MID-LIFE CRISIS

MID-LIFE CRISIS

I’m not really sure if you can find the term “Mid-life Crisis” in any medical or psychology text books, but I pretty sure it a real disease. The whole crisis thing seems to be more prevalent in men than in women, or at least they hide it better (they have their own problems to worry about). As near as I can tell it’s the equivalent of male menopause. For that matter I don’t even know if has to occur exactly at mid-life to qualify. Maybe it’s graded on curve and you can have one anywhere between 30 and 50.

I mean, I don’t want anyone to feel pressured that they are past due on the own personal crisis and have to squeeze it in before 40. There are some things you just should not rush. I wish someone would explain all the symptoms to me, so I can tell if I’ve really had mine or not. To be honest, I think I’m entitled to one of my own.

I’m not sure if it’s possible or not but I think I’ve been stringing mine along for a good 5 years now. I think it started right after I had my “young life crisis” and I’m hoping it runs its course before I jump head first into “my late life crisis”.

It always seems as though it’s easier to spot when someone else is having their crisis, then when you are having your own. I’m not even a doctor or a psychiatrist and I can spot someone else’s mid life crisis a mile away. I also learned that there is no one you can turn to for sympathy when you are having your own personal crisis. Younger men don’t know what the hell you are talking about and older men, figure they’ve been thru it and now it’s just your turn. Women for the most part will just tell you to man up, suck it up, and move on (or that maybe you should try childbirth or a period if you really want to walk in their moccasins).

I can’t really speak for anyone else but I think I’m taking mine rather well. Of course I’ve had my disappointments like when I had to face up to the fact that I will probably never play quarterback for Green Bay, or be lead singer in a big rock band, but I’m still holding out for a love scene with Angelina Jolie. (hey, a guy can hope, can’t he)

Looking on the positive side, there is still a chance that I might get recruited for that job as an underwear model, or score a cover photo for Men’s fitness. I’d like to think that I’m not getting older, just better (or is that something men just tell themselves to feel better).

I’ve often heard it said that men tend to age better than women. We choose not to call ourselves old, but instead prefer “mature”.  So, if an older mature women that attracts younger men is considered a cougar, than what do we call an older mature man, that attracts younger women? (Hint: A Rich Pervert)   Most men seem to be in self denial, about the whole aging thing. Vanity causes us to ignore the obvious physical and mental changes in our bodies. We look in the mirror and see ourselves the way we looked in college. We just mentally block out our big guts and hairy backs. (and tell ourselves that chicks dig that kind of thing)

Well, I’ve decided that if I can’t avoid my mid-life crisis, I might as well make the best of it. First of all, I’ve decided that I won’t resort to artificial measures to trick myself and others into thinking I’m not getting older. That means no hair dye, face lifts, tummy tucks, calf implants, plastic surgery, hair pieces, Perrier baths, or stomach bands. I won’t be shaving my back, giving up red meat, joining a shuffleboard team, sitting in a sweat lodge, or enrolling in AARP prematurely.

I’ve also decided not to waste my money on commercial products designed to give the illusion of youth, so: No Grecian Formula, dandruff shampoo,Jenie Craig meetings, Rogan, or diet pills. There will be no wrinkle cream, Viagra, or wonder drugs.

Of course, things can and do change and you have to be able to accept those changes. Most are rather subtle and others require a change of lifestyle. I think I am dreading the “ turns-intas” the most. You know what I mean. Sugar turns in-ta Splenda, butter turns into margarine, vitamin pills and protein powder turns into cholesterol pills and blood pressure medicine, a quick check up at the doctor turns-inta a full day medical experience culminating in a rather awkward posture as the doctor says: “This will only hurt for a minute.”

As near as I can tell “Mid-Life crisis” is brought on when we add up all the things we wanted to do and accomplish in our life, and then subtract our age. We hit a chronological “time-warp”. The mirror and hair brush reveal a slight touch of receding hairline, or male pattern baldness.

About this time, we decide to clean out our clothes closet after trying on some of our old pants and shirts, only to find that the dyer has mysteriously shrunk most of our favorite old clothes. This prompts a trip to the mall where we refresh our wardrobe with some more recent styles ( and sizes).  We find ourselves adding another notch to our belts and another inch to our waist measurements.

I guess if I had to give you a definition of middle age it would be: The point when we realize we are running slightly behind the curve, and then project forward, until we realize we may not have enough life left to get where we wanted to go. We come to the realization that we can’t go backward, so we go kicking and complaining into the future. ( I guess that really does rate as a crisis)

I think most men tend to over react and then set out to prove to themselves and a waiting world that they in fact are as young and vital as ever. This usually entails a return to our college partying and gym workout schedules (along with several trips to the chiropractor), which usually lasts about a month.

This is also the time in our lives where we tend to swear off all the things that are bad for us,(which coincidently, is very close to the list of everything we enjoy and live for). No more beer, red meat, late night partying, gambling, smoking, running with wild women, all night poker games, sex three times a day (ok..I’m dreaming again),and a host of other man type pastimes and habits. Yes, we mean well, but much like a new year’s resolution, they are all soon forgotten.

The only advice I’ve heard that is worth repeating is to roll with it and it will all be over soon enough. It shouldn’t be that hard to just admit that we are getting a little older. Chances are that no one will even notice those few grey hairs, or the fact that you are resorting to a “comb-over” style haircut to cover those thinning areas.

As for me I’ve decided to do without the old man pig tail, or hair weave and just remain “O-natural”. I still hit the gym 3 or 4 times a week, I just tend to work with the slightly lighter weights. I try to eat salads and more healthy foods, but that ice cream in the freezer still calls to me.

The more I think about it, being middle aged is not all that bad, it even has a few advantages (like getting asked if you want a senior coffee at the breakfast place). So, I’ve decide to just “own up” to the whole middle age thing and be comfortable in my own skin.  It does however remind me that…”You are only young once”.

Please feel free to contact me at:   pooritalianboy@gmail.com

P.I.B.

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT’S ON THE MENU

WHAT’S ON THE MENU

Ok, I’ll admit it, I’m a big eater; or at least I used to be. Like most guys, I like to sit down to a hardy meal after a long day at work. When I cook at the house, I rarely skimp on the ingredients; in fact I usually double up on what the recipe suggests.

I think it has something to do with coming from an Italian household. We always cook like a friend or family member might drop by unexpectedly.(it’s a cultural thing)  So, for the most part there is never a shortage of food.

The problem for me is when I decide to go out to a nice restaurant. For the most part I don’t go to restaurants for the entertainment value, the décor, or the ambiance. I go to restaurants because I’m hungry, and want a wide array of choices. There is a growing trend at many restaurants to appeal more to the artistic or creative aspect of food rather than the culinary and nutritional aspect. I’m not sure when the trend started but it seems all the high end restaurants are in collusion when it comes to portion size.

The funny thing is that the inexpensive fast food and burger joints have the right idea. They went from small burgers to quarter pounders, to third pounders, to half pounders (super size that). I think those guys understand that people can’t survive on tiny rations. Customers want, and are willing to pay for, more substantial portions of food. They don’t offer fancy tablecloths or waiters in tuxedos..just more food. I also have a theory that the fast food places are now all open late so that they can feed the hungry patrons of the luxury restaurants that are on their way home after a “petite” style meal.

