle accidents involving cars is 'dooring.'"
"Dooring? What's that?"
"When a driver or car passenger suddenly opens a car door into the path of an approaching cyclist, that's 'dooring.'" My first job out of school was as a messenger in Manhattan. My bicycle was my livelihood. I know all about 'dooring' and I've got the scars to prove it." Vernon sipped his beer and continued.
"It has always been a source of wonder to me that the law requires cyclists to travel in the same direction as traffic. It should be the opposite. There is nothing more unnerving as a cyclist than being forced to travel in the same direction as cars. You can't see what's happening behind you, no chance to ditch if someone loses control of a car or swerves too close. If you were required to travel in the opposite direction, you could see what's happening in front of you, just as the drivers coming toward you could see what's happening in front of them. And there'd be no more 'dooring' because the person about to open a car door would be able to see you coming."
I had to scratch my head. "That's a great idea, Vernon. We should lobby Albany for a change in the law. We can even call it 'Vernon's Law.'"
"I like the sound of that," said Vernon.
"Me, too," said Paddy Collins. "It would make cyclists less of a nuisance."
"Fewer injuries, too," added Doc Milano.
"I can still buy my grandchildren bicycles," said Tony the Greek.
"And the economy won't be further damaged," observed John Whitney.
We all turned toward Marty Flanagan. He just shook his head and asked for another scotch.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A Culinary Delight
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
New Yorkers have been blessed with some of the greatest figures in history: Statesmen, such as Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt and Fiorella LaGuardia; captains of finance and industry, such as J.P. Morgan, John Jacob Astor and Cornelius Vanderbilt; sports legends, such as Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey and Joe Namath; entertainers, such as Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Billy Joel; literary giants, such as James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville and Walt Whitman. The list could go on and on.
But in the field of the culinary arts one man stands alone. He is Alan S. Geisler, who passed away last week at age 78. He is the genius who 44 years ago created the red-onion sauce without which no New York hot dog would be complete. Concocted at the behest of the owner of Sabrett, whose frankfurters are a New York mainstay, the sauce became so popular that in recent times it was, and continues to be, marketed in its own packaging in supermarkets. Before that, the only way you could get your hands on it was by purchasing a Sabrett hot dog from a pushcart vendor in the City streets. Anyone who has lived in or visited New York knows how distinctly "New York" these hot dogs are. The pushcarts that populate City streets are equipped with Sabrette umbrellas, announcing not only the presence of the hot dogs, but more importantly, Geisler's sauce. For as good as a Sabrett hot dog may be, it is the sauce that makes it a quintessentially New York dog.
Other places have their own version of the sidewalk hot dog. Chicago dogs, for example, are noted for their tomato and relish toppings on a poppy-seeded bun. Cole slaw, I have read, is a popular topping in the South. But here in New York it is Mr. Geisler's Sabrett onion sauce, along with mustard and sauerkraut if you're adventurous, which is the necessary accoutrement.
I was introduced to the New York hot dog in the mid-60's. At that time the first Sabrett pushcart appeared in my neighborhood in Queens. A young stocky fellow named Frank (no pun intended) set up his cart on a little triangular street on the north side of Broadway and 63rd Street. During the day his only company was his dog (again no pun intended), a well-groomed boxer who would sit quietly beside the cart. Before long he was doing a brisk business providing lunch to the many people who worked at garages, factories and warehouses along Broadway and nearby Northern Boulevard. And on weekends, before we drove off to visit one relative or another, my father would pull his car up behind Frank's cart and each of us--my mother, brother and me--would get a dog and a soda. I don't remember exactly how much it cost, but in those days it was our idea of dining out.
At that young and timid age, I always refrained from sauerkraut (a phobia I have long since overcome). And I could not then see the point of combining the onion sauce with mustard (a phobia I have not overcome), so I took my dog with onions only. I still do.
