Ep 38: Vale la Pena

Thursday, May 22

Tonight, the train was a conduit to a mass exodus of tourists and New Yorkers heading north for the long weekend. Rather than having to endure the dreaded traffic of tomorrow many seemingly had smartly chosen to leave early, lugging their luggage and babies along with them.

In a way, by living in Peekskill I feel like I'm on permanent vacation.

Well, sort of. I still have to get up early every morning to either go to work or get Milo; I still have to work for a living; and I still don't feel like we're completely settled in enough, to relax and feel like there is something on the long list of house repairs (we desperately need a new attic fan) or seasonal changes (30+ window screens) that I should be working on otherwise.

We're getting there though.

Initially, I had figured the end of May, but that's a week away and there's at least a summer's worth of changes that need to be made.

I'd try to do them late at night, but after taking care of Milo for an hour, dinner, a bath and a little prep for the next day, I'm kaput.

Plus, by Thursday morn I'm ready for the weekend.

Wednesdays are not merely hump days for me they are literally ones where I must go over a mountain.

Yesterday began at six AM when I drove into the city to barely beat the traffic. It only took a little over an hour, as opposed to the three hours it took last week when I left at 6:45.

Then, after work, I drive an hour into to Bloomfield to have dinner with the Boys; except this time Enzo had a middle school spring concert that began at 7 and after 7th grade orchestra, girl's chorus, boy's chorus and then band; you had the four equivalents for 8th grade. Ugh. Over the two hours Enzo only performed in one of those eight sessions.

When it finally ended at nine, I took the boys over to Subway for some sandwiches.

At 9:35 I was on the road again.

After stopping for gas, then a large espresso at the first Dunkin' off the Parkway, I went over Bear Mountain and finally arrived home around 10:30.

I was pooped even after the triple shot of caffeine, not only because of the long haul through this weekly journey around the world and back, but also because the last stretch of the journey, right after crossing the Bear Mountain Bridge, is Route 202, an ugly and utterly treacherous and twisting 4-mile trek in the dark along a cliff. I swear traversing this road is solely responsible for taking a day of my life away each week.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I do it, if only because I love my kids and need to endure despite the imminent danger and subsequent duress.

In Spanish we would say, "Vale la pena" - it's simply worth it, regardless of the pain and trouble.

(UPDATE: I was wrong, all these extra passengers are due to the West Point graduation happening this weekend. Just overheard two guys from down south chatting and chumming over their common destination up and right across the river from Peekskill.)

Photo Caption: Each trek along this 4 mile stretch each week takes a day off my life

Ep 37: The Son Also Worries

Mom's texted photo of her giant showboat cocktail, 

evidence that she would be even less anxious to get to a shelter, 

did not reassure me.

Tuesday, May 21

Milo continues to teeth, so I was up at 2:45 for an hour trying to sooth him. Poor Chelsea had to leave at 4 for work this morning, so she barely got five hours of sleep, if that, considering Olivia has been kicking and hiccuping a lot more lately.

When I arrived to the track around 7:45 there was barely a soul, maybe half a dozen, waiting on the platform. This was in stark contrast to the 7:32, which always has dozens upon dozens already waiting by 7:20 or so.

At 7:50 the droves descended upon the surrounding parking lots and the drones finally filed in. The mass entry was like a refugee scene from an apocalypse or pandemic film; or rather, more like a zombie movie.

The rush of the AC helped mute the distant chatting of three women at the front of the car, so the ride was fairly tranquil. With the haze of a hot day in the making hanging over the Hudson, the ride in was also uneventful - no derailings, no tornados.

Alas, looming disaster is not too far away considering Mom is on vacation in Branson, Missouri this week. The weather channel warns "Tornado Risk Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and Missouri," with severe thunderstorms likely to hit this area on Wednesday.

At first chance I texted Mom and asked her to find the nearest shelter. She informed me that she was on a show boat on the Swanee River somewhere.