The problem seems to be that the more expensive the restaurant, the smaller the portion size.  I could understand the logic if the menu prices were going down. Pay less, get less…, but that’s not the case. I don’t want a bigger plate, with a smaller portion of food, surround by some non edible garnish, a light dusting of some type of powder, and designer squirty stuff. Come on, what man can be satisfied with a four once steak? We all know what a steak costs at the grocery store, or even the high end butcher shop. Get with it restaurant owners..  “Where’s the beef”.

I realize that a restaurant is a business that needs to make a profit, but I think portion control has gotten out of control. I’m not being cheap either, I don’t mind paying top dollar for a good meal, I  just want a satisfying portion. (maybe they could take a lesson from the burger places and offer standard menu portions or super size meals for a few dollars more)

Even places that serve pasta and salads have gone minimalist. I don’t care what they taught you in cooking school. (in some third world country) How’s this for logic..when it comes to food ”Less is not More”. Come on now, how much does an extra pound of pasta or half head of lettuce really cost. These guys are missing out on a chance to really wow and satisfy their customers. At least make the plate look half way full. (Doesn’t anyone believe in leftovers anymore?)

The newest trend is overpriced “tasting menus”. Here you get an even smaller morsel of food for about 80 percent the price of a whole meal.. Wow, now I know why they call it a tasting menu…(you get just enough to taste it). Also, everything today is “ala carte” (which I think means..bend over in French). So your 4 ounce steak comes out on a sizzling plate, all by its lonesome. If you are lucky, you get a good old piece of parsley with it. (Although most restaurants are now calling that a side and charging for it)

I guess the only way to make sure you are getting what you pay for is to do a little advance research. I definitely recommend perusing the restaurant’s menu before you go in and sit down, because by then it’s too late. (unless you tell them you think you forgot to turn your car off or something) I like to review the menu at the door before going in. An even better method is to check out the restaurant web site and menu on line before you even go.

I found that there are certain “tell tale” signs to warn me of possible small portions. Certain words seem to indicate that you might be in for a “less than filling size portion”.  Look for descriptions on the menu that include words like: petite, junior, senior, early dinners, taste of, medallions, grazing, tasting, prix fixe, healthy, fusion, imported, or too many French words. Another harbinger of hunger pain may be fancy names for simple food items, like: escargot, or bisque.

Other signs to look for to warn you that you may pay too much and get small portions would be: dark interior, large pepper grinders, words I can’t pronounce, more than 2 servers per table, getting your bill on a silver tray, small side salads(that also cost too much), guys that walk around scraping up your crumbs every few seconds, or a portion of bread the size of a crouton.

On the other side of the spectrum, restaurants that use words like: family style, slab, pound, man sized, rack, and all you can eat tend to signify you will be getting your money’s worth. (of course quality may be a bit of an issue)

Don’t expect to get any insights from the staff. It won’t help to ask the server if the portion size is enough for a hungry man. The response you will most likely get is: “it’s a nice sized portion”, or “It’s enough for me”.  What else are they going to say, they work there, all weigh less than 72 pounds, and are probably suffering from anorexia or bulimia   (or they are models for Sally Struthers commercials)

I don’t know about you, but for me; there is nothing worse than deciding on a high priced menu item only to have the dish arrive at your table with 4 ravioli on it.(of course they are artistically arranged, geometrically perfect, and completely symmetrical on the plate)  On more than one occasion, I’ve asked  servers  if they could  “man up” the portion size and they seem genuinely offended.  It seems the only alternative is to order two dinners at $50 bucks a shot (hey, 100 bucks for 8 ravioli isn’t a bad deal, is it ?)

Come on restaurants…Put your money where your customer’s mouth is…People are hungry here.

Please feel free to contact me at:   pooritalianboy@gmail.com

P.I.B.

JOHNNY AND BILL

JOHNNY AND BILL

I love fairytales….Don’t you?

Once upon a time in a land far away, there were two brothers; let’s call them: Johnny and Bill. (Names changed, and Americanized; to protect the guilty) Even though these guys didn’t grow up together, they were fraternal twins. Johnny grew up in the Middle East and Bill had his formative years in the Far East. To this day they have a lot in common.

I find it very curious that even though they grew up half a world apart, they acted very much alike.(maybe they were influenced by some of the same friends) Even though they both lived in rough neighborhoods, they tended to be ignored by many of their neighbors and other family members. You might say they were the black sheep of the family.

It seems these boys are incorrigible troublemakers. They just seem bent on trouble. Well meaning people in some of the larger communities have tried to intervene and reach out to them for many years, only to have their good intentions ignored and rejected. At some point, many of the neighbors decided it was best to just kind of ignore these guys and make believe that they might turn out just fine; if given enough time.

Even though these guys will often do things to aggravate the whole neighborhood, (and beyond) they also know how to kiss up when needed. Don’t get me wrong, these two guys are plenty smart, they know when they can get away with murder and when to fall in line and lay low.  As much as I hate to admit it, they are both expert negotiators. They know how to push buttons and when to back off. They will bring an issue right to the point of a major confrontation and then back off a hair.(The old two steps forward and one step back routine)Lying, cheating, and reneging on agreements and treatise, are no more than useful tools in their tool bag.

Just like a sailboat that has to travel at angles to the wind, they may appear to be going in the wrong direction but they know where they want to end up, and the course they want to follow. They know when to appease the neighbors and just how far they can push. Like most spoiled kids, they know they can run to one parent when the other one says no and somehow get their way.

The funny thing is, that these little guys think they are 10 foot tall. They have a reputation of trying to threaten, bully, and push around their neighbors. They also have ambitions of being the ring leaders, the boss of the others bullies in their part of the hood. They know deep down that many other good citizens deplore violence and the use of force, and therefore are forced to tolerate their misbehavior.

Well, every few years all the other neighbors get together in New York and have a big meeting. They have a high sounding name to their “Club”, but in reality, they are like a lion with no teeth. They pass resolutions and enact sanctions meant to bring the brothers (and other troublemakers) into compliance, but to no avail.

Together they all decide collectively that the brothers need to be punished, but just can’t seem to agree on what the punishment should be. There is always a contingent that argues to “give them another chance”. Some members of the group want to punish them economically, beat them up a little, or at least give them a black eye. Others want to declare all out war on the offending parties, but they are in the minority. Still others attend the group meetings, pretending to be helpful. They want to keep their good standings with the rest of the neighbors in the group, but keep their real agenda hidden.

These senior members of “The Club”, try their best to appear neutral, however these members have in the past, benefited financially by selling things to the brothers, and want to continue that profitable relationship. So, although they attend the punishment meetings, they rarely agree to any substantial actions or sanctions against the twins. In fact they tend to delay the proceedings and complicate the issue by introducing other topics.

