If over 200,000 Americans dying of COVID-19 was not enough to prove that the pandemic is not a hoax, perhaps the President and a few of his entourage coming down with it can convince Trump’s camp that COVID is real and it’s a killer.

There is much speculation as to the President’s condition as there seems, as has often been the case with this administration, that doublespeak and inconsistency subvert truth and candor.

While HIPAA (Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act) privacy and security regulations protect a patient’s health records from public scrutiny, our President’s health is a vital national interest that should take precedent over privacy concerns.

The President has come into contact with many staff, supporters, and donors, perhaps during a time when he was already infected. It is imperative that all these people be notified and quarantined and tested if warranted.

Even though the President has gotten infected with COVID after six months of mocking mask wearers, he must come out and address the nation and order us to wear masks to prevent the second wave of the virus.

It is estimated that nearly 3,000 people a day will be dying of COVID in December.

Trump lied to us all these months, but he can show remorse by wearing the mask and urging all Americans to do the same.

COVID is NO HOAX!

One evening in the summer of 1965, my brother Michael came home from work and announced that he and a few friends bought season tickets to the New York Jets. The Jets used to be the Titans and played their games in the aging Polo Grounds. A year earlier, a name change and a new stadium meant that the New York Jets were the darlings of Queens and played their games in the brand new Shea Stadium.

I wasn’t sure what that had to do with me or with my brother Michael for that matter.

For as long as I could remember, we were fans of the New York Football Giants. Even though the New York Baseball Giants left New York years ago, you still had to add “Football” to the New York Football Giants for the sake of clarity.

There was Charlie Conerly, Frank Gifford, Sam Huff, Andy Robustelli, Jim Katcavage, Jimmy Patton, and my favorites YA Tittle and Del Shofner. All of New York, especially the Bronx, were New York Giant fans.

So, I greeted Michael’s announcement with more than a little incredulity.

“You’re going to the new league?” I asked.

“Yeah, I am. You can’t get tickets to a Giant game, and we can only see them seven times a year when they are on TV. Now, I’ll be going to seven games and will be watching Joe Namath!”

I had heard of this guy Namath from my friend Mike, so I knew something about him.

Anyway, the season started, and I began to watch games with my brother when the Jets were away and listened to Michael’s account of the games he attended. So, I was slowly coming around.

Then, a few games into the season, my brother had an extra ticket, and I went to the game with him.

That game changed me forever.

Seeing Namath in person as he speedily hobbled from the Center and almost immediately threw a dart to George Sauer or Don Maynard was exhilarating. These weren’t five-yard dump passes; they were thirty or forty-yard bombs. I never saw anyone throw a football like that.

So, fifty-five years later, I remain the Jet fan that was overwhelmed by the majesty of a Joe Namath pass.

When I was fifteen in 1965 or especially when I was eighteen and dancing on the frozen Shea Stadium field with my friend Mike after the Jets won the AFC Championship Game and we were going to the Super Bowl, I never thought that moment would be the last happy moment as a Jet fan.

Of course, we have had some other moments, but none that compare to winning a championship game and then the Super Bowl.

I can fully appreciate what the Cubs fans and even the Red Sox fans went through all those years in between championships. But it’s more than winning championships.

I can accept not making the Super Bowl. I can take not making the playoffs, but no Jet fan wants to be the laughing stock of all sports, not just football, is a cross I never expected to bear when I first saw Namath throw a pass.

When the Jets beat the Colts in Super Bowl III, we used to say that Namath or maybe Weeb Ewbank, sold their soul to win.

Not that it wouldn’t be worth it, but I would never have expected that I would be the one living in hell in payback to the devil.

Twenty years ago, as we had survived the IT Terror of Y2K, I was diagnosed with leukemia.

The word leukemia was enough to scare most people back then and still is a deadly disease today.

I was able to survive because I had an indolent variety that was not as aggressive as the disease often can be. I also survived because I had excellent health care and excellent health insurance.

Although America at the dawn of the twenty-first century was lagging behind other industrialized nations in various categories affecting the quality of life, including education and health care, both were accessible to you and your family if you had money.

Today, while I still receive daily and monthly leukemia treatments, a more significant threat confronts me and the rest of the world.

COVID 19 cares nothing about national rankings in any category. It holds no bias in favor of any degree you may possess or health insurance policy to which you may subscribe. However, the lesser-educated, uninsured, and economically disadvantaged of our population are incredibly susceptible to its ravages.

