Garcia Media Life

Having had a small spat with a co-worker the other day, I decided to extend an olive branch.  That got me thinking.  Why is the olive branch a peace offering?  Can you plant them and they become olive trees?  What if the person to whom you’re giving the branch, doesn’t like olives?  Where does one find an olive branch?

You can google “olive branches” all day long and never really find out the exact origins of the connection between peace and this ancient agricultural product.  But the connection is real and widespread.

Governments, Bibles and Greek Mythology

Got a dollar handy?  Look at the back of the bill at the Great Seal of the United States.  That’s our mighty eagle there, clutching a batch of arrows in one talon and a branch in the other with thirteen olives and leaves.   The symbolism is inescapable.  We are a gentle, peaceful people who can crush you. 

There are a lot of olive branches in the Bible.  Noah, of Ark fame, was given great hope by a dove he had sent out on a scouting mission to check out if there was any dry land out there.  First time, the dove came back empty-beaked.  Not a good sign.  Flood waters still everywhere.  The second time, the dove comes back with a little something in its mouth; why it’s an olive leaf; signs of life and great hope for Noah and all the critters on the crowded ark.  Third time, the dove does not return, indicating things were dry enough now that the little bird had found a place to live.  But it was the olive leaf that heralded the promise of an end to the great flood.

Zeus liked olives too.  The Greek God wanted to give his new city named Athens to the one of his junior Gods who gave him the best gift.  You would think Poseidon would have been the front-runner having cast down a lightening bolt and brought forth a spring.  Water—hello?  But no.  Athena comes along (and frankly with that name you’d think she might have been disqualified from the contest) and creates the olive tree.  Not just one measly olive branch, mind you.  This is a tree full of them.  Guess who got Athens?

The Long-lived Olive Tree

As for growing olive trees (which is still the best way of finding actual olive branches), my investigation has revealed the following.  You cannot grow an olive tree from the seeds of store-bought olives.  The brine the olives are sitting in has killed the little seeds. 

But you can buy tiny little olive trees from nurseries and even grown them on your balcony.  If you want actual olives, you will have to wait about five years before the tree produces any.

It’s at this point, that I think I discovered what the big deal is about olive branches.  In Mediterranean climates, olive trees can live a thousand years.  A thousand years!  Ten centuries producing fruit and looking pretty.  Now that is one useful plant.  Is there absolutely anything else you can give someone that lasts that long? 

Well, actually there is.  You could give them a container of uranium which depending on whether its uranium 238 or uranium 235 has a half-life of 4.5 billion and 704 million years, respectively.  But giving someone a radioactive present is neither sensible nor appreciated.

In Conclusion

In review, we now know olive trees can live a thousand years.  We know a dove brought back an olive branch to Noah which tipped him off that the great flood was abating.  We know Athena actually invented the olive tree and got herself an entire city for her efforts.  We know the American eagle can either wipe us out with a slew of arrows or offer 13 olives and branches and nestle peacefully at our side.

But here is the true power of the olive branch.  My little office spat was, frankly, not big enough to merit the actual purchase of an olive tree and the attendant branches.  But it should be noted that my mere mention of wishing to offer an olive branch was enough to wipe away all tensions and start us off on a path toward a new era of goodwill and understanding. 

Olives are good in salads too.

Bodega by the 207th St. Subway Station- Kareem Abdul Jabbar, then known as Lew Alcindor grew up on nearby Dykman Street

Spent an interesting weekend in Inwood, at the very northern tip of Manhattan, immersed between two wildly different but compatible cultures; Dominicans and their busy, colorful, music-pounding, flea-market sprinkled streets right next to gentrified urban white neighborhoods dotted with Art Deco buildings circa 1920.

It’s truly the best thing about New York- the mixing. Here are some of the sights in a mere three-block walk:

First off, the weather was great so everybody and their hermano were out on the streets. The thumping rhythms of Latin music emanate from cars and boom boxes. On weekends, the Dominican part of Inwood, like Washington Heights, is somewhat like being transported to another country.

In front of the pawn shops, bodegas, hardware stores, tattoo parlors and Latin restaurants are dozens of flea market stands selling the strangest stuff ever. There are normal goods like cheap clothes, purses, boot-leg movies, 1989 Topps baseball cards- but also a highly unique collection of electronics. Pretty much everything you throw out when you move- like battered extension cords and old remotes.