Others in the group would secretly like to see some of the better off neighbors get beat up a little, and they are more than happy to let their surrogates (the evil twins) do the work for them. (and take all the blame)

Like most large groups, it’s often difficult to get a consensus on any one subject.  To make matters worse, some of the most influential neighbors in the group are often dissuaded from taking necessary action because they don’t want to appear too harsh to the rest of the group. In any case, the meetings seem to serve little purpose and the brothers always seem to buy themselves more time to pursue their own malevolent agendas.

For the most part the boys have mistreated and threatened their own family members and friends, but even a disinterested and distant neighbor can see that they are working on a plan to destabilize the entire areas in which they live in. One of the brothers is constantly threatening the Jewish neighbors and the other is always picking on his Japanese neighbor, as well as his own distant family that moved away to the southern part of the country, after their last big disagreement.

It seems that some people never learn. These guys have very few friends to turn to, and are despised by many. Over the years both brothers have been involved in some minor fights and skirmishes (even in their own houses) and both have had a few black eyes, but neither seems to get the message.

Everyone knows that despite the rhetoric they use, they will not willingly change from their evil ways, but no one wants to get involved.  It is also widely known that the fella’s are working on, and trying to purchase the technology for a large baseball bat that will give them serious clout in their entire regions. They are insisting that they aren’t making a bat, and if they are, it’s strictly for peaceful purposes. Besides even if they were, they insist it’s just a piece of oddly shaped wood anyway, not a bat. Not only that, other kids have a big bat, and no one ever questions them.

Despite their denials, they are making very credible and grandiose threats to their closest neighbors. And everyone knows that if they obtain this “Louisville Slugger”, that they will, without hesitation or cause, use this new weapon against their perceived enemies. The funny thing is that everyone knows we have pictures of the brother’s, well concealed bat factory. We have even sent in independent inspectors to visit the bat factory. Everyone knows that they are almost done building their potent weapon.(I mean bat)

Most of the neighbors are distracted with all the things going on in their own houses, as well as their numerous meetings and discussions as to how to handle the evil twins. They constantly debate and argue as to the exact date that the evil twins will finally get their big bat, as well as the hypothetical date they will begin swinging it. There is also little doubt that the bro’s will sell their bat making patent and materials to other trouble makers. (Especially their distant cousin who’s name starts with an “S”, that lost his bat factory in an unexpected accident..I forget his exact name) It seems that the good neighbors or their loved ones need to be struck with the “big bat”, before they are willing to address the issue.

Well I guess in the end everyone has their own agendas. Maybe it’s best if we all just mind our own business, bury our heads in the sand, and believe in fairytales. Maybe given enough time, everything will just turn out for the best.

“Or Maybe Not”….Good thing this is just a fairytale about a few brothers and a bat.

Please feel free to contact me at: pooritalianboy@gmail.com

P.I.B.

GOOD SPORT

GOOD SPORT

I’m not really sure when sports as we know them actually came in being. My guess is that early sports were based on exhibiting and honing everyday skills and abilities. (We are talking back when Javelin throwing was a team sport.. “one guy threw, and the other caught”).If we look back as far as the early Greek Olympics, competitors challenged each other in foot racing, wrestling, and chariot racing.

Some early sports had their origin in necessity, like the marathon.  It is widely believed that in 490 B.C. amidst a great battle between the Persians and the Athenians at a coastal town called Marathon, (hence the name)a runner was dispatched and ran the 42 kilometer distance (without the aid of Nike sneakers or Gatorade) nonstop back to Athens to warn his fellow countrymen of a impending attack. He reportedly died after arriving (now that’s commitment)

Somewhere along the line sports became more sophisticated and commercialized. Competitions between competitors became less about the challenge and more about entertainment, as these contests evolved into spectator sports.  Games were devised that had little in common with everyday skills, but perhaps they had some common heritage. Rules and time limits were imposed as well as short breaks in the action. (Mostly to play beer commercials.)

In the early days organized sports represented a physical activity that people played and participated in. At some point most sports have morphed into more of a passive spectator game and a T.V. bonanza.  In short, many watch and few play. We have built huge stadiums, racetracks, and arenas, to accommodate the ever growing population of sports enthusiasts and fans.

Let’s face it, professional sports today is a business, a big business. Professional sports franchise are worth millions and even hundreds of millions of dollars. Sports  now fill the roll between entertainment and fantasy and allows the average fan to live vicariously thru their favorite teams and players.  Many avid fans will spend the whole weekend in front of the T.V., just so that they will have fodder to talk about at work on Monday morning. Some are literally exhausted from taking in all the action, even though they have not expended a single calorie. They can recount in great detail, every game and event from the weekend along with statistics, scores, and color commentary.

Promoters and team owners profit handsomely by charging exorbitant ticket prices that fans willingly pay, just to watch their favorite teams and sports heroes play. There are season tickets, box seats, club row seating and luxury boxes. Ticket sales, television, and pay for view rights add up to mega bucks for smart team owners. Sales of clothing and licensed items are icing on the cake.

Individual players are also in the position of trading their talents for big pay days. Very few players are on the roster for the love of the game. Today the players make their decisions with the aid of unions, accountants, and managers. Endorsement contracts, personal appearance, television commercials, and book deals can not only supplement their pay but propel their earnings into the tens of millions. Make no mistake about it, sports are big business.

It’s now the norm for top pro players in most sports take home multi-million dollar salaries. Players can quickly achieve celebrity status and are sought out to do commercials, talk shows, endorsements, and guest appearances. These guys live like rock stars on steak and caviar while their fans live on hot dogs and hamburger helper.

Today, sports fever is running as high as ever. There are televised games and matches, talk shows about sports, and constant news highlights and screen crawlers reminding us of sports scores. There are even channels that play 24 hour sports. Fans and sports enthusiast are fanatical about support for their teams and many stay up late at night soaking in every statistic and game score.

The sport aficionado of today is increasingly removed from the playing field. He is more likely to be found in a lazy boy or sofa than on the field. Cold beer and chicken wing in hand, they will spend the entire weekend watching someone else play a sport.

Sports seem to be the common denominator of people all over the world. In the United States its football, baseball, and MMA. In Europe and South America its soccer (football), and in Alpine countries it’s skiing and bobsledding.

Every four years athletes from around the world gather together to compete in the biggest non professional event in the world, the Olympics.  The Olympics have been around a long time, probably starting in 776 B.C. (and that’s not British Columbia) in Olympia Greece.  One purpose of the games was to bring together athletes from different areas. They were granted safe passage even in times of war.

Originally foot racing and then pankration (an early form of MMA) were the main sports. Back then the athletes displayed their prowess for a fraction of the compensation that modern sports stars receive, with the winners getting laurel wreaths, and palm branches. There were no fancy uniforms, fat endorsement contracts, or work out gear from sponsors; in fact they usually participated naked. (I’m kind’a glad we let that tradition die out) Today players compete for the gold in everything from Gymnastics to Judo, and hungry sports enthusiast soak up every minute of the Olympic broadcast.