In the days when our nation was able to put a man on the moon seemingly at will, I would have written, “We can put a man on the moon, but we cannot effectively deal with a pandemic.”

The sad reality is that today we are no longer able to put a man on the moon, and we have failed miserably in dealing with COVID 19.

Along with this sad reality, we are bombarded every day with the absurdity and maniacal incompetence of our national government that has been unable to protect its citizens. Politicians cry out about preserving the Constitution! The hell with the Constitution, protect US!

An outdated piece of parchment that is incapable of protecting itself from daily violations surely isn’t doing We The People any good at all.

While the Republicans and Democrats toss spitballs at each other, Nero is fiddling with history and truth while the west coast burns, the southeast drowns, and the northeast hunkers down for a COVID 19 second wave.

It’s time we wake up and take our country back from the losers who would destroy it.

It’s just startling that a country that helped save civilization and helped to re-build Europe can fail so miserably in addressing its citizens’ needs. America First? Oh, no one believes that.

If America were first in our leaders’ minds and hearts, we wouldn’t have to ask Why 200K?

The 19th of September in 1976 was a typically beautiful late summer day in the Bronx. I am guessing it was equally as beautiful in the other boroughs of the City of New York, but it was really more beautiful in the Bronx.

It was the kind of day that would enable even the most ardent New York Jet fans to forget the miserable loss to the Denver Broncos.

More importantly, it was the kind of day to get married.

Forty-four years ago today Eileen and I exchanged vows and, in the twinkling of an eye, three children were added to the compact. There would be job relocations and home relocations and commuting and long nights in the hospital and the million of other things that comprise a life.

There were family get togethers and farewells. There were celebrations and condolences. There was way more laughter than there were tears and then all of a sudden you are married forty-four years.

You go back to that day in 1976 in your mind and you can see neighbors and friends of your parents’ lining the aisle as you make your way up to the altar with your brother Mike. It’s no affectation to use “you” here as the person I am seeing can’t possibly be me! I have have brown hair…I have hair! I must be eighty pounds lighter! Could that really be me?

Oddly enough, today Eileen looks the same and so does everyone else who is captured on the film reel that makes up my memory.

Here are some other snippets:

After the mass, the two limos stop at the bodega down the corner from Eileen’s (where I bought Mrs Rooney the Kent cigarettes after she asked me if I wanted a soda…which I also had to buy along with the cigarettes) to stock up on some beer for the long ride to Queens.

We had grey limos as I ordered them only eight days before.

We got to our cocktail party late because Dino our photographer had us modeling for shots in his studio for over an hour.

While we suffered missing out on the food served, we had enough cocktails to get us through the initial phase of the reception.

Our reception cost $18 per plate. (It was forty-four years ago)

Eileen and I danced all night long, sometimes even with each other.

It was a Sunday but we were having such a good time we paid for an extra hour and there would be a  collective sick-out the next day.

We left the reception with our friends Pat and Paul and made our way to Eileen’s house for the suitcases etc. It took a while and I took a nap in the driveway, that is on the driveway.

From there we went to McGuinness and Farrel’s bar up in Throggs Neck, me in my tux and her in her wedding gown.

We hadn’t finished partying it seems.

From there, Pat and Paul drove us to the Plaza Hotel in the city.

I was so impressed with the size of the room that I invited Pat and Paul to come up and see it. Paul was ready but Pat thought better of it.

Eileen had picked up her suitcases alright but not the keys to open them up.

Eileen’s brother Jimmy came to the Plaza the next day with the keys.

We signed and deposited checks all morning. We were feeling pretty chipper. Well, we could barely hold our heads up.

We went to Schraffts and had the best cheesburger ever.

The next day we went to Bermuda

Forty-four years?

It’s been nineteen years since we all saw the towers collapse knowing hundreds of police and firefighters, and others instantly lost their lives. It was at that moment that we remarked that the day was September 11th, or 9/11. But it is only written as 911, the SOS phone number for police and fire assistance.

We can all remember where we were and whom we were with as if it had happened yesterday.

We were devastated, perhaps scared, but we were all angry Americans.
Then we heard about the other planes that were in the air and headed to some unknown target.

First, the Pentagon was attacked, and then the brave citizens on Flight 93 put an abrupt end to the third attack. These brave souls did not panic in the face of certain death but acted to save others.

That first 911 ushered in a time, however brief when we thought and felt and acted as THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

We weren’t pointing fingers, and whether you voted for George W. Bush or not, you cheered for him when he was at the World Trade Center site and when he threw out the first pitch of the Yankee World Series game a few weeks later.