Then there’s like a buffer block right where the A train stops at the 207th street subway station. Here, the transition begins. The first Art Deco apartment building looms on the left as you head north. It’s a very hilly area and the building sits atop some very steep and intimidating-looking stone stairs.

Harry Houdini's widow lived on Payson Street after his death

About 500 more feet and you officially enter yet another world; quiet and residential with a mix of housing including 7 and 8 story pre-WWII buildings, detached homes, and those great deco apartments- but still packing plenty of character. Like the two old, presumably Dominican men, who open their apartment window along Seamen Street performing old-time Latin karaoke as the urban white crowd strolls by below, every one of them, seemingly, with a dog on a leash.

Saturdays, there’s a small but diverse weekly farmer’s market that operates year-round with all kinds of great goodies from breads and fruits and veggies to cheeses and wine. And across the street is Inwood Park with tons of woods and paths, softball fields and dog-runs, leading east toward the Harlem River. That’s where Columbia University has its crew team. The school has painted a gigantic blue “C” on a cliff overlooking the river and word is the locals think it’s tacky and an eyesore. The University has it regularly repainted but no one’s figured out where they got the authority to take over that particular cliff. Supposedly there’s a lawsuit coming.

And the park is where the cultures meld. The dog-walking white urbanites populate the paths. Everybody shares the meadows. The Dominicans own the baseball diamonds.

Beisbol everywhere!

Baseball and Softball rule in Inwood. The Dominican Republic, after all, stocks the Major Leagues with some of the best players the game has ever seen; Juan Marichal, Pedro Martinez, Vladimir Guerrero, Albert Pujols, David Ortiz, the Alou brothers, Felipe, Jesus and Matty. It’s in the DNA.

Having attended many a Little League game in the white-bread Atlanta suburbs when my son was growing up it was kind of refreshing to take in a bit of an Inwood Little League contest. Not a single Anglo name in the lineups but plenty of Bautista’s and even one Valenzuela. The fast-pitch softball fields are where the big boys play. And they’re good- really, really good. Some of the slickest fielding and power hitting I’ve ever seen on a softball diamond.

An Inwood Park trail in the Fall

It’s Manhattan. From Wall Street and the Chrysler building to Madison Avenue; from Central Park and Lincoln Center to the parks, softball fields, markets and bodegas of Inwood; it is, truly, one of the neatest and unique islands in the world.

I started my broadcasting career at WAGE-AM Radio in Leesburg, Virginia a little over 32 years ago. I learned recently that last August, it went dark. I felt like a little piece of my life kind of died. Certainly, a piece of Loudoun County died too.

The station had a strong tradition of local news and did remotes at local businesses, covered High School sports, and kept what was then a fairly tight-knit, agricultural community very well informed.

One of our most popular features was the obituaries we read after the local noon news. I remember the time new management rode into town and thought reading the obits was too quaint and tried to kill them. It didn’t last long. The station was overwhelmed with angry complaints. The people of Loudoun County demanded to know which of their neighbors were no longer among the living and that was that.

But you could see the end of WAGE Radio coming like a freight train barreling down the tracks. First, development took its toll and where there were once 63 dairy farms in 1977, there were just three by the turn of the millennium. Houses, McMansions, country clubs, and ribbons of highways and overpasses were testament to the fact Loudoun had turned into one of the fastest growing counties in America.

It also morphed from a community where people said hello, nodded and smiled at one another into another faceless, sprawling Washington suburb. The mom and pop shops that used to advertise on the station gave way to Wal-Mart conglomerates and their ilk.

You gotta laugh

We not only informed the people of Loudoun County, we gave them a few grins too. My favorite blooper was the time an unnamed news anchor, trying to explain the cause of a recent heat wave, pinned the blame on a “stagnant mare’s ass.”

Another anchor, while reading the community events calendar, referred to an appearance at the Sterling Park library by the famous author of the Three Faces of Eve and actually called the book the Three Feces of Eve. I was in the studio at the time and nearly fell to the floor in barely stifled laughter.

