- © 2011-2018 My eBooks, Notes From A Working Cat, A New York Diary and Model Behavior: Friends For life are available @ http://www.amazon.com by tapping on their covers.
I’m tooling home from Whole Foods behind a double stroller, the mom turtling as if she has all day.
Finally managing to pass her, I peer into the kid’s version of a limo to find two tiny Asian girls perched like kewpie dolls.
One was a bit older than the other dressed smartly alike in lavender sun suits with fat little legs stuffed into mini sneaks.
I’ll admit, all my integrity goes right out the window whenever I encounter babies or puppies, so this time was no different.
“Hi,” I say like your favorite camp counselor, “aren’t you the cutest.”
The mom preening like a peacock, a big version of her chicks, smiles, cooing for them to do the same.
Their expressions, stern and bored, are frozen in place as if they were very short models on a coffee break.
I then see, they’re both casually holding rubber pastel sunglasses, I hear are all the rage at preschool.
The ham in me arrives, whipping out my own Jackie Os, putting them on, now crouching Indian style in front of their parked limo.
Like a fashion shoot, they both slide theirs on as if someone said…ACTION, as though it were a Hallmark spot, being shot for Christmas.
Frank Pantangeli, for those of you who aren’t Godfather 2 fans, after being coaxed, slit his wrists in a bathtub so he wouldn’t have to testify against his cronies in court.
First of all, I’m not fond of controversial posts since, I’d rather be harmlessly entertaining, but…if one more person implies that Jeffrey Epstein’s sudden suicide was just one of those things, you’ll hear me hurl across the page.
As the world knows, he was busted for engaging with underage girls he basically kidnapped turning them into little sex automatons to service him and his friends, that were all about to be busted too.
Names that would make our hair curl, by the way,
So what happens? He’s suddenly left alone in his jail cell when he’s supposed to have a cellmate just for that purpose of making certain, he doesn’t try to kill himself.
He’s also…OOPS..mysteriously taken off suicide watch after trying it once already. Toss in no one checked on him every half hour as required in the..must be out of print…prison manual, and well….
DO YOU HAVE TO BE A FUCKING MEMBER OF THE COLUMBO FAMILY TO KNOW HE WAS CONVENIENTLY CROAKED TO PROTECT HIS SLIMY COHORTS?
Sorry, but my Italian’s up.
After strolling by his townhouse since it’s nearby, I thought, if those walls could only talk. Or his bed. Imagine that on the stand spilling its guts.
Jeffrey, who was slipperier than an eel, either paid off his guards himself, knowing those Elysian Fields would be much preferable to 45 years in Leavenworth where pedophiles are looked down upon, or, someone else paid them to look the other way while they made our sick boy take himself out, with a gun to his head.
So now we have all these former sex slaves, as the good old New York Post calls them, who now, won’t have Jeff to square off with in court, so instead, will more than likely receive HUGE CASH settlements their lawyers will recommend since, it will be recommended to them by the powers that be who don’t want to be known for their hide-the-salami high jinks, to quote Woody Allen, who could very well be on the list.
And the promise…JUSTICE WILL BE DONE…is a myth because, just remember that blowjob that could be heard around the world courtesy of none other than William Jefferson Clinton, that’s now a part of our snappy culture.
Think casseroles, Downy Fabric Softener and fellatio in the Oval, that they’ll soon be teaching in schools.
And what a surprise to learn that Bill was a pal of Jeff’s.
Integrity I hear is having a retrospective, at The National.
To end on a harumph, this bizarre painting of Bill in drag hanged, like its owner, in Jeffrey’s townhouse.
All I can say is, he’s no Divine, now is he?
You just never know who’ll you see toolin’ round New York, or in this case, who you thought you saw.
I have distance glasses I never wear, honing the art of squinting just seeing enough to kind of identify what’s in front of me.
It was early afternoon when me and my latest book were training it home from the dentist, the one I wrote about that resembles a hut in the Congo.
When the 6’s doors flashed open at Union Square, well I’ll be, since none other than Dolly Parton stepped into the car. I was stunned really, wondering, why on earth would she be taking public transportation, and no, I wasn’t drinking.