And my appetite for it never abated. After a few years Frank was doing so well that during winter months he suspended business and, with his loyal canine friend, vacationed in Florida. But his return each spring was as welcome as the warm weather, green leaves on trees and baseball.
In the decades since, I have continued to eat my dogs the same way. It is only when I am at a backyard barbecue, or in some other city where the onion sauce is not available, that I'll resort to mustard or sauerkraut. Otherwise, a dog without Mr. Geisler's sauce is like bacon without eggs, ham without cheese, water without scotch whiskey. It does nothing for me.
Oh, I know the sauce has some drawbacks. For one thing, it is sticky and the one napkin typically issued by vendors is never enough. And yes, it's messy, too. Anyone who regularly uses the sauce is bound to ruin some shirts and ties. Once I even ruined a new pair of expensive white sneakers. I didn't care. I continued to wear those stained sneakers until--well, there's no need to provide a description of that.
Anyway, if somewhere there is a food maker's hall of fame, I nominate Alan S. Geisler. His contribution to the life of New Yorkers should be forever enshrined.
A Resident of Woodside
New Yorkers have been blessed with some of the greatest figures in history: Statesmen, such as Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt and Fiorella LaGuardia; captains of finance and industry, such as J.P. Morgan, John Jacob Astor and Cornelius Vanderbilt; sports legends, such as Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey and Joe Namath; entertainers, such as Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Billy Joel; literary giants, such as James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville and Walt Whitman. The list could go on and on.
But in the field of the culinary arts one man stands alone. He is Alan S. Geisler, who passed away last week at age 78. He is the genius who 44 years ago created the red-onion sauce without which no New York hot dog would be complete. Concocted at the behest of the owner of Sabrett, whose frankfurters are a New York mainstay, the sauce became so popular that in recent times it was, and continues to be, marketed in its own packaging in supermarkets. Before that, the only way you could get your hands on it was by purchasing a Sabrett hot dog from a pushcart vendor in the City streets. Anyone who has lived in or visited New York knows how distinctly "New York" these hot dogs are. The pushcarts that populate City streets are equipped with Sabrette umbrellas, announcing not only the presence of the hot dogs, but more importantly, Geisler's sauce. For as good as a Sabrett hot dog may be, it is the sauce that makes it a quintessentially New York dog.
Other places have their own version of the sidewalk hot dog. Chicago dogs, for example, are noted for their tomato and relish toppings on a poppy-seeded bun. Cole slaw, I have read, is a popular topping in the South. But here in New York it is Mr. Geisler's Sabrett onion sauce, along with mustard and sauerkraut if you're adventurous, which is the necessary accoutrement.
I was introduced to the New York hot dog in the mid-60's. At that time the first Sabrett pushcart appeared in my neighborhood in Queens. A young stocky fellow named Frank (no pun intended) set up his cart on a little triangular street on the north side of Broadway and 63rd Street. During the day his only company was his dog (again no pun intended), a well-groomed boxer who would sit quietly beside the cart. Before long he was doing a brisk business providing lunch to the many people who worked at garages, factories and warehouses along Broadway and nearby Northern Boulevard. And on weekends, before we drove off to visit one relative or another, my father would pull his car up behind Frank's cart and each of us--my mother, brother and me--would get a dog and a soda. I don't remember exactly how much it cost, but in those days it was our idea of dining out.
At that young and timid age, I always refrained from sauerkraut (a phobia I have long since overcome). And I could not then see the point of combining the onion sauce with mustard (a phobia I have not overcome), so I took my dog with onions only. I still do.
And my appetite for it never abated. After a few years Frank was doing so well that during winter months he suspended business and, with his loyal canine friend, vacationed in Florida. But his return each spring was as welcome as the warm weather, green leaves on trees and baseball.
In the decades since, I have continued to eat my dogs the same way. It is only when I am at a backyard barbecue, or in some other city where the onion sauce is not available, that I'll resort to mustard or sauerkraut. Otherwise, a dog without Mr. Geisler's sauce is like bacon without eggs, ham without cheese, water without scotch whiskey. It does nothing for me.