The station was owned for many years by Huntington Harris, as in the Harris Bank of Chicago. He loved classical music and gave himself his own time slot on the weekends to spin his albums. This also required that he read liner cards. The station’s motto used to be WAGE- in the Heart of the Hunt Country. Regrettably, Mr. Harris gave a memorable rendition of the phrase that would have made a sailor blush. The very next week WAGE became the Sparkling Sound of Loudoun County.

And, yes, I had my own contributions to the blooper reel. Like the time I was doing the noon news live at the 4-H Fair near the hog pavilion, complete with an audience of farmers and their kids and referred to the “23 million dollars in crap damage” the county had suffered in a recent drought.

RIP

But all hilarity aside, it was here I cut my teeth as a journalist. I covered school board meetings, raging barn fires and car accidents. I covered a small plane crash. I got dirty looks from Senator John Warner back when he and his then-wife Elizabeth Taylor threw annual dinners at their Atoka mansion. Apparently I asked a political question during what was supposed to be a social event and it didn’t go down very well. I moderated a live on-the-air clash between the Board of Supervisors and representatives of a very angry Loudoun County Taxpayer’s Association.

I have one of their pay stubs framed as a reminder of my humble roots. I made $155 a week. WAGE Radio, I used to joke- a contradiction in terms. But as I think back on it, I would have worked for them for free if it would have added just another two weeks to its once central and intimate role in the life of Loudoun County. How sad and ironic that I have just written its obituary.

Hello, hello? Is the mic on? Is this thing on. TAP TAP. Hello? Test, test, test. Oh, there you are!

Well, it seems I have been reconnected with the world once again, courtesy of Comcast, one of the most incompetent and customer-hostile companies in the United States. But having survived them (for now) – I have successfully moved to Washington, DC!

First off, for those of you who may have read a recent post on my previous household moves with my cats, I am happy to report all felines are in working order and adjusted in a record four days! Not that there weren’t several pathetic episodes of extremely neurotic behavior, but that’s quickly behind us.

My CPU’s survived the trip- what a sweet sound, plugging in those babies and hearing the whir of the fan and the purr of the spinning hard drive.

The President, the Snowstorm and the Arena

And how perfect that I got an immediate, representative dose of all that is cool and ridiculous about our nation’s capital all in the same day. I moved in Saturday- in a crippling Washington snow storm! The meanest four inches of snow I have ever experienced. Plows, what plows? I actually drove around a lot that day, including a heroic trip to DC’s only Home Depot on Rhode Island Avenue. I saw ONE plow that afternoon in the District.

As for the cool part- I now live right next to the Verizon Center, home of the best hockey team in the nation (the Caps are on a 10-game win streak) and the place that has also been home to the Washington Wizard’s Gilbert Arenas and some of the most sophisticated weaponry to ever grace an NBA locker room.

And our neighborhood got a little surprise visit during the great blizzard. The tip-off; about 300 police cars blocking off 6th street, including the alley me and my movers were using to off-load the furniture and boxes. Could it be? Yes- the Leader of the Free World had come to my friendly neighborhood arena to watch a Georgetown basketball game. Barack and Michelle Obama, one of the two kids, Vice President Biden and David Axelrod all made a snowy jaunt to watch some hoop action.

I had forgotten all about the security when the American President travels in this town. I was reminded immediately as I tried to take a forbidden right turn onto G Street. Directly from that creepy speaker system all cop cars have, came the voice of one of DC’s finest: “White mini-van, DO NOT turn right, I repeat do not turn right.” Very well then! Not wanting to spend my first night behind prison bars, I dutifully complied.

Yuppies-Everywhere

The Verizon Center has really livened up this part of town- Chinatown/Gallery Place. It’s terribly hip. I don’t think I have ever seen such a dense concentration of rich, white yuppies. My apartment building is crawling with them; the parentally subsidized sons and daughters of privilege-turned young professionals, pulling in a fat 50K working for some Congressman or Senator.

In an elevator with one of them, I got that look I’ve received a few times in my life- the one that indicates deep concern that I may have just lowered the neighborhood’s property values. Can’t say I blame the little yuppie dick-head. I was decked out in moving clothes- my U.S. Open Beth Page baseball cap, cheap reading glasses, a crappy sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers and covered in a long winter coat- the Latino version of Aqualung. So I shot back an equally dirty look and privately vowed to put on a nicer shirt the next day.

