“What five things do you miss from your childhood?”

I have seen others on Mr. Blogroll answer this question, and I find the question and everyone’s answers quite interesting. I, therefore, have decided to take a dip in the pool, as it were.

Generating such a list is always difficult, because the minute you’ve posted the list, you invariably think of other things that probably should have been included. With that said, here are the five things that come to mind as I sit here at the end of a long, long day of chock full of Life 101.

In no particular order, they are:

1. The Last Day of School: For me, it was a day of unbridled joy. It always seemed to be a sunny day (admittedly, that is probably a product of selective memory), full of promise for the next couple months of freedom. In grammar school, we would sing:

No more pencils, no more books
No more teacher’s dirty looks.

I couldn’t wait to get home to take off and put away my “school clothes,” and don my jeans (We called them “dungarees” then), which, along with a few tee shirts, constituted my summer garb. Back then, boys in my neighborhood didn’t wear shorts.

Of course, things changed as I got older and the last day of school meant a summer job.

2. Gutter Ball: We played gutter ball damned near all year round. The game was played with two people. The “batter” threw a ball (a tennis ball, or Spalding rubber ball a/k/a “Spaldeen”) against the curb, and the fielder tried to catch it. Each grounder caught was an out. Catching it on a fly also constituted an out. A missed grounder was a single. If the ball crossed the opposite curb on a fly, it was a double. If it went on Mr. Whatshisname’s lawn on a fly, it was a triple. If the ball flew over Mr. Whatshisname’s fence, it was a homer. The idea, of course, was to hit the curb with the ball precisely on the corner, which all but assured a homer. Each player would be identify himself as a “team,” which back then pretty much guaranteed that the “teams” chosen were the Yankees, the NEW YORK Giants and/or the BROOKLYN Dodgers. “Now coming to the plate with the bases loaded, Yogi Berra!” This was serious stuff, and the games would go on for hours and hours, and hours.

3. Sleigh Riding. With a good snow, we would sleigh ride to the point of exhaustion, or until dark, whichever came first. Sometimes this took place on the nearest street that resembled a hill, but when we got serious snowstorms, we would sleigh ride in “the woods,” which in reality was probably no more than a nearby acre or so of undeveloped land in the town. It may not have been a true “woods,” but for us it was like Aspen.

4. Italian Hot Dogs and Lemon Ice. It was always a rare treat on those occasions when my father would come home from work and say, “How about for supper, we take a ride “Down Neck” (i.e. the “Ironbound” Section of Newark) and pick up Italian Hot Dogs?” An Italian Hot Dog (a “double” – one always got a “double”) consisted of two greasy hot dogs in a half a “pizza roll” (Think one half of a loaf of Italian Bread, about the size of a small hubcap, shaped like a pita), with mustard, peppers, onions and fries crammed into the crevice of the roll. There simply is nothing better.

On other nights, my dad would suggest that we take a ride “Down Neck” to Adams Street for some lemon ice. Back then, Adams Street was the Mecca of lemon ice. The old Italian ladies used to make it and sell it from ramshackle stands in front of their multi-family houses. The stuff had real bits of lemon rind in it. Heavenly.

5. Family Gatherings. On holidays and often on no special occasion, my parents, aunts, uncles, family friends and cousins would find themselves in the same place at the same time. The adults drank beer or “highballs,” while the kids drank Coke, Pepsi or “Dad’s Root Beer.” This was not a talking free-for-all, with everyone blabbing at the same time. Instead, without any formal rules, it essentially was a story telling event, with each person capturing the floor and everyone else’s attention while he or she said something that had everyone, as they used to say, “in stitches.” The children were included, but if you managed to capture the floor and, thereby everyone’s attention, the story had better be good. It was wonderful training for adulthood, and yet not a single person in the room ever studied developmental psychology, adolescent psychology, social psychology, or any other “ology” for that matter. Jack’s dad was da bomb at these events.

Sadly, the “grownups” are all gone now. I hope we pack the same gear.

Ever wonder what chiggers, the Mainstream Media, Howard Dean and nail polish have in common?

Denny pulls it all together.

Only today, after what must be a year and a half or more and hundreds of clicks, did I notice that Eric’s site appeared on my Blogroll as “Straignt White Guy”.

I think I may be the world’s worst proofreader. When I was a judicial clerk, part of the job was to proofread the judge’s opinions before they went to the publisher. One clerk would read while the other followed. I was a bad reader (I read right through mistakes) and I was even a worse follower. The only way we would be sure to catch all the typos was to read the opinion backwards calling out every punctuation mark and every capital letter and every word. It was not fun, but it worked.

There is no way that I’m reading my posts backward, so please forgive me for the occasional typo. I think it’s a question of brain wiring.

Still, in a year and a half, I should have noticed that Eric is not the “Straignt White Guy.” Yep, brain wiring.

I don’t tolerate heat well, which right now is a bitch, because Jersey is on the tail end of a heat wave. Temperatures have been in the nineties with oppressive humidity. I know for my southern friends, our heatwave would not be a big deal, but I get downright panicky and/or seriously crabby in the heat.

Tonight was particularly rough for a cold weather guy. I had rushed home after work (if you can call sitting for almost an hour in traffic “rushing”, because someone’s car had the bad taste to burn up on Route 78) in order to change clothes in time to participate, on behalf of the Post, in Flag Day Ceremonies held by the local Elks Lodge.

It is a moving ceremony in which the various flags of America’s history are marched before the crowd, while the narrator gives a brief history of each flag. This is followed by the retirement, by burning, of old flags that are no longer serviceable. The Elks, like the American Legion, collects flags from people throughout the year who want to properly dispose of them.