I promptly replied, "Please stay safe Mom. I know showboats don't have shelters. Remember, The Wizard of Oz was just a movie, and Dorothy was simply dreaming, whereas tornados are all too real."

She reassured me that after the show she was going straight back to her condo at the timeshare complex and that she now knows where the shelter is.

Hmmm, her casual, unconcerned reply was not that helpful. I still worried and wondered if she would actually make the effort to go to the shelter at the first sign of a twister.

Ugh, oh the worries of a doting son.

Ep 36: Tranquilo, Lorenzo

Maybe, YOU need to take a chill pill Pops!

Monday, May 20

It was a tough morning on the train.

The woman sitting next to me was a nervous wreck. She kept fidgeting and fiddling with all her toys including a laptop which she could not get to connect to the ether; an iPhone in a sequined case; a reading tablet; a green leather laptop bag; a fancy patent white leather handbag, and her eye glasses.

She kept shifting and adjusting and waiting for something to happen throughout the ride. 

Dyed platinum blonde with a black leather motorcycle jacket, she looked like she was in her early fifties, desperately clinging to the first half of her life by throttling anxiously forward, attempting to make meaning through meaningless busy work.

It was hard to ignore her. Unlike most  of our fellow passengers, who were either sleeping, quietly reading or simply pondering the day ahead, this hot potato was constantly moving, but seemingly accomplishing little. Ugh.

After the first couple of minutes of her spasms I wanted to tell her, "You sure are nervous," but decided it would probably make things worse or, at minimum, make things awkward for the next hour.

As we rolled into the mile-long tunnel into Grand Central she got ready to jump out of her seat. Poised, her knees began bouncing her bags and things as she tried to sit still, anxiously wondering when I would move out of my seat, so she could pass me.

Blondie sat up stiff and straight in her seat and was like a sentinel scrutinizing each person that was ahead of us, calculating and mentally pushing the lit elevator button. I could almost hear her mind pushing, "Come on everybody, move."

Meanwhile, I sat still and steady through the ride and slow inching into the station. The only things moving for me were my thumb composing this post and my eyes shifting occasionally to my left to catch a glimpse of what this lady was doing now.

A few minutes later, while I was walking down Park, a barely twenty-something version of Nelly stepped up to the curb next to me.

Taking the green light, she strode ahead of me and I noticed she wore practically the same exact outfit as the thorn who was at my side just ten minutes earlier: a short leather jacket, a cotton tee that hung past the dangling waist straps of her jacket and lithely covered her ass, tight black jeans, and the same ankle high leather boots. It was probably the same outfit that they both saw in last month's edition of whatever-fashion-magazine this girl was carrying. 

The only difference were the models and how they wore their retro 80s outfit: the one without crow feet was a natural brunette, who wore her hair up in a sloppy  bun and her boots untied, with tongue and laces dangling wild and free; her jacket was also unzipped and she seemed genuinely unconcerned about anything.

Perhaps, there is no good and positive or valid point with my scathing observation. All I really know was that I was annoyed, and writing about her simply makes me feel some sort of visceral redemption.

Perhaps, it is really I who needs to take a chill pill. 

Tranquilo, Lorenzo

Ep. 35: The man who has everything, has Nothing to complain about

At least, I have Milo - who makes me smile every time he calls me "Papa"

Friday, May 17

I woke up this morning hoping it was Saturday. Alas, or rather, thank God, it's Friday. I'm confused.

By 6:40 the haze had lifted and I was in the shower scrubbing, soaking, simply trying to wash away my earlier disappointment, so that I may readily embrace responsibility.

As I've told my colleagues a couple of times this week, I may be disappointed by how my work morphs into a homogeneous blah of boringness after all the edits, rewrites and approvals, but, at least, I have a job, and moreover, it's a job I love to do.