The Cable Company

As for Comcast. My cable technician did not arrive in the scheduled three-hour window. But he did have the courtesy of calling me nine minutes before the end of said window. Did I mind wasting three hours of my life, anxiously awaiting reconnection to the digital age? Damn right I did. He couldn’t come, he said, because of the big blizzard. Something about how he nearly died in a car accident in the last great snow-fall around New Year’s Eve.

I calmly indicated I thought he was a snow-wimp, and that since it had been blizzarding ALL day long, maybe a phone call a little earlier in the cable window might have been in order. I called to complain too. The Comcast “customer services” representative- the one whose conversation with me might be recorded for training purposes- hung up on me. I hope her supervisor listens closely to the tape.

“Thank you for choosing Comcast, how can I help you this evening?”

“Yeah, well, I’m calling to complain that I wasted three hours of my life waiting for a service technician who called me nine minutes before the end of the window to tell me he was too scared to drive here in the snow.”

Click.

A Comcast technician did arrive the next morning; a nice Jamaican fellow who used to live in Brooklyn. I love you D.C., but it took a New Yorker brave enough to drive through hardened slush, to get me reconnected to the World Wide Web.

It’s going to be an adjustment process- but I’ll get there. Gotta get back to dealing with the invasion of the cardboard boxes now.

Father & Son Jammin'

Eighteen years ago today, my only child came into this world.  Any of us who ever had the privilege of parenthood and were present for the miraculous event of birth, remember when that burst of oxygen enters their lungs, they take their first breath and issue their opening cry to the world as if to say, “I’m here!” 

It is said that there is a uniquely identifying characteristic to that first cry that embeds itself into a parent’s permanent memory and enables them to forever more pick out the distinct sound of their child’s voice from among even a playground full of screaming, boisterous kids. That cry etched its way into my soul at precisely 1:45pm, ET, on January 3^rd, 1992.

I recall bringing Charlie home on a very cold winter’s day, wrapped in blankets.  A couple of weeks into his new life, I set him down on the couch and played him a record hoping to instill music into his little baby consciousness- I think it was James Taylor.  I remember dropping him off at pre-school for the first time, the initial separation from the warm cocoon of home.  I recall reading to him at bedtime and then watching him sleep so peacefully. 

I remember him dropping his first F-bomb at some inexplicably young age, hearing it, calling him into the house and proclaiming that if he ever said that word aloud in school, the police would come immediately and send him directly to prison.  Extreme, I know, but, hey, it worked for another ten years or so.

I recall seeing him perform with his middle school jazz band.  He was playing the trombone at the time.  I remember when he first discovered rock n’ roll and, God bless him; his first favorite band was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.  I remember his video game compulsion I thought would never end, but did. 

And I will never forget taking him with me to Colombia, South America as a teenager where he met my boatloads of very cool cousins, and sitting around a swimming pool at a villa we had rented out one night, he picked up a guitar and I heard him sing and play for the first time.  It was Swing Life Away by Rise Against.  I’m pretty sure I had tears in my eyes as my family listened in amazement to how really good he was and cheered for him sincerely, enthusiastically and lovingly when he finished.

We live on front porches and swing life away,
We get by just fine here on minimum wage.
If love is a labor I’ll slave ’til the end,
I won’t cross these streets until you hold my hand.

Now, he’s a senior in High School and off to college, probably in Nashville in a few short months and he knows exactly what he wants to do and has developed intricate plans to get there.  Maybe it was the James Taylor album I played him when he was a baby, or maybe it was the times he watched me perform for family and friends.  Maybe it was Tom Petty or Rise Against or all or none of the above, but he now performs, writes his own music and has the firm ambition of becoming a recording engineer and producer. 

He’s interned at recording studios in Atlanta.  He’s built his own very sophisticated studio with his own hard-earned money, is mastering Logic and Pro Tools and is now producing his second CD for friends- and they’re paying him for it.  With real cash.  I gave him my limited edition Telecaster FMT and together with his vintage 1983 Marshall JCM 800 (2203) head and accompanying Bogner closed-back, oversized 2 X 12 cab, can now blow entire neighborhoods away without pushing the volume knob past 5.