That’s what Americans have always done. We unite in times of war. We don’t fight each other at these times. We fight our common enemy.

Maybe, if only on this one day a year, we can remember when Americans were united?

The nineteenth century was a time of rapid industrialization and urbanization for America. Millions of people migrated from farms to cities and worked in the new factories instead of the fields.

Farms became more mechanized. Therefore, fewer workers were needed to plant and reap, and factories and mines greeted these displaced workers with open arms if not good salaries and safe working conditions.

The American Myth of Rugged Individualism lost its appeal when men no longer blazed trails to the west or scratched a living on newly settled land. Huddled with thousands like him to compete for factory jobs, the new American Working Man was alone and incapable of negotiating a better life for him and his family.

Then the Labor Union was born.

Strength in Numbers replaced rugged individualism. While the birth of the new labor unions was always a struggle that sometimes turned bloody and deadly, workers realized they needed to band together against the robber barons to get a decent wage and safe working conditions.

Many Americans have forgotten that struggle and have turned their back on labor unions. 

Believing that somehow they are un-American, many have accepted the new robber barons’ notion that unions hurt good workers as they protect poor workers. Seeking to weaken unions, these new robber barons, known as politicians or protectors of the rich, have created Right To Work laws, which simply mean that unions cannot require membership of all workers at a plant or other facility.

It does sound American, Right To Work. I mean everything with RIGHT in front of it is American if you simply want to believe it.

In this case, you might as well call it Right To Work For The Minimum Wage.

I am pro-union, and you should be too.

My father provided for my family because he was in a labor union when he worked for Con Ed in New York City.

I was in labor unions when I worked for the City of New York and the State University of New York.

I worked for other entities in which I was not a member of a union but enjoyed similar benefits of union membership because we had other unionized workers.

Unions helped to build this country, protecting this country during times of war, stood by this country during economic crisis, and aided in all the American Century’s greatness.

Unions, like every institution in America, have not always been perfect. Discrimination and favoritism, and corruption have marred its past. But, without unions, this country’s workers would be relegated to low pay and dangerous working conditions.

Please take a minute to realize that in this year of COVID, millions of our Essential Workers are members of a Union.

Thank God for them.

I went to my local beer and wine distributor last weekend. I had hoped to get a few six-packs of summer ale. Last year around this time, they were looking to unload it, and what would have typically cost me twenty dollars or more only amounted to eight dollars for two six-packs. No such luck this year.

There was only one six-pack of my Long Island favorite Blue Point Summer Ale waiting for me at home so that would have to suffice.

So, there I was with a little more than a month left of summer, and summer ale was no longer available in the store. To make matters worse, there were big displays of Pumpkin Ale.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Pumpkin Ale and can’t wait to have some, but there’s something antithetical to me to be drinking an autumnal brew when it is 90 degrees. Of course, it probably will still be 90 degrees here in Florida when the calendar morphs from summer to fall, but at least I will have the pretense of drinking an autumnal ale at the appropriate time.

Buying Pumpkin Ale in the summer would be akin to decorating for Halloween in the summer. Well, my next stop on my shopping spree took me to Lowes, which had huge displays of all types of Halloween decorations

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I know merchandising is big business, and you always have to be a season ahead to entice shoppers and reach your quarterly quotas, but it just doesn’t seem decent to be pushing Halloween when you haven’t made it to September. And now that it is finally September, will the Christmas displays be far away?

You can bet your credit card balance that they are in the pipeline even as we prepare for Labor Day.

Then there are the hurricanes.

Just when you are beginning to rest easy thinking that you might be escaping another hurricane season, a storm crops up on the radar sending us all into panic mode. We have been watching hurricanes for weeks, and while they have stayed away from Florida’s shores shifting out to sea or to other gulf states, you can’t rest easy until you see the calendar change to November, and even then, you are on the lookout.

But still, if I only had a little more Summe Ale, my hurricane angst might not seem so bad.

If that were the only thing to worry about this Labor Day weekend, Florida and the Southeastern coast would rest easy. But 2020 has provided us all with a host of worries, not including hurricanes.

Be well.
Stay safe.

Seventy-Five years ago World War II came to an end.

It would be the last time America won a war.

So it begins.

Today is the meteorological first day of autumn.

I never heard that before.