Today, most sports have lost their early association with daily activities and survival skills. (except for Nascar, which we Italians consider as practice in honing  our skills in driving “get a way cars”) Also, the spectrum of activity that falls under the genre of sports has broadened. Many games and activities that I would be hard pressed to define as a sport are now packaged and sold to the public as “sports”.  I would tend to refer to some of these activities as pastimes, hobbies, or even social events, but not as a sport.  I have to question the level of fitness, training, or physical dexterity it takes to engage in some of these sports. (I don’t want to pick on bowling, but what other sport can you play while consuming beer and onion rings between turns)

To be honest, I’m not sure how anyone can spend hours watching these boring events in person, much less on television. For me they have all the visual appeal and excitement of watching paint dry.

Please feel free to contact me at:  pooritalianboy@gmail.com

P.I.B.

MADE IN AMERICA 2

                                                                        MADE IN AMERICA Part 2

   “Made in America”…At one time these 3 proud words could be found on the majority of the highly quality and big ticket products that most Americans purchased. Made in America gradually became replaced with “assembled in America”, and then made in “xxx” (as in some other country). Back in the 50’s and 60’s the United States was an export powerhouse with a substantial trade surplus.

  When I was younger, items made in places like Japan, China, and Taiwan were known for their poor quality and cheap prices, not any more. These other hungry economies have ramped up their people and manufacturing skills to the point where they can turn out high quality, first tier products at very competitive pricing.(some can even charge a premium price over ours) Over the last 20 years, American manufacturers have bowed to the superior quality and pricing of overseas competitors, and one by one they have closed their doors and exited previously profitable markets.

  I think we have lost our way, as we have forfeited most of our manufacturing to overseas suppliers.(and with it, our manufacturing jobs base). We initially gave up small dollar and labor intensive products, but have since lost our capabilities in everything from steel to durable goods such as Televisions and refrigerators. 

 We were once the world leader in auto and aircraft manufacturing and are now relegated to a distant 3^rd. Even American owned car companies are building and assembling their products overseas, due to reduced labor costs, tax advantages, and economic incentives. The American worker has turned his back on good old fashioned manual labor.(There is a feeling that this type of work is somehow beneath us) Everyone wants to be a computer nerd or white collar executive, no one wants to get their hands dirty. Somehow we figured that everyone needs to be rich to enjoy the American way. The truth is that not everyone needs to drive a Mercedes convertible or carry a Gucci handbag to be happy. There is nothing wrong with a pickup truck and a pair of wrangler jeans.

   I will readily acknowledge that we are competing in a world economy, but it’s important to admit that we are losing the competition. We’ve lost more than sales by outsourcing our products, we have lost profit, jobs, and even the independence of not having to go to foreign sources for the products we need and rely on. We have built a reliance on other countries for our core supplies.

   When we began picking and choosing what items we would make here and what items we could buy cheaper overseas, we start down a slippery slope. Starting off with humble beginnings foreign manufacturers have made giant in- roads into American consumer and business products.

  I still believe that all things being equal, American consumers would still prefer to buy American made products. However there is no way American consumers want to pay more for a product of equal or less quality than they get from an import. Our factories are sitting ideal, our workers unemployed. Our demand and willingness to import the products that we need and want, tends to flow net dollars out of the United States instead of into our country. This resulted in a monthly net trade deficit of 32 billion in July of 2009 alone, and over 711 billion in a year. That means our hard earned dollars and cash flow are leaving the Unites States at an unprecedented rate.  Not a good sign for our economy.

  Today it’s harder to find things made in the good old U.S.A. than it is to find imported items. Even items that have been traditionally associated with being built in the U.S. are now made overseas. (Caterpillar equipment for example) We have tipped the scales deeply towards a deficit trade imbalance. In addition to products that are not price competitive we have burdened our manufactures with hideous income tax implications as well as payroll  and health care cost burdens.

 Surprisingly we have even turned our purchasing abroad for items needed for our own national security. We buy weapon systems and technology from others, or whoever is the lowest bidder. Even the standard issue firearm that our soldiers depend on, is not made in the U.S.

  Couple this dependence with our need to import oil for energy and we weaken our position in the world, both economically and militarily.(strategically). A country that doesn’t produce its own durable goods is a paper tiger. Our own natural energy resources have not been fully developed and we also have not built any new refineries in years.  Also, by dismantling our industrial capabilities we put our self in a position not to be able to gear up our military hardware in case of war. In previous wars we converted car plants to making tanks and aircraft.

 Science and technology are great, but a superpower needs to also have an industrial base, and ours is eroding quickly.  The notion that hard work or factory work is somehow dirty or beneath us, is destroying this country. Environmental concerns although valid, have been thrown in place before suitable alternatives have been developed.

   As for me, I want “Made In America” to mean something again.  It means our factories will be state of the art, profitable, and productive, and so will our people.  It means world class products and fresh ideas, which can compete with quality and value on a global scale. It means economic security as well as national security. We need to become self reliant for our basic needs. This country cannot afford to be dependent or held hostage by any other nation to obtain our energy and core product needs. Made in America, means a stronger America.

   Now is the time to act, because change takes time. The government should step in with more aggressive tax incentives for both manufactures and consumers of American products.  I’m wondering, in 2020, when someone in a foreign country sees the made in America tag..What will it mean to them?

  I want to see foreign currencies flowing into the United States, that are not tied to a loan they are making us. And finally I’d like “Made in America” to be something we can all be proud of. American companies need to manufacture their products here, not just have their head quarters here. The concept should be like a strong magnet that draws people, talent, companies, and money from all over the world to our shores. It’s time to roll up our sleeves and get to work.

      Wake Up America…

 Please feel free to contact me at:  www.pooritalianboy@gmail.com

   P.I.B.

HOPE

 

                                                                               HOPE

 “Our hopes are sometimes fulfilled, and at other times they come crashing down against the wall that is reality. In either case, if we cease to hope and dream; we lose a certain part of our very humanity” …P.I.B.

 “They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for”

   Tom Bodett

  In the purest sense..Hope is what we wish for, the desired outcome; that which we would most like to occur. In many ways it’s similar to a life raft that we all can cling to, in a sea of uncertainty. It’s that little voice in the back of your head that tells us “it’s ok, you can do it”, while the rest of the world says it’s impossible. It encompasses our belief in ourselves, in others, in God, our ability to realize our dreams.

  Hope comes from within and shines out. It’s our inner most feeling, that defies logic or explanation. It’s what we aspire to, what we dream of. I’m not sure if it comes from the mind or the heart. It is sometimes felt, sometimes talked about, but it can also be seen in the eyes of a hungry child.

   Hope gives us a reason to live, a reason to face tomorrow. It offers optimism in the face of tyranny. Thru war, pain, suffering, sickness, injustice, and every human ailment and endeavor it burns brightly. Even in our bleakest hour, we can never lose faith or hope.

  Hope, almost by definition defies logic and reason. It helps define who we are, and what we aspire to. It is the sum of our dreams and desires. Our hope gives us the inner strength to hold out or move forward, one more hour, or one more day. And perhaps if we have the strength to act, we can change things.

  Hope is that small flame inside us that burns brightly, even on the darkest day. It gives us reason to hold out for that one chance in a thousand. It can make even the impossible, somehow within reach. We can cling to its promise and prevail despite the odds against us. It is the stuff that dreams are made of, it’s a road map for our subconscious mind.

  I know that I will never give up or deviate from my course, as long as there is hope. It empowers me, it’s what makes me human.