Our Post is the only one around that has a ceremonial firing squad, so we are regularly asked to participate in the Elks’ annual Flag Day event. As such, I got to spend the better part of the longish ceremony standing at attention in the sweltering heat, dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, long pants and Legion Cap. When the flame was finally put to the flags, we fired three volleys and then presented arms while a bugler played “Taps.”

It may have been a moving ceremony, but I think I lost a couple quarts of water standing there. I’m not a Budweiser fan, but when it was over, I inhaled an ice-cold Bud, and it went down like well water.

Earlier in the day, I had taken my walk in the heat and humidity, which was less than pleasurable and required two bottles of water – one I brought with me and one I bought from a convenience store about three quarters of the way through the walk. During today’s walk of death, I could not help but notice the four-foot long antenna-like structures that are painted red and white and affixed to the fire hydrants in town. Their purpose is to permit fire fighters and everyone else to know where the fire hydrants are when the snow is high enough to bury them in the winter.

Those antenna-like things in today’s tropical heat served to remind me that, if you can live in Jersey, you can live anywhere.

About a year and a half ago, I wrote a post about gang violence. Since that time, the comments to the post have become sort of a chat room, where some of our more stellar citizens grace us with their weighty thoughts.

From time to time, I like to share their more recent literary contributions.

Go take a peek, but please do not disturb them. I prefer that they be left alone to really show their stuff.

Wall to Wall coverage. I could puke.

Welcome to September 10, 2001.

I know that many of you have not been able to access this site over the last few days. Neither have I.

The problem appears to have arisen from the waves of comment spam that have assaulted this place, which have caused the host to simply shut down the site without warning.

My friend, with an inexhaustible supply of patience and graciousness, is working on the problem. Given that he has many things to attend to these days that are far more important than worrying about this piss-ass blog, please be patient while we try a few things to deal with the problem. One possibility being considered is moving away from Movable Type.

I’m not sure where this all is headed, but please stay tuned.

Thinking about buying someone a Home Depot Gift Certificate?

Think again.

Yes, I brought Mr. Laptop on my recent business trip, and yes, I am a Maroon. Indeed, I am not the Run-of-the-Mill Maroon: I am the Platonic form of a Maroon. Prior to my departure, I had continued to believe that, even with my snail-like pace of learning about computer things, I might, just might, be able to breathe life into Mr. Laptop this trip and hop on the net, just like all the cool guys do when they are away from home.

I arrived at my hotel room and immediately looked for some sort of an internet connection. I didn’t have to look long, because on the desk was an information sheet explaining that the hotel provided wireless access to the web for a modest daily fee. I know that Mr. Laptop is not set up for “wireless,” but the information sheet said that the hotel would provide a widget that would turn Mr. Laptop into a space-age wireless wonder. I pictured myself taking advantage of the few spare moments to dash off some “on the scene” reportage. I was just a phone call away from being one of the really cool “wireless” guys.

Because I had to get ready to attend a dinner, I decided to call the hotel later to arrange for the delivery of the Mystery Box.

During cocktails before dinner, I overheard a colleague bitching about not being able to “connect.” Stupidly feeling my “techno-oats,” I told the fellow about the magical widget that promised to turn his laptop (and mine) into internet speedsters.

Unfortunately, he was way ahead of me. He already had one of the Mystery Boxes delivered to his room, and he deftly did all the plugging in of stuff. However, once plugged in, his laptop had informed him that because of some “proxy-schmoxy” thing, he couldn’t be connected without changing a critical setting. He confirmed this by phone with our IT guys in Jersey and with the Mystery Box hotel people.

Turns out that neither he nor I have the “administrative rights” to flip the switch that would activate the Mystery Box. Even the IT guys in Jersey didn’t have the juice to flip the switch. Our laptops are so well locked down that my “administrative rights” pretty much begin and end with being able to type capital letters whenever I want.

So, for the duration of the trip, Mr. Laptop stayed in the black bag with all the wires and widgets, about as useless as a sack of bricks.

Henceforth, Mr. Laptop will remain securely “docked” in my office.

Does anyone know of a Jersey Chapter of “Maroons Anonymous?”

Congratulations to my friend Craig and his Spousal Unit on the occasion of the arrival of a baby girl, Kiran Lee, this morning. And, he’s got pictures up.

Here’s how I learned of this from “The Nicest Guy in the Blogosphere.”

I was having connectivity problems accessing the Movabletype page on which one runs da blog. I dropped Craig an e-mail asking if and only if he had a spare moment, he might take a look at the problem.

Three minutes later, my phone rang, and the conversation went something like this.

Craig: “Hi Jim, it’s Craig. I think I fixed that problem for you.”

Jimbo: “Craig! Jesus, that was fast. What was the problem?” (As if I would be able to understand the answer.)

Craig: “Well, the … ” [lots of technospeak followed].

Jimbo: “Hmmmm. I’ll pretend that I understood what you just said. Hey, when are you guys going to have that baby? I know that it’s any day now, right?”

Craig: “About four hours ago.”

Jimbo: “WHAT?? You had a baby four hours ago, and you’re on the farookin’ phone with ME about a blog problem?”

Craig: “Well, I just got in from the hospital and I planned on making a few phone calls and then taking a nap. I saw your e-mail, so I fixed the problem.”

After a bit of chatting about the happy event, I suggested that he probably had more important phone calls to make than this one and that he should make them and then take that nap.

I figure that Baby Kiran Lee hit the jackpot in the Parents Lottery.