He’s recorded and produced some of my own music and I can’t tell you how cool it is to take explicit directions from your own son about doing a guitar lick all over again, or filling out a vocal track with a little more harmony, or going back and re-recording one part or another so we could get it exactly right.

Two days after he was born, Charlie and his mom, Laurie (who deserves the lion’s share of the credit for raising him) were still at the hospital, but I had come home for a short time to take a brief break, and I wrote him this song which has, fortunately, stood the test of time:

The Gift of Life

What will you be my little one?

When you’re no longer my little one 

Will you be strong and brave?

What will you be when you come of age?

You’ve got a look of wisdom in your eyes

So new to the world and yet so wise

———-

Bundled up and warm beneath the January skies

Soon the summer will come and you’ll be smiling

At the flashing fireflies

———-

Everyday you’ll be writing a chapter in the story of your life

You’re a child of the universe

The child of a man and wife

You’re the gift of life

And finally, we came full circle with the most recent song I wrote for Charlie last year.  The first verse and chorus will suffice:

So True

It’s snowing sideways but I’m watching from the inside

And I’ve got a warm heart thinking of you, who knew?

It was a cold day like this when I brought you home

Wrapped in a blanket and a prayer

A lifetime to share

 ———

Now I’m listening to you sing as the ghost of Dylan rings

In your soul

You make me whole

Someday you’ll know maybe sitting in a fallin’ snow

What it’s like to watch something grow

So strong

So true

So you

Happy 18^th birthday, Charlie Garcia.  My God, you’re an adult now.  And a good one.  Smart and kind and respectful and responsible.  Carry on, son.  Carry on.

Hudson River sunset; Bernstein; Suki; Charlie; The I-Pod; Washington; Cami McCormick in Afghanistan; Millie; Late night cookies and milk

Yesterday, I complained about the NFL and Microsoft. Today, working up to the Christmas spirit- nothing but appreciation for the wonderful things in life (in no particular order):

◊ Sunset over the Hudson River.

◊ Strawberry Fields in Central Park; the sweet innocence of the flowers and notes left by people from all over the world honoring the greatest dreamer of our time.

◊ Watching my cats sleep, deep into pillows and blankets, looking cozy with their limbs draped all over each other.

◊ The puppy; how anything can be so bad, sneaky and cute all at the same time.

◊ My soon-to-be 18-year-old son, Charlie, proof that every generation gets better than the last; writing and producing all kinds of music with meticulousness, dedication and passion.

◊ The I-Pod; the Steve Jobs’ invention that has become life’s customized sound-track.

◊ High school friends who all at once discovered Facebook and rediscovered each other and have turned out to be kind, gracious and the sweetest people on earth.

◊ Friends from all the iterations of my past who, thankfully, remain along for the ride through every twist and turn, every failure, every success, every tragedy and every recovery.

◊ Butter; the secret ingredient to all food that tastes good and evil and French.

◊ Hot showers; you don’t appreciate them until you can’t get one.

◊ The Lincoln Memorial at night.

◊ Sitting on the left side of the plane on the Potomac river approach into National Airport and watching the monuments just before the pilot takes a sharp right bank on final approach toward the runway at an altitude of 500 feet.

◊ Cabbies everywhere- the salt-of-the-earth; with great stories about their customers, their dreams and their often amazing lives. 

◊ The sound of the clanging bell as a train pulls alongside a platform.

◊ U.S. servicemen and women who salute and deliver, making sacrifices most of us would find unimaginable.

◊ War correspondents who risk life and limb to bring us the truth.
 
◊ Parents, who despite their imperfections, give everything they have for their children.
 
◊ Aaron Copeland music as you gaze in awe at the rolling fields of Pennsylvania Amish country.

◊ All the women in my life who have ever put up with me, including the current and last one who has made me promise I will never write about her on my web-blog.

◊ The twinkling lights of a Christmas tree in an otherwise dark living room at 2 in the morning when you get up with a sudden urge for butter cookies and a cold, fresh glass of milk.