Oh, I know the sauce has some drawbacks. For one thing, it is sticky and the one napkin typically issued by vendors is never enough. And yes, it's messy, too. Anyone who regularly uses the sauce is bound to ruin some shirts and ties. Once I even ruined a new pair of expensive white sneakers. I didn't care. I continued to wear those stained sneakers until--well, there's no need to provide a description of that.
Anyway, if somewhere there is a food maker's hall of fame, I nominate Alan S. Geisler. His contribution to the life of New Yorkers should be forever enshrined.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
They Can't Predict Nightfall
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Maybe it's me, but has anyone else noted in recent years that the more advanced and technical weather forecasting has become, the worse the forecasts themselves have been? Weather has become big business. It occupies more and more time on news telecasts. The National Weather Service has the ability to interrupt cable television programming so that we can be advised of an impending storm and to track its approach minute by minute. Forecasts are available twenty-four hours on radio and television cable services, and the Weather Channel, which is available on local cable outlets, has become increasingly popular, not only with its national and local forecasting but with regular features that document the most deadly storms and how storms have changed history, to cite just a couple.
And you cannot watch a local news program anymore that doesn't boast of the millions of dollars invested in its weather forecasting capabilities. Radar, satellite, Doppler, and so on. Yet it seems that despite all these boasts, all the money and all the technology, weather forecasting has gotten worse.
Perhaps it is the result of being overly cautious. How many times have we been warned days ahead of time that a major snow storm is on its way only to see it fizzle out? Are the weather authorities simply employing the strategy of 'better safe than sorry?' Or is something more sinister at work, such as news outlets using the prospect of a storm to increase its viewership and its ratings? Here in New York, every time snow is predicted it becomes the lead story on local news telecasts. The friendly weatherman, who is usually relegated to a minute or two deep into the telecast, is suddenly propelled to the lead story. Viewers with bated breath sit anxiously on the edge of their sofas, taking in each word as if their very lives depend on it. Reporters are sent to the far reaches of the viewing area to provide updates of local conditions and roadways. Governmental officials, from mayor to sanitation commissioner to transit chief to airport administrators, are interviewed on the gravity of the situation and their anticipated response. Other news-- like war, famine, economic disaster and the like-- is cast aside as a minor diversion.
Yet for all this, it is uncanny how frequently they get it wrong. And the consequences go unnoticed. How much money did the City spend in readying its forces and equipment for an ordeal that never materialized? How many people, confronted with the possibility of being trapped in their homes for a day, dropped whatever they were doing to line up in supermarkets to stock up on such necessities as bread and milk and beer and potato chips? How many people changed their travel plans for no reason? How many failed to go to work (or more precisely, used it as an excuse not to go to work)? How many backs were thrown out in the course of buying and lifting 50 pound bags of salt or digging the snow blower out of the back of a cluttered garage? The list goes on and on. Yet all of it was for nothing.
Of course, once in a while the forecasters do get it right and we get dumped on as predicted. But by the next day and the next news cycle it is all pretty much forgotten. By then the story is as attractive as the dirty ice and slush the snow has become. And who is to say if the forecasters got it right this time out of skill or sheer luck. My guess is luck. As my wife likes to say, "They can't predict nightfall."
Anyway, I have to interrupt this meditation on weather forecasting. I hear from the radio above my desk that we're about to be hit with another snow storm. Time to stock up on beer and chips.
A Resident of Woodside
Maybe it's me, but has anyone else noted in recent years that the more advanced and technical weather forecasting has become, the worse the forecasts themselves have been? Weather has become big business. It occupies more and more time on news telecasts. The National Weather Service has the ability to interrupt cable television programming so that we can be advised of an impending storm and to track its approach minute by minute. Forecasts are available twenty-four hours on radio and television cable services, and the Weather Channel, which is available on local cable outlets, has become increasingly popular, not only with its national and local forecasting but with regular features that document the most deadly storms and how storms have changed history, to cite just a couple.
