Call me crazy but during my week off I planned to completely waste it with yard work, tidying up my garage and taking both vehicles in to have their tires rotated and wheels aligned. You can tell I’m a total “good time boy.” I even had designs on going all out by dropping some turf builder on the brown area behind my house some might call a lawn and then shooting for the moon by cleaning my gutters.
Oh you may think that’s a hell of a way to spend precious time away from the office that would be better spent with my family at say a water park or all-inclusive resort. To be completely succinct and transparent, I’d just as soon liquify my eyeballs with a propane torch than torture my loved ones and myself by exposing them to venues that include screaming, wet children being ignored by parents who are blasted on frozen margueritas while nurturing melanomas courtesy Old Sol.
That’s not to say I don’t like to get away during my time off. I just don’t like to get away to places where other people are going. A nice kayak paddle on a remote river or a bike ride through the woods or even lunch at a Burger King, where you will run into absolutely no one.
But alas my best laid plans were dashed by days spoiled by rain and fog precluding the yardwork and making the garage too damp to work in. I can still take the cars in for service but it’s near the end of the week and I don’t want to waste what vacation I have left in the waiting room that smells of fresh rubber and crappy coffee.
I’ve tried to forget about work but work keeps calling me and emailing me thinking my email out-of-office message is a lingering April Fool’s joke. I wish there was a way to program a follow up that says, “hey moron, can’t you read? You’re dead to me until next week.”
I hear the rain will pass and I may yet get to take care of those chores. I hope so. Because I can’t wait for someone to give me a pathetic look of sympathy when I reply to their insincere query as to what I dod on my vacation. I might wipe that assholierthanthou look on their face by shaking my head and remarking, “I hope you spend your next vacation at Splash City. Bring the Xanax.”

I didn’t grow up with Easter. It would be a funny thing for a Jewish family from Queens, or anywhere else, to be involved with. By the time Easter hit we were usually into our third or fourth day of Passover matzoh-induced digestive distress. We didn’t hunt for eggs. We hunted for exLax.

But Easter came into my life in 1973 when I married an Episcopalian girl from suburban Rochester, N.Y. Greece, to be specific.

We never really did much about Easter until the past five or six years when my sister and mother-in-law started inviting to Greece to join them for Easter dinner at a famous buffet and “party house” called Golden Ponds. The name seems to be derived from the fact it’s located on Long Pond Road and a tip of the chafing dish to the Henry, Jane Fonda/Katherine Hepburn film “On Golden Pond.” Cute.

It’s difficult to see the place from the road but it’s not hard to know when to turn in. Just follow the constant parade of minivans and long family sedans stuffed with famished Easter celebrants who can’t wait to jump out of still-moving vehicles in order to claim their seats at tables long-reserved for the big day.

Once inside and seated the battle for the best dishes ensues. The offerings are typical brunch fare—breakfast and lunch dishes and tall, refreshing mimosas.

There are, however, scenes of fierce conflict. Most notably, the tray of French toast could easily be confused with a gastronomic Gettysburg. As combatants line up on either side of the sought-after thick wedges of the egg-dipped delight the bravest thrust their arms forward in order to take possession of the all-powerful tongs. Without them, acquisition is impossible. There are only two sets, a woefully inadequate supply for the impatient line of diners desiring as many wedges as they can plop on their plates. Take took long, or too much, and a dowager from Irondequoit might bark, “hurry the hell up!” at you or a portly pansy ass from Penfield might simply attempt to wrench the appliance from your hands. It doesn’t take long before it’s all-out war and the momentary allotment of the breakfast food is depleted scattering the battalions at the buffet line over to their second choice, the bacon tray, while growling, “there’s no freakin’ French toast left!” I was lucky enough to score two wedges on my first trip, but left bereft of seconds on my subsequent sorties.

Personally, I was mature, and full, enough not to be bothered by this setback as I succeeded in filling several plates with pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns and a few desserts to which I refuse to admit.

Indeed, I emerged from Golden Ponds fuller, fatter and happier but I’m already plotting next year’s assault on the French toast tray. Hint. It involves the addition of sharp objects, a Taser and eating the last wedge in front of the Penfield pansy ass.

On April 16, 1984 our first child was born in Decatur, GA. Via c-section because he was breech. Because of the anesthesia I didn’t get to be in the delivery room but at 9:54 a.m. a very southern Dr. Brooks came out to the waiting room and she chirped to me, “it’s a boy and he’s got all his parts!”

Good news. Just the way we ordered him.

But he didn’t have all his part. Parts of the puzzle that create a perfect mental picture were missing.

He didn’t play the way other babies played. When I through a ball he didn’t attempt to catch it, he just let it fall. He began to speak at the age when other babies begin speaking but then he stopped—for two years.

Our pediatrician had no idea what the problem was. Then I read a review of the new movie “Rainman,” which described the traits of Dustin Hoffman’s autistic character and then I knew.

Before we could seek treatment CNN transferred me to Detroit. By then Greg was ready to enter kindergarten. But it didn’t work out. He disrupted the class and was assigned to another class in another school where other “problem kids” were shunted off away their peers.