New York City 1932

Apologies to those of you who could care less about Gotham, but I feel the need to wax poetic about the sights and sounds and stories of one of the most fascinating cities on earth.  There have been so many films, TV shows, songs, poems, and books written with New York City as a backdrop that it’s nearly impossible to not feel like you’re walking around on some kind of a movie set when you make your way around this town.

Today for example, I grabbed the B train to Rockefeller Center.  The first thing you see as you emerge from the subway station is Radio City Music Hall.  The history and tradition of that place; the precision dance-kicking, the famous Christmas shows, the myriad events that occur in there that people don’t even know about, from political debates and movie debuts to big awards shows.

Then you turn the corner and there’s Rockefeller Center.  They’ve put up the skating rink already but the floods of Christmas tourists aren’t here yet so you can actually see the first folks to strap on the skates and go for a spin on the ice.   I walked a few more blocks and hit the intersection of 49^th and Lexington, hung a right, and there, on display in all its architectural majesty was the looming presence of the Chrysler building, once the tallest skyscraper in the city until the Empire State building was constructed.  And here’s a real weird fact I bet you never knew.  That building was once owned by former Washington Redskins owner, Jack Kent Cooke.  Most of you wouldn’t care, but as a former Washingtonian and as a current long-suffering ‘Skins fan, I think that’s kind of cool.  Maybe Daniel Snyder should buy it for luck.

A couple more blocks and I passed the Waldorf-Astoria hotel.  How many Presidents and Kings and Queens have slept in that storied establishment?  Another block down and you’re on Madison Avenue.  You look north and see the canyons of high-rise buildings that stand tall like monuments to the nation’s advertising industry.  How many familiar jingles, TV ads and marketing campaigns were born on that street?

But New York is more than physical, iconic locales.  It’s also about people.  If you look for them, or sometimes just flat run into them, there are thousands of tender moments that take place here on a daily basis.

I’ll never forget crossing a street on the Upper West Side about a year ago and seeing what must have been a 95-year-old woman with a shock of white hair struggling to get her grocery cart up the curb.  I bent down and lifted it up for her and put it onto the sidewalk.  She said nothing but did give me the warmest smile I think I have ever seen.  I noticed her incredibly deep blue eyes and for a second, I saw 60 years drop off her face and imagined what a beautiful young woman she had probably been at one time.

This week, while rushing to an appointment, I passed a black nanny pushing a cute little white boy in a stroller.  She stopped in front of an apartment building that had a beautiful flower-bed growing around a tree.  She picked one of those bright, purple flowers and held it in front of the little boy’s gleaming eyes.  And he smiled.  Kind of like the 95 year old lady did on the Upper West side a year before.

My mother and father once lived in New York City.  They’re gone now but I think of their time spent here and that I am walking the same streets they walked and seeing many of the same sights they saw.  I am certain they also experienced many of the same moments of tenderness and acts of human kindness.  They probably felt the same awe at the bigness and power of the skyscrapers and the famous streets.  They probably marveled as do I, that this place is home to so many rich and poor and black and brown and white; that you can hear five different languages being spoken as you walk down one city block.

When I look at this place through their eyes and think of the smiles of babies and old ladies, I realize that this is the real magic of New York City-  it is completely and utterly eternal.

Former Washington Post columnist William Raspberry used to use a clever literary device in his pieces in which he would simulate conversations on the great issues of the day with…cab drivers. These blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth folks would always ask the pertinent questions the punditry class would somehow miss. Mr. Raspberry was on to something. I will now borrow that device, only this was an actual conversation with a cabbie recently.

We’ll call him Johnny. Interesting gentleman; African-American, 54 years old, graying hair and glasses, Vietnam veteran. As we’re stuck at a traffic light at 46th and Broadway, a Rastafarian fellow with flowing dreadlocks walks past us. Johnny’s window is rolled down. He looks toward the guy, “’Sup dred?” he asks. “Ok, mon,” responds dred. That was kind of charming, I thought to myself.

A block later Johnny spots a small storefront advertising stress-curing massage services. We’re not talking “special” massage services; this is the real thing. So as he pulls away he calls them right up on his cell phone. “Hey, I just saw the sign in your window. The one offering the $30 services for 61 minutes? That’s for stress relief, right? Because my back hurts all the time and I’m not really sleeping that well. You guys open on Saturdays?” A man of action, Johnny.