     “Hope is the stuff that miracles are made of”…..P.I.B.

  Please feel free to contact me at: pooritalianboy@gmail.com

                                                            P.I.B.

FIRST CAR

                                                                                             FIRST CAR

  There is no doubt that Americans have a love affair with the cars. Regardless of what any of us are driving today, we can all fondly remember our very first car.(perhaps this story will bring back memories of your own first car)  As I think back, I can remember waiting with great anticipation for the moment that I could speed away without my parents in my own car. A car represented much more than just simple transportation, it represented freedom. I had gotten a taste of the “good life” while driving with a few of my slightly older friends that already had the good fortune of getting their license.

   As the big day for my drivers permit approached, I was already day dreaming of driving. I can remember sitting in class, staring out the window, and listening to the drone of my teacher’s voice. My young mind would drift off as I watched the traffic pass by the school. I was mesmerized by the thought of unrestricted travel. I soon would be able to go anywhere I wanted, and when I wanted, in the comfort and style of my own car. In my mind, walking was highly over rated.

  Perhaps I would get a Cadillac, Corvette, or a Mercedes. Maybe I could even talk Dad into getting me a convertible. My vivid imagination envisioned me racing by in a sports car convertible with my sunglasses gleaming and my hair blowing in the wind. I would slow down when I passed the school to make sure that all my friends could get a glimpse of me in my new ride. There would be no more sitting home in boredom for me.

 Having my own car would open new adventures and possibilities to me. I could easily visit friends, go to the beach, travel to distant places and even take girls to the drive in movie. I glanced over at Carolyn, the hottest girl in the class and gave her a knowing wink. Even though she had not paid me a lot of attention up to this point, I felt certain that she would swoon, when I offered her a ride in my new sports car.

   My daydreams were usually interrupted by the teacher calling my name and asking me to repeat what was just said. Of course I didn’t know and didn’t care, it was like being in love. In just a few short days I would finish driver education with the high school football coach as teacher and one of those weird cars with two steering wheels and two sets of foot pedals. I had driven the coach without incident, endless times around the parking lot and also to his bank, dry cleaners, and favorite lunch spots. It was clear, I was ready for Indy.  Soon I would possess that small piece of paper that meant freedom. I would join the ranks and fellowship of legal drivers.

  Well, soon the big day came and I passed my driving test with ease (ok..maybe I had a little trouble with parallel parking and I forgot to turn my turn signal off for 10 minutes..but I passed).

  With my newly issued learner’s permit in hand I was ready to conquer the road., Just like some ancient ritual of passage that marked my coming of age, I had now joined the ranks of the adult world..Today I could drive, today I was a man.

  Fortunately for me, it was Friday afternoon and that meant one thing..the whole weekend to perfect my driving game and be seen by all my friends. I was certain that today would be the last day that I would have to ride the bus home with all the other… “non-drivers”.

  I had rehearsed this moment in my mind a thousand times. I felt reasonably confident that when the bus dropped me off in front of my house, I would receive my just reward for being such an outstanding driver and son. I knew I could count on old dad to remember the many hints and discussions we had about the type and color of sports car that I would prefer. I had even left a few car magazines conspicuously open around the house that morning as a refresher course on my new car preferences.

  I was tingling with anticipation as the bus rounded the final corner from my home. My face was pressed up against the window as I practiced the surprised look that I would show my parents when they handed me the keys to my new set of wheels.

  I can remember jumping down all three stairs of the bus and dropping my backpack in total surprise. For a moment, I stood there in shock as the bus door closed behind me and pulled off. I looked up the driveway and much to my surprise; the only car parked there was my mother’s old Dodge Dart (with the push button transmission).

 There must be some mistake. Perhaps the bus had dropped me off at the wrong address. There was no new car, no giant red ribbon, and no eager parents, marching band, or well wishers there to greet me in a triumphant return from my driving test.

  As I recall it took a day or two for the shock and full weight of the disappointment to set in. There would be no new car, no leather driving gloves, no dice hanging from the rear view mirror, and no shot at impressing my beloved Carolyn.

  It was at that point that I learned that reality can be very humbling. My mom would be willing to drive with me on my learners permit, but she needed the car for her own use. She couldn’t part with it so that I could drive it to school (we actually tried one day, but I was so embarrassed, having to pull up and then have to hand the keys to my mother as she gave me a peck on the check in front of all the boys.) Over the next few weeks and months I bugged mom and dad for the opportunity to drive any chance I could get. Thinking back they were very gracious about spending the time with me, but I could never quite get them to match my enthusiasm for just “going for a ride”.  They allowed me to chauffer them around for all their meetings, appointments, and shopping trips, and sometimes just to drive aimlessly for the fun of it.

  I waited anxiously for the rest of the year until I was able to get my regular drivers license and actually take the car out on my own. I think it is a pivotal moment in a parent’s life the first time their child drives off on his or her own  and leaves the parent there waving at the curb. (maybe they are just worried that the car may get scratched) It was also my first experience in paying to fill up the car. I could tell right away that this would not be my favorite part of the whole driving experience.(and it still is not today)

  The young guy at the gas station would give me advice on how impress the girls with my automotive prowess. Always open the door for them, make sure you leave the car running if you have to go into the store for a few minutes, crack the window a little (or was that advice for when you had the dog in the car).

  For me, it was several years latter before I got the chance to own my own car, and it was not exactly the thoroughbred that I had always imagined. Instead I bought an Old Camero, a muscle car, with a huge engine and extra wide rear tires, it was love at first sight. The fuel mileage was terrible and it pulled to the right, but I could win a race with most of the cars on the street. My parents had urged me to buy a dependable car like a Volkswagen, but I had other ideas.(after all..I knew best..right)  It was my hard earned money and I was going to get exactly what I wanted ( or at least what I wanted, that was in my very meager price range).

    When I had finally saved up enough money to buy my own first car, I guess I was too excited and bought the first car I looked at. I had zero mechanical knowledge (some things never change) and made the purchase without consulting a mechanic.  Maybe during the test drive, I should have noticed the smoke coming from the exhaust, the squeaky brakes,  or the tires rubbing the wheel wells when I went around a corner. Not to mention the near bald tires and missing engine mount. I found out that buying your first car is very much like falling in love the first time. For me, excitement took over where logic should have prevailed. The first car is after all a very emotional purchase.

  Well, as luck would have it, I learned a very costly lesson and I spent more time under the hood than in the driver seat. In the end I was the proud owner of several more used cars before I finally purchased my first new car.

  Well, I’ve had many new cars since then, and I still let my emotions interfere when I get the bug for a new car. There is something about the smell and feel of a brand new car that quickens my heart. There are so many new buttons to push and gadgets to work. Our cars are almost like a statement about ourselves. I always bargain with the dealer before I buy, but once I get in the frenzy I know deep down that I won’t walk away.  I’m driving a much nicer ride these days, but there will always be a special place in my heart for my first car.

 Please feel free to contact me at:  pooritalianboy@gmail.com

                                                               P.I.B.