After a battery of tests conducted by the intermediate school district he was officially diagnosed as “autistic impaired.”

It wasn’t a surprise, but it was devastating to us. Even in 1989 not much was known about autism and it wasn’t yet championed by celebrities whose kids suffered from the same condition.

We lived in a rented a place in Farmington Hills, a Detroit suburb while we waited for our house in Atlanta to sell. Desperate to hang onto every revenue-producing student the Farmington Hills school district dragged their feet in bussing Greg to Birmingham, which had an established program for autistic children.

We were actually shown a padded room and told he could “cool down” there. That was their idea of special education.

Of course we refused and demanded he be granted a space in Birmingham’s program. After one year of great progress in this program Farmington Hills decided it spent enough money and moved to have him removed from Birmingham’s program and, go where..the padded room?

We went through the maddening and disrespectful Individualized Education Planning Committee meetings which are supposed to result in a sold plan for special needs students. Instead they exposed the fact that in many cases school officials are not educators but ruthless and spineless bean counters. Members of the IEPC think of every excuse they can to deny services to which special needs students are entitled strictly based on expense.

We were desperate. After interviewing then-Michigan Governor John Engler for CNN, I took the unusual tactic of handing him a letter and telling him, “we need your help.” Someone from his office called my wife and explained it was too sensitive a situation for the guv’s involvement.

We then took legal action and settled with the proviso our son would have one more year in Birmingham and then we’d either have to move to that city to keep him in or look for an alternative.

Birmingham’s a nice community but it wasn’t for us. Luckily West Bloomfield had established an excellent autistic program and we moved there.

Our son thrived and was actually mainstreamed throughout his school career with some support, but one thing that never changed was the reluctance to provide appropriate services. Indeed because he high-functioning teacher and counselors who answered to the bean counters all but labeled a child with a lifelong disability a low-achieving slacker who just needed to be pushed.

I tell you this because mental health remains a pariah, a pain in the ass, a budget sucker in the education system. While it gives me some pleasure to see autism awareness growing as a result of many, many caring people and the efforts of celebrities who have the power and pull to gain attention for their pet causes, I urge parents and caregivers to remain strong, demand services and know your child or any other family member afflicted with this wicked condition will need some sort of support forever and don’t let the government or education system get away with denying it. Ever.

Passover doesn’t actually begin until the evening of April 3rd, but that date doesn’t work for me or my family. Between the NY Auto Show and other obligations, the Hebrew calendar couldn’t have chosen a more inconvenient time to start the 8-day celebration.

This happens almost every year so we’ve taken it upon ourselves to time-shift a bit.

That’s why we conducted our first seder tonight and will be wrapping up the holiday just after my fellow Members of the Tribe are into their first full day of matzoh-induced digestive difficulties.

How do we get away with putting convenience over the religious calendar? No problem. Look up blasphemy in the dictionary and you may see a picture of my family. I’m the Jew, my Episcopalian wife makes the “to die for” matzoh balls and farfel, my daughter and her boyfriend pretty much believe in the power of online gaming, my son is not religious but warms to the matzoh ball soup, and we all love the tradition of getting together and re-telling the story of Passover. It’s a pretty exciting tale once you get into it and the plagues alone would make for an awesome video game.

The question comes up, of course, whether it matters at all which eight days we choose to observe Passover. To some extent it does, but honestly, we figure if you keep it in the chronological vicinity of the rabbinically-endorsed date you’re in the ballpark.

Think about it. Was Jesus really born on December 25th, or was the date chosen to coincide with college football bowl games? Indeed, the United Church of God website posits Jesus could have been born as early as November 18th which would put his birth even before Black Friday, confusing shoppers as to why the big sales started AFTER Christmas.

We embrace the unorthodox way we celebrate both Jewish and Christian holidays because no matter what date we choose to observe them, we respect their meaning, customs and traditions. I’m pretty sure whoever is running the show from Heaven or a timeshare in Palm Beach He or She is getting a kick out of the whole thing and figures when it’s our turn to enter the Great Beyond, we’ll shake things up a little bit. Maybe even screw around with Yom Kippur and pass the word it’s now OK to eat and drink all you want…then you’ll have something to atone for.

One of the great ironies of the Internet is while it seems the Great Web gives us access to every deep and shallow thought someone thought worthy of sharing, billions of pages of information and porn, in some ways it hasn’t broadened the view of the world among some people.

A recent example.

I found myself on a business trip to Irvine, Calif., deep in the heart of the O.C., Orange County, in the southland between LA and San Diego.

A couple of co-workers joined me at the hotel bar and chatted up the young lady/bartender, who was serving us.

In short order we learned she was going to school to become a speech therapist, lived in Garden Grove, another O.C. community and had never been to nearby Los Angeles or any of the neighboring beaches, as in Huntington, Newport, Laguna, Redondo, or Manhattan. This came up because we asked for some restaurant recommendations in the area, and her best effort were some we’d been to several times already at the Irvine Spectrum Center, 30 seconds down the road. Oh, she also knew of some good ones in Garden Grove but we weren’t interested.

At about the time we were learning this nice young lady’s alarmingly tight circle of familiarity with her surroundings, one of her co-workers chirped, “You should go to the Hard Rock Cafe’! There’s one around here and they’re pretty rare, so go to one while you can!”