A New York weatherman mentioned that June 1st was the meterological first day of summer back on June 1st and yesterday he mentioned that today would be be the first day of autumn.

It’s funny because on June 1st it certainly felt like summer but you would have to be delusional (which I strive fervently to be) to accept that autumn has arrived…especially here in Florida.

But be that as it may autumn apparently is here.

Well, first off, I find myself behind in my duties and chores. I have five cans of Summer Ale that have to be consumed, you would think, in the summer. So, for summer ale purposes and for the purposes of my annual post, The Last Of The Summer Ale, I will continue under my perpetual delusion that summer continues up to the calendar date we have all come to love and accept as the official first date of autumn, or the Autumnal Equinox as it is officially known, which for 2020 is September 22nd.

I know most of you will argue that the seasons change on the 21st of the month but this is 2020 and the leap year started us off on an abysmal journey so why should anything so regular and dependable as the start of spring, summer, fall, and winter be anything else but confusing and contrary to the norm?

BTW (as the kids text) winter starts on December 1st.

With the beginning of September comes Labor Day.

Labor Day was always a special beach day for us in the Hamptons. It was the last official beach day of course because the kids would be going back to school the next day and it would also be the last day for the lifeguards.

So, a representative showing of a typical Newell-Rooney gathering would amass at Ponquogue beach and Eileen would provide snacks, bubbles, and The Big Sandwich on a crusty round loaf of Sullivan Street’s best Italian bread purchased at Sonny’s Market in East Quogue.

It was not unusual for me to sneak in a couple of cold ones which I surreptitiously sipped from a large solo cup to mask the identity of my beverage, beer having been banned for over twenty years. This ruse was taught to me by my able friend PJ with whom I shared many a plastic cupped beer over the years.

We soaked up the sun.

I tossed a frisbee and a football with my kids.

I was in Paradise.

The good thing was I was awake the entire time. I never took it for just another beach day or just another day in a life made up of other days. It was a special day. Every year, though it was a re-run of the year before, it remained a special day and actually aged like fine wine and cheese.

Then, when the beer had been drunk, when the Big Sandwich had be thoroughly relished, and sun was on the wane, at promptly 5:00 PM, the lifeguards blew their whistles for the last time that season and the remaining crowd of beachgoers stood and applauded them like they were rock stars

It was the kind of day that makes you sad but at the same moment carries you through this summer of COVID.

We’re stuck in Florida away from our children and friends and we haven’t been to any beach this summer but those summers and those Labor Days back on Long Island continue to nourish our souls.

We have lost much since those halcyon days on Ponquogue beach. Some friends and family have left us which only inspires appreciation for those who remain and a commitment never to take any of you for granted.

When I was graduating from high school, I almost made the Senior Dozen or Golden Dozen, and I know it wasn’t the Dirty Dozen.

This was a group of seniors that were being honored for various achievements; Best Student; Most Handsome; Most Likely To Succeed.

I was the runner up for Most Polite Student.

How sad was that?

It’s bad enough not being in contention for any of the more glamorous awards, but to come out second in the Polite Student category was devastating.

I had labored ceaselessly on being nice and polite, and respectful.

Okay, I did get caught throwing chairs off the boat coming home from Rye Playland. But I was still polite when the Principal caught me in mid-toss and demanded to know, “What are you doing with that chair?”

Alright, so that probably short-circuited any road to glory as a senior. But it was the sixties and chairs were the symbol of the establishment and all that was wrong with our society!

Well, no.

Nevertheless, and notwithstanding (to quote Felix Unger), I was and remain a polite boy.

My mother would expect no less, and I have tried, without perfect success, to shield her from such embarrassment that I might induce.

It started when I was a child…being nice, I mean.

Being nice wasn’t unusual, and it was relatively easy to achieve as everyone I associate with was nice. Of course, there were the usual detractors of all that is nice, and that is all I will say of them because anything more accusatory would be, not nice.

Our group of friends, boys and girls were quite nice, in fact. We didn’t fight or argue because there was barely time to laugh and laugh some more. We did a lot of laughing as teenagers, very little angst.

Being nice may not have been part of our DNA, but if you met all the people I hung around with, you might argue we were genetically pre-dispositioned to one another.

It is what it is, and we were what we were.

I have found that many, if not most, of the people I have encountered, colleagues and new friends, value being nice as necessary and desired. There is no manipulation or guile in their being nice.

They do not so much as act nice but define nice in all things and all ways.

It really isn’t hard to do, but it is always much appreciated.