 

 

FAMILY VACATION

                                                       FAMILY VACATION

 

  Few events leave such an indelible impression on our young memories as that of the family vacation. From the time we were all kids we learned to look forward and anticipate the much heralded family vacation. Of course as we get older and become parents we look forward to sharing the same golden moments with our own children. I still treasure my fond recollections of our early family trips.

 

  It really didn’t matter where the actual destination was, the excitement built with each passing day. Our parents saved and planed for the trip all year, and then marked off the days until the big event. The trip became bigger than life. The fun we would have, the time together. I think the excitement of the upcoming trip helped Dad get thru his grueling daily work schedule.  Vacation is a time for us to all get away from our daily routines and just have a good time.  

 

   As I look back some of our trips went off without a hitch and others were more reminiscent of the Chevy Chase Vacations with the Griswalds.(on their way to Wally World)  It reminds me that despite our best plans, most thing seem to take on a life of their own. Over the years we had taken many fun family vacations together and they all have a special place in my memories. Perhaps this account of one of our trips will trigger some of your early memories.

 

  My Mom and Dad could be seen huddled over the kitchen table on many nights planning, plotting, and rehearsed the trip down to the smallest detail. In the days and weeks leading up to the big day, we were frequently reminded about the trip, and our bad behavior was often cited as a reason we would not be going. (usually coupled with a threat to leave us at our least favorite aunt’s house. It seems like I never really knew if I was actually going until the very last minute). 

 

  As the big day approached, Dad would be totally prepared. He would have the car washed, gas tank filled, the tires checked, and seating arrangement selected. Dad was without question the captain and Mom, his trusty first officer, as they ran thru the requested drills in the driveway. He would review and assure himself that everything on his carefully planned check list was ship shape and ready to go. You would have thought he was planning a military invasion.  

 

  On the day of the trip we were awaken at the specified time (O’ dark thirty) and given exactly half an hour to eat and get ready. It was imperative that we set sail at the exactly the appointed time.(you would think we would miss the high tide or something). We were then all scurried out to the car, still half asleep, and had to assume our pre-assigned seating arrangements. Although technically we were all assigned our own space, the plan unraveled immediately as we all got in the car with our own “must have” belongings including blankets, pillows, and toys.

 

  We filed into the car that was loaded to the max with suitcases, blankets, and provisions for the long trip to Florida. Everything was in its assigned place and according to the pre-determined load chart.  I can remember Dad checking his watch and sighing with relief as the car wheels left the driveway at exactly the planned departure time (I only wish today’s airlines could match his precision)

 

  Dad, had carefully planned the road trip and had his navigator (Mom) standing by with compass and map to insure that we did not deviate from the plan. He had vigilantly planned the number of miles we were to transverse each day and had pre-arranged where we would stop for the night. Rest stops, stretching, and bathroom breaks were carefully planned to coincide only with fuel stops, so as to conserve time and insure that we arrived on schedule.

 

   I think the early departure time was derived with the plan that the three of us would fall back to sleep and not awaken until rest stop number one well behind us. As fate would have it, the best made plans were soon to be led askew.  I don’t think we had even crossed the county line before the inevitable monkey wrench was thrown into the mix.  I was soon awakened by the sound of my younger brother making the rather fearful statement that he needed to go to the bathroom.

 

  At first I believe that my father had chosen to ignore the timid request, but perhaps he did not hear it. Unfortunately when a 7 year old has to go, there is no such thing as waiting. After the 3^rd , and much more urgent request, it was evident that his needs had to be addressed.  Dad, was evidently prepared and was not about to be so easily diverted from his careful plan. With a grin, he reached under the seat and quickly produced a soda bottle that he handed back over the seat to my brother. My brother just looked at the bottle and then up at my mom with a pained look on his face.

 

  Well, I’m not sure how it works in the Navy, but in our household, the Captain was subject to being overridden by the first officer in matters that pertained to the children (and as I recall, a whole host of other family issues) and dad was quickly ordered to pull over at the first gas station. He immediately realized that Mom had pulled rank on him and reluctantly pulled over at the first gas station. At this point, there is some unknown universal force that somehow requires all of the cars occupants to now need to use the bathroom, when only moments ago they were fine. 

 

  We were quickly back on the road again and I watched as the speedometer climbed well past the speed limit, with dad nervously scanning in all directions for potential speed traps. I think he was determined make up for the unexpected stop. Besides in all of his travels he had never received a ticket on the parkway.(Seems like everyone in Jersey was always in a hurry and rarely abided by the speed limit. especially “Rocket Ship Rocco” as we lovingly referred to him as)

 

  The next few hours were relatively uneventful until the three of us were fully awake and full of energy. I guess there is another type of universal law that prohibits kids from sitting quietly for long periods of time. In any case we quickly became bored with the confinement and seating arrangements and as kids are want to do, we soon began picking on each other.

 

 After a few admonishments from dad, our level of banter had increased to quite annoying levels, even by my standards. We were soon threatened with the age old parental threat of “don’t make me pull this car over” If we had been at the house, everyone would have simply retired to our own rooms and the situation could have been easily diffused. (or Mom would have lovingly administered the “wooden Spoon”)  There was something about being in the confines of the now overloaded car seemed to magnify every sound, slap, pinch, giggle, and whimper. However, I think it was the last round of “ I got you last” that probably put dad over the top.

 

  Dad was never much of a hitter but it was clear he was reaching his boiling point when we noticed a few quick one handed slaps being carelessly dealt out over the back seat with no real intended target. Although he never actually reached us, it was clear that he was willing to throw a shoulder joint out trying. Mom, for her part, was not so much trying to stop him, (I think I recall her saying..”not in the face..not in the face” )as she turned and quickly silenced us by giving us the evil eye stare.(the kind where she her whole head would shake)  She had again over written Dad’s plans and made him promise to stop every few hours so that we could run around and get rid of some excess energy.

 

  For the next few hours Mom tried every motherly device in her book of tricks to keep us amused and quiet. We were issued coloring books, sang songs (yes..even the perennial and irritating 100 bottles of beer on the wall), counted passing Volkswagens, re- arranged seating assignments a few times, and ended up with last ditch effort and psychological best seller…”lets see who can be quite the longest.” 

 

  I can remember being awakened again as we crossed the Georgia state line, by the sound of a siren and some flashing lights. I guess dad had decided to make up for some lost time by running a few miles per hour over the speed limit.  It didn’t take him long to discover that the Georgia highway patrol was not quite as tolerant about speeders as the troopers on the old Garden State Parkway were. Dad was visibly upset but kept his Italian temper under control and was not about to talk back to the very serious trooper as he wrote out a ticket. Especially with the recent vision of the chain gang workers we had just passed along the roadway. (a quaint old Georgia tradition) 

 

 

 Shortly after we got back underway, I was again alerted, this time by the sound of the cars transmission crying out like a scolded cat. The big green Plymouth Furry had picked this moment to “go on the Frits” (I’m still not really sure what that means). In any case, the car would operate normally if we stayed below 40 miles an hour (which was the equivalent to sacrilege to a driver like my dad, who really belonged on a race track or the autobahn ).