And you cannot watch a local news program anymore that doesn't boast of the millions of dollars invested in its weather forecasting capabilities. Radar, satellite, Doppler, and so on. Yet it seems that despite all these boasts, all the money and all the technology, weather forecasting has gotten worse.
Perhaps it is the result of being overly cautious. How many times have we been warned days ahead of time that a major snow storm is on its way only to see it fizzle out? Are the weather authorities simply employing the strategy of 'better safe than sorry?' Or is something more sinister at work, such as news outlets using the prospect of a storm to increase its viewership and its ratings? Here in New York, every time snow is predicted it becomes the lead story on local news telecasts. The friendly weatherman, who is usually relegated to a minute or two deep into the telecast, is suddenly propelled to the lead story. Viewers with bated breath sit anxiously on the edge of their sofas, taking in each word as if their very lives depend on it. Reporters are sent to the far reaches of the viewing area to provide updates of local conditions and roadways. Governmental officials, from mayor to sanitation commissioner to transit chief to airport administrators, are interviewed on the gravity of the situation and their anticipated response. Other news-- like war, famine, economic disaster and the like-- is cast aside as a minor diversion.
Yet for all this, it is uncanny how frequently they get it wrong. And the consequences go unnoticed. How much money did the City spend in readying its forces and equipment for an ordeal that never materialized? How many people, confronted with the possibility of being trapped in their homes for a day, dropped whatever they were doing to line up in supermarkets to stock up on such necessities as bread and milk and beer and potato chips? How many people changed their travel plans for no reason? How many failed to go to work (or more precisely, used it as an excuse not to go to work)? How many backs were thrown out in the course of buying and lifting 50 pound bags of salt or digging the snow blower out of the back of a cluttered garage? The list goes on and on. Yet all of it was for nothing.
Of course, once in a while the forecasters do get it right and we get dumped on as predicted. But by the next day and the next news cycle it is all pretty much forgotten. By then the story is as attractive as the dirty ice and slush the snow has become. And who is to say if the forecasters got it right this time out of skill or sheer luck. My guess is luck. As my wife likes to say, "They can't predict nightfall."
Anyway, I have to interrupt this meditation on weather forecasting. I hear from the radio above my desk that we're about to be hit with another snow storm. Time to stock up on beer and chips.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Parking Ticket Blues
by John J. Cox
A resident of Woodside
Few things in life are more aggravating than dealing with a parking ticket. The whole process-- from finding a place to park in the first place, to finding a ticket on your windshield (if you're lucky enough not to have had your car towed), to standing in line at an adjudication center, to facing a judge who has no real desire to listen to your side of the story, to paying the fine--can tax the patience of the most saintly person.
I don't know of a single person who owns a car in this City who cannot provide a horror story. I've got plenty of my own, like the time I double-parked in front of my building to remove groceries in a driving rain storm. By the time I handed off the grocery bags to my wife who was waiting a few feet away at the lobby door, a parking enforcement car pulled up and a young officer got out and wrote a ticket, even as I screamed and ran back through the pouring rain. Too late. But like most New Yorkers I've learned through experience two things: First, when it is the end of the month, as it was in this instance, there is no mercy. The monthly quotas the City says do not exist must be met anyway. And second, it is far easier, and healthier, to forgo the adjudication process and simply pay the fine.
This system works very well for the City, if not for its citizens. The City issues about 10 million tickets a year, and only about 20 percent of those ticketed have the strength and fortitude to challenge them. The rest figure, accurately, that the deck is already stacked against them and that it would be a waste of time (and money if they work for a living) to spend a day waiting to see a judge who will not believe them anyway. These more practical people realize that the constitutional rights of due process and confrontation do not in fact apply at the Parking Violations Bureau. They know that the Bureau has long adopted the judicial philosophy once espoused by Marxist Leon Trotsky that "only the guilty will be tried."