“Hey, I hope it helps,” I told him. That was all he needed to launch into a lengthy riff on life and retirement. “I like this job,” he started. “Been doing it a long time, 14 hours a day, six days a week. It’s tough on your back. Got a house in Pennsylvania- that’s where I’m going to retire. I’ll have it paid off in about five years. And I got this medallion. I’m an independent driver, you know I can lease the medallion out. That could be my form of income, because, you know, social security, there ain’t gonna be any when it’s our time,” he explained. Medallions are the metal discs that are affixed to the hoods of New York City taxi cabs. They sell these days at auction for between 600 and 700K. The guy has a better retirement action plan than I do, that’s for sure. Honestly, I was kind of counting on the social security.

“Because if you got your house paid for, you know, you’re pretty much set. I worry all the time about not having a roof over my head.” You and me both, Johnny. “You know what gets me? Seeing these retired people out on the streets collecting cans. Breaks my heart. You know they’re the type of people that would never beg a nickel off anyone. So there they are, collecting cans.” He sighs. I think about this for a second. Wow, that would really suck.

As we near my destination, he turns off the meter and pulls around the corner to put me right in front of the door of the Conde Nast building, which was very nice. The meter reads $9.50 plus the new 50-cent surcharge. I reach in my pocket for cash. “I’ll give you $12,” and hand him a twenty. He thanks me heartily for the conversation and hands me back a five and two one’s. Hmmmm, that would be $13 I just paid him. But as I put the change in my pocket I remember the whole thing about his bad back and having trouble sleeping, the worry over not having a roof over his head, the sad image of elderly people stooping down to collect recyclable aluminum cans.

“Thanks, Johnny, you take care of yourself,” I say as I step onto the sidewalk. And my inner voice says, “Let him keep the buck Robert, let him keep the buck.” Building good karma one cab ride at a time.

There is something so beautiful about a big event in horse racing. The colors, the pageantry, the contradiction of the sheer power and force of these 1,200 pound animals running like the wind on those fragile, spindly legs. Which one will show heart? Which horse would rather be somewhere else?

So you don’t care for horse racing? Trust me on this one; if you watched ESPN’s wonderful coverage or were lucky enough to be there in California, you know what happened. And if your Saturday did not include a glimpse of the Breeder’s Cup at Santa Anita Park, then you missed history and possibly the most dramatic horse race of all time. The 5-year-old, Zenyatta, became the first filly to win in the 26 years they’ve run the Breeders Classic, obliterating the boys and writing a special chapter in the Sport of Kings. Fortunately, you can see it here or below.

This beautiful animal, now undefeated in all of her 14 races and running most likely for the final time, came back from absolutely, dead last. I mean WAY back. But why the horrific start?

It could very well have been the loading of the horses at the gates just minutes before. It was one of the strangest, frightening and most chaotic incidents you’ll ever see in racing. The first 11 ponies loaded without much of a problem, though Zanyatta herself was a little reluctant and had to be pushed from the rear. But then the #12 horse, Quality Road, simply decided- he wasn’t going to race- at all.

For at least ten minutes, they tried everything to load that horse into the gate. He would have none of it, kicking his rear legs powerfully and dangerously, forcing his handlers to start again over and over. Finally, they decided they’d blind him so they put a hood over his head and led him into the gate. Very bad move. The horse completely freaked out, kicked even harder and cut his hind leg. They had to open the front gate and lead him out of there and because of the injury he was promptly disqualified. First time ever there was that late a scratch in the Breeder’s Cup.

Through all this high drama, the other horses stood in their tiny gates, getting claustrophobic, restless, or, in some cases, too relaxed (which you do not want of a race horse when they’re supposed to shoot out of there like a rocket). So they unloaded the horses and tried it all over again. Once more, Zenyatta looked unsettled as they pushed her forcefully into the starting position.