 

  He tested the limits of the “tranny” time after time, hoping that maybe the problem would just “go away by itself” (I had very little mechanical knowledge at the time, but I somehow doubted it would) but of course it would not. The frustration level increased ten fold as dad was forced to adjust his travel speed to the new 40 mile an hour limit (he had on occasion been known to exceed that speed while still in our driveway). The thought of us being broken down on the side of the road in an unfamiliar state ran thru all of our minds. 

 

  I’m really not sure what bothered Dad more, the fact that we had been irreversibly thrown off his well planed schedule, or the fact that he faced a large repair bill at some unknown gas station. To be honest, the combination of the two had caused him to become a little irritable (and I say that quite charitably). In any case, he made the decision to push ahead, even at the cost of frying the car transmission. He was taking us to Florida and would not be denied.

 

  In any case we all celebrated as we eventually crossed the Florida border to the sounds of the back seat chorus announcing  “we’re here..we’re here”. Well it turns out we were not there, because my grandparents house was down towards Miami. The next 5 grueling hours made me wish we had stayed home, as everyone’s patience was worn razor thin at this point.

 

    We finally arrived, spent and exhausted with the interior of the car looking like a hurricane had run thru it. The back seat was a maze of blankets, fast food wrappers, lost shoes, and stinky socks. Somehow I knew that this trip was not quite as advertised (and made a note to complain to my travel agent) and after a few fun days in Florida (and at the transmission shop), we would be treated to a repeat performance on the trip going back home. I guess that’s why to this day I hate road trips. I’d much rather suffer for a few hours next to a perfect stranger, in a crowed airplane seat, eating salted peanut. But maybe things haven’t changed so much, because the last time I traveled, I still ended up getting my seat kicked every few minutes while the 3 kids behind me played “got you last” …Kids will be Kids…

 

   Please feel free to contact me at:  pooritalianboy@gmail.com

 

                                                                      P.I.B.

TURNING POINT

                                               TURNING POINT

“In each of our lives, there comes a point where we feel compelled to take a different path. Our age and past experience does not represent a barrier, but we must be willing to open our eyes and accept change”   P.I.B.

 

    I felt an inner peace as I waited for the master to enter the room.  He had chosen the ideal place for this ceremony. The simple but tasteful building looked out over a well tended garden. Everything seemed to be in its place as I looked out upon an area of carefully raked sand with a large stone in the middle of it. Behind that was a small stream with a red wooden bridge and the sound of water could be heard as it flowed gently over some moss covered rocks. Time seemed to stand still here, a great departure from my everyday life of hard work and training.

   I have to admit that I would not have made this visit if my father had not insisted. He is a wise man and I always take his council. My father has taught me well. He has raised me in the proud tradition of the Samurai. I was born into a noble class of people. I have always been aware of the respect that ordinary people showed my father.  Heads bowed and people moved out of his way as he walked, with his ever present swords at his waist. Honor and service were his guiding principles.

  From an early age I studied the art of the sword, of the bow, and empty hand combat.  I learned that power came from strength and the ability to take a life. I had pledged my life, as my father had, to the service of our master. I would willingly fight and even die in his service. (samurai. meaning “to serve”) This was the way of the samurai.

 I must admit that for the first time I had questioned my father’s wisdom. I did not understand how watching an old man prepare tea could help in my martial training. Now that I am of the age to go to battle, this was to be my final lesson. My father had told me that this man had been sought out by many samurai and was invited by the emperor himself to perform the ancient ceremony.  To be honest, I did not show the proper courtesy to the master. I sat in front of him stiffly, with my arms crossed in protest of being there.

    The master soon entered the room and with no emotion or wasted movement, he began his well practiced ritual, the tea ceremony. I watched with great interest as the old man prepared the tea, with his exacting and deliberate movements and total focus. It was like poetry to watch as he carefully laid the ladle down and whisked the powered tea with a flourishing movement. I noticed that he handled his tools with the same reverence that I handle my swords.  He set the cup of tea on the mat in front of me as he slowly and purposely turned the cup so that the inscription would face me, his guest.

  When he was finished with the ritual, he looked me in the eyes and told me that there was more than one path. When he was a young man he too only knew of killing, but many years ago he discovered that there was another way to serve, to achieve excellence, and to find purpose.  He discovered that the sword was not the only way. A samurai had once spared his life in battle, and afterward he changed the direction and purpose of his life.

   After that day, I had proudly fought in many battles. Both my long and my short sword had been wet with blood on many occasions. My strength and skill as a warrior had multiplied, and my courage was known to all. I took no joy in killing, nor did I ever sense any remorse. I had always fought with honor and courage; it is the code of bushido, the way of the samurai.

   After many conflicts and years of victory on the battle field, I was to at last taste defeat. During my charge on horseback an arrow found its way past my shield and armor and lodged into my side. It seems that my horse had met with a similar fate and as he buckled and fell under my weight, I was thrown to the ground. For a moment I saw darkness but my instincts took over. My katana had been thrown clear, but I reached for my short sword. It was at this moment that my remaining weapon was thrown from my hand by the force of a mighty blow from a fearsome opponent. I looked up from my back to face my assailant, with a mixture of dirt and my own blood in my eyes.

   My worthy opponent was standing over me, he stood on my chest and was ready to run me through with his sword. With my free hand I loosened my helmet and invited him to end my life with honor. It seemed like all the noise and furry of battle had stopped for that brief moment as I viewed his gleaming sword held high above me and reflecting the sun.

   I had found myself in his position many times and would not deny a fellow samurai the right to die with dignity. It was at that moment that I recited a short haiku ( a brief poem, of strict construction), and awaited my fate.

  It seems that my haiku had amused my opponent and his sword hesitated. He looked at me for a moment and then with one fluid movement he shook the blood from his sword, returned it to its sheath and turned away. As he turned to rejoin the battle he said to me. There is another path, the sword is not the only way. A great tea master once told me that a great warrior will sometimes spare a life, and not always take one. I’m not sure if it was luck or fate but my life had been spared by a warrior greater than me.

    I laid there for a while, contemplating what had just happened to me. Had I shown fear, had I failed to accept death at the hands of my enemy? If so, I had disgraced my master, myself, and my family. I knew that the honorable thing to do would be to take my own life, but I was too weak. I soon passed out from the loss of blood.

  I had awakened many hours latter and the fury of the battle had passed me by. I staggered to my feet and found my way past the remnants of the mighty battle. The fullness of the moon had shown me the way past many dead bodies of man and beast and back out of the battlefield.

   Several months later when I had healed, I again visited the tea master. This time I came before him as a more enlightened man and a humble student. There would be time for war and battles later, for now I was open to following a new path.

  Please feel free to contact me at: pooritalianboy@gmail.com

                                                            P.I.B.

SHIP SHAPE

                                      SHIP SHAPE

 

  They call Fort Lauderdale the Venice of the United States. It’s also known as the boating capital of the United States. The beautiful beaches, outdoor cafes, and sunshine are a magnet to tourists world wide. In the last few years Fort Lauderdale has gone upscale, distancing itself from its former claim to fame as the college spring break place to be.  Newly built high end condos and five star hotels now trace the shoreline.