Being polite and knowing we were representing our company we stifled all temptation to reply, “Are you effin’ crazy, kid? There are more Hard Rock Cafe’s than Beverly Hills boob jobs!” So we smiled and thanked her for the recommendation while one of us pointed out that we also have a Hard Rock Cafe in Detroit, although no one from Detroit is foolish enough to spend time or money there. She told us we were awfully lucky to be one of the few cities blessed to have a Hard Rock Cafe and like a bunch of dumb rubes we enthusiastically agreed, although not to the point of demonstrating the sign of the cross.

We finished our beers, tipped our friendly bartender generously, since afterall, she’s working her way through college and might one day care to venture more than seven miles from home, requiring just a little more gas money than she’s used to spending.

But we learned a valuable lesson…while we Millennials seem to always have their noses in their phones and appear constantly connected, they’re actually only connected to each other, which to me, is a form of social incest, rising my most fervent fears that the following generation will become known as the House of Windsor.

Some people avoid overnight, or “redeye” flights the way Fox News avoids accuracy. Not me. Traveling home from the west coast I don’t want to blow a day in the air when I can get the ordeal over with in the middle of the night and then have an viable excuse for avoiding household chores the next day as I plead sleep deprivation, even though I generally sleep quite well on the plane…but no one needs to know that. Sssh.

The redeye does have its own personality and mores and to endure it successfully, it’s important to be aware of both.

I hope to provide this service with the following paragraphs.

Let’s start with the two distinct camps of redeye passengers: Readers and Sleepers.

Sleepers are easy to spot even before they take their seats. That’s because from the time they take a seat in the gate area they have already affixed a yoke-shaped pillow to their necks giving them the appearance of a bi-ped Babe the Blue Ox. They’ll wear the pillow to the bar, to the newsstand, to the Starbucks, to the rest room as if suddenly, they will need to snap into a quick slumber while awaiting the foaming of their cappuccino’s milk or drying their hands in the hot air blower.  Once the Sleeper is on board, it’s all business. They reach up to make sure the overhead light is off, the vents are closed, they’re wrapped like Tut in a threadbare, bacteria-infested airline blanket and tip their seat back to the point where the passenger directly behind them is forced to stash their knees in the overhead bin.

The direct enemy of the Sleeper, is the Reader. The Reader wants everything the Sleeper is trying to avoid…that means light, air and, occasionally between chapters, some light conversation. They live for the beverage cart and strategically position their book, magazine or e-reader on the tray table leaving just enough room for a coffee or cold drink to perch precariously enough to tip over and spill on the Sleeper’s shoes. The Reader can never be the Sleeper. For them the trip is a solo flight of self-stimulation. They will actually read, but will also sporadically sample every offering on the seatback screen and laugh loudly at every joke on old episodes of “Big Bang Theory.” They will fidget and turn and always, always order alcohol or a snack that requires the use of a credit card, meaning handing the credit card over the Sleeper’s body to the flight attendant who must holler over the sounds of the plane’s engines, directly over the Sleeper’s ears, “YOU WANNA RECEIPT?!?”

The ultimate confrontation between the Sleeper and Reader is the most delicious. It’s when the Sleeper is in the aisle seat and the Reader is not. At the precise moment when the Sleeper reaches deep REM sleep, the Reader is called by nature. In my experience it often goes like this.

Reader pokes Sleeper’s arm and says, “Excuse me, I need to get out to use the bathroom.”

Sleeper plays possum.

Reader pokes Sleeper’s arm again and says a little more urgently, “Hey ! Hey! I gotta get up. Gotta pee!”

Sleeper grunts and turns, now clearly enjoying the Reader’s discomfort.

Reader, now desperate, attempts to slip out by stepping over Reader’s splayed out legs.

Sleeper beats Reader to the punch. Unbuckles seat belt and quickly makes a beeline to the last vacant toilet ahead of Reader.

Reader rips pillow yoke off Sleeper depriving Sleeper of super sleep powers

Sleeper becomes Reader.

So that’s how it works. My best advice if you’re stuck on a redeye is to bring both a pillow and book and choose your sides carefully.

I love sitting in airports and watching people. Today I had a longer time than usual to sit near the bar on C concourse at Palm Beach International. Before my eyes a story developed that I wish to convey to you in words and pictures. Keep in mind, I could not hear what was being said, so I let my imagination take over.

Let’s start with the attractive blonde woman who finds herself sitting between two eager lads in blue shirts. It’s apparent she doesn’t know them, but doesn’t mind allowing them to strike up a conversation with her.

Pretty soon, it’s apparent the guy on the right is making progress.

And before long, the guy on the left takes his backpack and beats it for his gate. 

Ah….guy on the right is feeling like a stud and has the slackjawed grin and confident posture that goes with thinking you could actually make headway with such a beautiful girl.

But no sooner does this rube have his sights set on a steamy date with PBI’s hottest passenger, then a mystery suitor emerges who not only has her attention, but tosses the dude off his stool. He’s poised for some heavy petting. 

HA! LUCKY DOG!