But in a City of endless innovation when it comes to more efficiently parting its residents from their cash, the Parking Violations Bureau has initiated a new program. If you are one of those hardy souls who appears at the Bureau to challenge a ticket you must first wait on a line to see a clerk. Before seeing a judge the clerk will inform you that the judge has no power to reduce a fine, that if the judge determines you are guilty no amount of begging and sobbing will result in a reduction of what you will be forced to pay. But, if you wish, you can get a substantially reduced fine simply by coming to terms with the clerk.
According to a recent story in the New York Times this program was started three years ago and has been successful. It has reduced the number of judges needed to adjudicate cases. And a person who obtains a reduced fine from the clerk waits no more than an hour, as opposed to waiting perhaps a whole day to see a judge with no authority to lower a fine. But there is one oddity about this program: the City does not publicize it. The Times reported that few people are aware of its existence, that the City never issued a press release about it, and that it is not even mentioned in the City's official guide to parking ticket hearings. It seems that it is only those brave and stout few willing to endure the bureaucratic morass who have benefited from the program. It gives new meaning to Woody Allen's observation that 90 percent of success is just showing up.
A resident of Woodside
Few things in life are more aggravating than dealing with a parking ticket. The whole process-- from finding a place to park in the first place, to finding a ticket on your windshield (if you're lucky enough not to have had your car towed), to standing in line at an adjudication center, to facing a judge who has no real desire to listen to your side of the story, to paying the fine--can tax the patience of the most saintly person.
I don't know of a single person who owns a car in this City who cannot provide a horror story. I've got plenty of my own, like the time I double-parked in front of my building to remove groceries in a driving rain storm. By the time I handed off the grocery bags to my wife who was waiting a few feet away at the lobby door, a parking enforcement car pulled up and a young officer got out and wrote a ticket, even as I screamed and ran back through the pouring rain. Too late. But like most New Yorkers I've learned through experience two things: First, when it is the end of the month, as it was in this instance, there is no mercy. The monthly quotas the City says do not exist must be met anyway. And second, it is far easier, and healthier, to forgo the adjudication process and simply pay the fine.
This system works very well for the City, if not for its citizens. The City issues about 10 million tickets a year, and only about 20 percent of those ticketed have the strength and fortitude to challenge them. The rest figure, accurately, that the deck is already stacked against them and that it would be a waste of time (and money if they work for a living) to spend a day waiting to see a judge who will not believe them anyway. These more practical people realize that the constitutional rights of due process and confrontation do not in fact apply at the Parking Violations Bureau. They know that the Bureau has long adopted the judicial philosophy once espoused by Marxist Leon Trotsky that "only the guilty will be tried."
But in a City of endless innovation when it comes to more efficiently parting its residents from their cash, the Parking Violations Bureau has initiated a new program. If you are one of those hardy souls who appears at the Bureau to challenge a ticket you must first wait on a line to see a clerk. Before seeing a judge the clerk will inform you that the judge has no power to reduce a fine, that if the judge determines you are guilty no amount of begging and sobbing will result in a reduction of what you will be forced to pay. But, if you wish, you can get a substantially reduced fine simply by coming to terms with the clerk.
According to a recent story in the New York Times this program was started three years ago and has been successful. It has reduced the number of judges needed to adjudicate cases. And a person who obtains a reduced fine from the clerk waits no more than an hour, as opposed to waiting perhaps a whole day to see a judge with no authority to lower a fine. But there is one oddity about this program: the City does not publicize it. The Times reported that few people are aware of its existence, that the City never issued a press release about it, and that it is not even mentioned in the City's official guide to parking ticket hearings. It seems that it is only those brave and stout few willing to endure the bureaucratic morass who have benefited from the program. It gives new meaning to Woody Allen's observation that 90 percent of success is just showing up.
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