  Health conscious and very fit joggers, skaters, and bikers exercise along the roadways and sidewalks. It’s very scenic as you look past the palm trees, the white beach, and out over the water to the cruise ships and tankers anchored and waiting patiently offshore for their turn to enter the port. Fort Lauderdale Beach is defined by the inter-coastal waterway running the full length of the city and separating the mainland from the beaches it’s a boater’s paradise. Each year the city also hosts the country’s largest boat show. Hundreds of boats, yachts and accessories, from around the world are on display and priced to sell. Rich buyers from around the world attend with their check books at the ready.

   It just makes sense that ocean loving people are drawn to this area and to the boating life style. In other parts of the country, people buy large homes in gated communities, because they are in good school districts, or close to great golf courses, in Fort Lauderdale it’s all about making sure your yacht has a good home. There is even an annual night time lighted boat parade each year to showcase your newest toy.

  The exclusive south Florida location brings together a unique mix of great weather, excellent fishing, easy access to deep water, and most importantly: Money, lots of money. Even when the rest of the country is experiencing a down turn, these folks don’t feel a thing. I’m not sure if its old money, new money, stolen money, or drug money, but its here in abundance.  A quick trip down the inter-coastal will reveal lavish houses and mansions, along the palm tree lined and always calm waterway. 

   The abundant man made canals, rivers, and waterways, are lined with the homes of the rich and famous. These well tanned tycoons run the gamut from Captains of industry, lawyers, doctors, movie stars, yacht brokers, car dealers, drug dealers, and perhaps the richest of the rich…plastic surgeons. There are huge multi-million dollar houses with carefully manicured lawns and gardens, complimented with custom built swimming pools, fancy cars, and pool houses.  

   A few of the things that make these homes stand out are the hi-end cars in the driveway and the boats that they have docked behind them. Boats, or more correctly yachts are docked majestically behind most of the homes. In this city, wealth is measured by the size of your boat and how many feet of seawall you control. On the east side of Broward county, Sailboats, trawlers, go fast boats, and sleek fishing vessels are the rule rather than the exception…Not to be outdone by other locations, these are the types of yachts you will see in other major resort destinations world wide, like Miami, Virgin Islands, and the French Riviera.

    I can’t help but wonder what type of individual needs a boat of these dimensions. These things are the size of small cruise ships or mini- aircraft carriers. The cost of most of these beauties can well exceed the G.N.P of a small country. The price tag for this type of luxury toy can easily exceed a million dollars with many in the 5 to 40 million ranges. They shout. “I have money. I have arrived.” (I’ve cheated on my taxes) The owners of these marvels can well afford the price and they typically spend more money topping off their fuel tanks, or tipping the dock master, than Joe Average makes in a month.(I winze when filling up the old pick-up truck at the 7-11)

    I’d love to be a fly on the wall when these future boat owners were justifying these multi-million dollar price tags in their own minds. “Hey, I need a boat like this to take the guys fishing”. (Fishing off a boat like this is akin to hunting duck from your own Lear Jet.) Or, “think of the money I’ll be saving on hotel rooms.” Lets see: at $99/night at Embassy suites it would only take one hundred and one thousand nights (or 376 years) to pay back a ten million dollars boat. (I could stay at a real Embassy if I had that kind of jack).

  Well, I guess you can justify or rationalize anything in your own mind. To be honest, yachting is a great life style; in fact my grandparents were sea going people also. They traveled many miles across the Atlantic on a big ship (ok..perhaps it wasn’t their own ship…it was more like a one way voyage that they had to share with hundreds of other Poor Italians immigrating to the United States in search of a better life)

  At some point, the boat ownership at this level becomes a type of competition. A high stakes game of keeping up with the Jones’s. My boat costs more than your boat, my boat is newer, and my dingy is bigger than your dingy. (and I mean that it the nicest possible way) There also seems to be a contest as to who can have the cutest or fanciest boat name. Most sport a name that is a clever play on words like: Reel Time, “C” Dweller, Pier Pressure, Salesmen Ship, or Seas the Day   (I must be lucky because my boat came with a name already lettered on the back..it just says “Boston Whaler”).

   These boat owners also feel compelled to equip their boats with all the latest and greatest amenities. I mean any self respecting yacht owner would not be caught dead with little creature comfort options like: radar, satellite TV., swimming pools, outriggers, 24 year old girlfriends, hot spas, sun decks, barbeque grills, generators, elevators, GPS, and fish finders.

   As the owners up the ante with bigger and more expensive toys, the purchase price and operating costs go thru the roof. Once you go over 45 foot or so it gets difficult to take the boat out by yourself. As the marine real estate passes the 65 foot mark, you must begin penciling in wages for a deck hand and crew. These guys can really run up the payroll and will sit around in shorts and boat shoes, and wax the boat every day until you are ready to take a little cruise. (talk about a great job).

  At 75 to 100 foot you are playing with the big boys and probably need a captain and a few more deck hands. Now you will find yourself needing extra state rooms just for the crew. Hey, and with all those extra mouths to feed you had better hire an executive chef. When you break the 100 to 200 foot mark you then join an exclusive club as the owner of a “super yacht”. These giants belong to the elite “super rich”. You have to wonder what their house looks like if they own a 60 million dollar super yacht. Don’t get me wrong, I like boating as much as the next guy, it just that I don’t see the need to dock the Queen Mary in my yard. If I wanted to see exotic places and travel around the world on a boat that big, it would be cheaper for me to just join the Navy.(at least I’d been done paying in a few years)

   To tell you the truth when I pass by, it doesn’t look to me like most of these boats have even left the dock in a while. To be honest with you it’s kind of a hassle just to take one out for a spin. I see the same boats in the same places all the time. I mean what’s the sense of having an expensive toy like this if you don’t use it. I just don’t see the logic in spending millions of dollars on a yacht capable of going around the world and then just using it as a floating spare office or bedroom 50 feet behind your house.

  The worst part is that south Florida is very susceptible to hurricanes. During hurricane season everyone keeps a close eye on the weather reports and boat owners have to make sure their marine insurance is paid up and be ready to sail to safer waters if a hurricane threatens. But even living in paradise has its price to pay.

   To be honest, I’m kind of saving up for a super yacht myself, but I’m still a little short on cash.( ok.. a lot of short on cash) If I could just ask each of you to buy one copy of my new book: “Life as seen thru the eyes of a Poor Italian Boy” (at $19.95 plus shipping and handling) I could rush out and buy my dream boat(after I finish paying restitution) and after I sell the first half a million copies. (now that’s not too much to ask, is it). Then I too could wear stylish yachting clothes, ( I might even try one of the Hugh Hefner style smoking jackets in the evenings), name drop, have outrageous parties, talk incessantly about all the money I have, and maybe wear one of those little captain’s hats. (perhaps even tell my friends to call me captain)  If you don’t want the book,(or already own a few copies) I will gladly accept cash donations, inheritances, gratuities, lavish gifts, home cooked meals, and even well meant I.O.U.’s (with a qualified co-signer and 10% down)

  Overall, I think I could easily get used to being a mega yacht kind of guy, but until I win the lottery…I’m gonn’a just shut up and keep rowing.

   Please feel free to contact me at:  pooritalianboy@gmail.com

                                                                     P.I.B.