The race begins (really- watch this; she’s the #4 horse-green colors) and Zenyatta immediately gets off on the wrong foot (literally- the left foot instead of the right). She runs like she’s out for a Saturday stroll instead of a horse race. Her head turns left. Her head turns right. But there’s a championship jockey astride that baby; Hall of Fame rider, Mike Smith- and he knows what he’s doing. Trevor Denman’s call of the race is nothing short of breath-taking. What horse could ever recover from this far back? What horse could ever make up that much ground with less than half the race to go? Well, a horse with the biggest heart since Secretariat; Zenyatta, possibly the greatest filly of all time, that’s who.

There’s a spirited debate about which thoroughbred will be named Horse of the Year. A lot of experts are enamored with another horse named Rachel Alexandra (first filly to win the Preakness in 85 years back in May). Said jockey, Mike Smith of his magical horse, the incomparable Zenyatta, “She’s sent from God. It’s his filly.” You don’t mess with God’s filly.

Hey, I have connections. I could have borrowed a couple of general purpose NYPD passes for this. But, no, I wanted to chronicle the average fan’s experience. I wanted to cover the underbelly of the great gathering. And gathered we did- in the tens of thousands in lower Manhattan late this morning to pay tribute to the New York Yankees’ 27th world championship.

It was a feisty little crowd when I emerged at the Chambers street subway stop and promptly got funneled onto Church Street and toward No Man’s land at Foley Square near the U.S. courthouse. “Wall Street Sucks! Wall Street Sucks!” they chanted loudly as we marched sort of near Wall Street. No matter, the economic populism felt good and inspiring on this nippy, windy day on the island. Another chant went up; “Who’s your Daddy? Who’s your Daddy?” I believe that was directed to Mr. Pedro Martinez. More chants; “Let’s go Yankees. Let’s go Yankees!” The t-shirts, pennants and hats were selling rather briskly and, I guess reflecting the tough economic times, at a relatively bargain-basement-for New York- $10 a pop.

The funneling continued, New York’s finest manning the barricades, ensuring no sheep would cut loose from the pack. “Hey, man, where are we going?” I heard someone ask. “I don’t know, I’m just following the crowd, I guess this is where we all turn right.” And we all turned right and promptly into a pen at Foley Square. Assorted folks talked to the cops. “Hey, will anything pass by here?” “No, nothing,” was the dead-pan response. Knowledgeable sources revealed we were approximately two blocks from City Hall. Thank goodness for the windy conditions or we may not have seen any of the famous confetti. But my people were prepared. A couple of rolls of toilet paper shot up and laced their way nicely around some nearly bare trees.

Thoughtfully, the city of New York had erected a very large screen so we could all feel we were part of history as we watched the parade outside on TV. Suddenly, I heard the sound of bagpipes. Could we be closer to the action than I thought? No, the city of New York had also thoughtfully erected very large speakers. Suddenly, the crowd erupted into a rather intense chant of “A—hole, A—hole, A—hole.” Turned out that was a vociferous and instinctual reaction to some guy with a death-wish who turned up in a Phillies jersey. He disappeared rather quickly. I do not know his ultimate fate.

Eventually, we all turned our attention to the screen. Rudy Giuliani popped up. Scattered boos. Then Reggie Jackson. A lot of shoulder shrugging as if to say he already had his day. Yogi Berra- now we’re talking- Yogi never gets booed. Hideki Matsui appeared on the screen- huge roar. Jay-Z…lots of whoops and hollers. A-Rod in his natty little fedora- huge cheers. “I’m waiting for Kate Hudson to become K-Rod,” commented an astute fan about Alex’ girlfriend. And the virtual parade continued; Mark Texiera, C.C. Sabathia, Melky Cabrera and the expected massive roar for Derek Jeter.

A middle-aged lady in the crowd could be heard on her cell phone. “No, not really, can’t see a thing. There’s a screen here, but there’s a tree in front of it. Last parade I go to!” she said ungraciously. Really, Lady- go with it, c’mon. That’s when I spotted a clear path to the subway station and the 5 train to Grand Central. A lady cop manning the turnstiles let us all through for free on the condition we make our way quietly. Ha…just saved $2.25. Living large! Back to the apartment building and my doorman Billy wants to see my $10 Yankee pennant. Why is he taking a cigarette lighter out and threatening to burn it?

Oh yeah. Disgruntled and bitter Mets fan. I love New York!