My sassy side said, the same reason you do, it’s fast. What, the train isn’t good enough for Dolly?
I actually take the train because it’s cheap but, who am I to argue with myself.
I stared at her shimmering bleached blonde wig cascading halfway down her back, her butt, like an orange shaped trampoline, had a presence all its own. Toss in boobs that could run for office, and, well…
It was puzzling why no one else was as taken with her as I was, then we learned why.
When she turned out of profile it was only then I realized she was a lady of color, a warm shade of cream to be precise.
HONESTLY SUSANNAH.. DID YOU REALLY THINK DOLLY PARTON WAS RIDING THE UPTOWN LOCAL?
I’D START WEARING MY GLASSES IF I WERE YOU.
There are so many poignant stories that aren’t mainstream, reminding us that we all possess humanity in one way or another.
I’d like to share eight tender tales of lore, five about U.S. Presidents.
Theodore Roosevelt wore a ring with a lock of Abraham Lincoln’s hair, John Hay, Lincoln’s Secretary, who became Teddy’s Secretary of State, had given him to wear at his Second Inauguration on May 4th, 1905. Hay, twenty years TR’s senior, died shortly after, so Teddy, with great reverence, still wore the ring until he died in 1919.
Andrew Jackson was a recent widower when he took his Oath of Office in 1829, his beloved wife Rachel dying of heart failure a few months earlier. He held her missal in his hands, while a weeper, a black strip of crepe, circled the brim of his hat in mourning for her.
Bobby Kennedy, never getting over the loss of his brother Jack, always wore his overcoat that was much too big for him. He also wore the PT 109 Tie Clip Jack had given him. When an ardent fan tried grabbing it while he was running for the Presidential Nomination in 1968, he said, “Please don’t take that…my brother gave it to me.”
When John F. Kennedy died in November, 1963, there was a consensus that his casket, lying in state, should be left open.
Jacqueline Kennedy did not want her husband’s remains looked upon, leaving the decision to Bobby, who went to the Capitol before it was opened to the public. Bobby silently looked down at his brother, then sat by the coffin and wept.
It was kept closed.
The millionaire, John Jacob Astor, who died on the Titanic, April 15th, 1912, when found identified by his initials, still had his pocket watch attached to his blue serge suit. Vincent, his eldest son, in homage to his father, wore it for the rest of his life.
Fala, Franklin Roosevelt’s famous Scottish Terrier, was a gift from FDR’s cousin, Margaret (Daisy) Suckley. When he suddenly died in Warm Springs, Georgia on April 12th, 1945, Daisy who was present, assuming his wife Eleanor wouldn’t want her, took Fala home.
Eleanor, however, made Daisy bring Fala back, living together happily until Fala died at 12, in 1952, seven years after her beloved master.
Eleanor buried Fala at Springwood, their home in Hyde Park, next to Chief, the Roosevelt’s German Shepard, by the sundial across from Franklin in the rose garden.
When Thomas Jefferson, now a widower, lived in Paris from 1784-1789 as our Minister to France, he took Sally Hemings with him to look after two of his children. Sally, probably the most famous slave in U.S. history, was a free soul in France and could have stayed there, but chose to go back home to Virginia with the man who legally owned her there, making me think, though despite unseemly circumstances, there was a great love between them.
The Marquis de Lafayette, one of our most loved heroes of the Revolutionary War, in 1829, came back to America for a final farewell. After Lafayette laid the corner stone at Bunker Hill, where on June 17th, 1775, the first battle in the War of Independence was fought, we presented him with a trowel of earth to take home to France commemorating the day.
When he died on May 20th, 1834 at the age of 77, his son, George Washington Lafayette, tossed the dirt over his father’s casket as they lowered it, tearfully declaring…
That might be my favorite.
I’m in a doctor’s office seated across from a pretty preteen reading a hardcover book.
I’m pleased by this since, rather than glued to a phone, she’s immersed in a page.
She’s still waiting when I’m about to leave, so I ask what she’s reading.
“Nancy Drew, The Secret of the Old Clock,” she politely says.
Well, guess who plops down for a little book banter declaring, she was my very first read, a gift from my Auntie Ida, and didn’t she just love Nancy?
She peers at me through enormous blue eyes probably assessing if I’m nuts or not, before saying with a hint of pride, “It’s my 6th Nancy this summer.”
I beam since, after all, we still have almost month to go.
I can’t kill anything.
Somewhere in me lives a Quaker who feels even ants have their constitutional rights.
Yesterday it started with a waterbug I was attempting to relocate. I flush them, figuring, they must be Olympic swimmers given their name, but this guy wouldn’t let me coax him into a Kleenex moving faster than a meth addict, resulting in squashing him by accident. It bothered me all day knowing, my karma that’s already down a quart, is now below sea level.
After interring him in coffee grounds, taking him to the basement for burial, upon my return, I see something skirt from the kitchen into the living room at the speed of light.
When I regained consciousness, I screamed into the intercom, my assistant super arriving like the cavalry, hammer in hand to beat whoever was killing me.
He tried convincing me it was probably not a mouse, but just another waterbug, and I should just sit and calm myself.
OH YEAH? CALM THIS BUSTER!
Since when does a waterbug have legs like Tina Turner, that’s what I want to know, cause this thing traveled like a souped-up Land Rover.
I shouldn’t be all that shocked considering the entire city is being jackhammered, and even Bobby Kennedy when he was our senator said, there are more rats than citizens in New York, and that was in 1964.
But back to the matter at hand.
After setting up roach motels behind the stove and fridge that made it look like Vegas, we had to discuss glue traps that we all know, are not too humane. It was my call, Sean said, to glue or not to glue.
I told him I’d get back to him on this.
I then called Ed who said, what’s the alternative, you make room in your closet and put his name on the mailbox?
The trouble with cellphones, they don’t slam like landlines.
All day I was troubled, knowing he was in my house somewhere maybe doing push-ups behind the couch, and how am I going to sleep with him prowling for snacks. And what if he really likes the place, and decides to move in his relatives.
I’m leaving the lights on, just in case I walk in on him doing a line dance.
And then, it hit me. I’ll borrow Zeus the cat who’s such a pal, I can’t imagine wouldn’t come right over and tend to my needs. I know what you’re thinking, he’s a cat, if he meets up with Mickey, Mickey’s toast.
I thought about that, but then figured, nature knows best, plus who am I to interfere or argue with Zeus’s way of doing things since, as a rescue cat, he’s been to the rodeo before.
Right paw, left paw…do the Hokey Pokey.
Better get some fish for dinner and set another place.
It’s 4 A.M. on a Friday morning, as I head to a very early job. The city, though quieter to be sure, is anything but asleep, especially where the trains are concerned.
As a true blue New Yorker, I’m not afraid of her. Like Isak Dinesen wrote about Africa…
‘How could you live in such wilderness, and be afraid of it.’
As I stand on the platform alone, I suddenly find myself flanked by two men, both subway workers. One seated in the booth when I entered, the other just coming on.
They were both Latino, around 40, pretending I wasn’t there.
What I notice right away, is how nicely their hair is combed, reminding me of my father who always kept a comb in his back pocket making sure his part was straight. They had self-worth, these men I guess is my point, in the dignified way they presented themselves.
After gazing up at the sign keeping you apprised of the next train expected, I look around and realize, only these two fellows, along with myself, were in the whole terminal, but then see, three kids down a ways, pacing like hungry cougar cubs.
Ah ha, thinks Alice, unaware of any rabbit hole, realizing, this is why I suddenly have two bodyguards trying to be subtle.
They were making sure I’d get on the train safely without suggesting otherwise.
I didn’t let on that I know, because for whatever reason, they didn’t wish me to, so I stand between them quietly, like a proper Lady-in-waiting.
When the number 6 pulls in, packed with the Changing of the Guard, what I call all-night men and women swapping shifts, as it leaves with me by the door, I smile and wave to my two knights, and for the very first time, allow our eyes to meet, gratitude shining in mine, nobleness in theirs…
chivalry not dead, just changing shifts.