So, at least, I have a warm bed to pull away from; at least, I have a beautiful home, Dominguez Manor ; ), which I can home to and call my own; at least, I have a great bunch of boys that I am looking forward to playing basketball and watching Iron Man III with this weekend; at least, I have a little baby boy who looks up to me, scoots to meet me upon my return home and makes me smile with every garbled "Papa"; at least, I have a beautiful wife who I am deeply in love with and who is carrying our little princess, Olivia; at least, the sun still shines every morning I have to get out of bed to go to work.

At least, I'm alive and well and can write, because I love to write.

Okay, I feel better now.

Caffeine is kicking in, the two guys incessantly chatting about their boring lives have faded with the focus upon this composition, and we're almost at Grand Central Station, spoke-and-hub for the greatest city in the world.

I have really have nothing to complain about.

At least, I have this gorgeous view on my commute home

Ep 34: Splurge a little; purge a lot

Sometimes, you've just got to splurge to purge.

Thursday, May 16

Once, maybe twice, a week I relent my quest for purity and get a Goose Island Honker's Ale before boarding the 5:32 train home.

It is a small indulgence that eases me into the ride northward bound, one that costs me a little less than four bills and a willingness to concede to a catnap if I have to.

That said, for the last 34 years I've often beat myself up over the long term costs of this, mostly, innocuous inebriation.

Beleaguered by the guilt of not being more willing and able to give up this poison for a longer, healthier life, I simply mediate with binges of abstinence. The usual attempt at detoxification lasts no longer than three days; most of the time these desperate measures are the result of a bout with a stomach virus, food poisoning or a very rare hangover.

Alas, on average, every couple of years I must endure these nights of terror; of bone-gnawing chills, body aches, gut-wrenching, and incessant expulsion of bodily fluids, all usually coupled by a few hours of fever, than a flood of perspiration.

Hence the vows of "never again" and over-confident pledges of purity. Needless to say, this renewed commitment does not last very long.

I think I know why.

Sipping the last quarter of my beer as we rolled past Morris Heights my contemplation led to the same elucidation that compels me to jump off the wagon over and over again.

Life would simply be too frickin boring and intolerable if it were all about always doing what is seemingly best for you.

Because it is not always best for you.

An occasional indulgence in what's bad for you, can be good for you in the long run. The benefits run the gamut of stress relief, loss of inhibition, expression of emotion, a willingness to talk with strangers, self-satisfaction, unfettered glee, genuine happiness and the compulsion to live and enjoy the moment.

Granted, drugs and alcohol and other vices are not prerequisites for experiencing this menu of benefits, but they sure as hell often help. Especially if you're a stressed out father four-cum-five, corporate drone, manor-owner, hour-long commuter, middle-aged, only somewhat-accomplished and always-yearning to-accomplish-more guy like me.

So go ahead, indulge. I'm giving you permission - live a little , as they say. You just don't know when it will all catch up to you. So, you might as well enjoy it while you can.

Ep 33: The Merry Mexican; we must all bow before the light

Who came first? Our culture o Cantinflas?

Monday, May 13

Last night, for our Mother's Day dinner, we sat below a large portrait of "Cantinflas", Mexico's all-time greatest comedian.

Film star of the forties, fifties and sixties, he is a legend through most of Latin America. His filmography spans six decades, from 1936 until 1982.

As I was trying to explain to Sidney, he is as funny as Jim Carrey and Will Ferril combined. In truth, his genius is more like a combination of Jerry Lewis's antics, Robin William's wit, the verbal dexterity of Matt Damon, and the linguistic innovation of Shakespeare. Charlie Chaplin once commented that he was the best comedian alive.

His unique manner of talking is known as Cantinflada and during his heyday it was not uncommon for Spanish speakers to say "¡Estás cantiflando!" whenever someone became hard to understand in conversation. La Real Academia Española officially included the verb, cantinflear, cantinflas y cantinflada in its dictionary in 1992.

Born Mario Alfonso Fortino Moreno Reyes in 1911 in Mexico City, Cantinflas was a champion of the working class and impoverished both on and off the screen thorough his political and charitable deeds. His talent and good deeds ultimately made him a folk hero throughout Mexico and for several generations.

In 1993, after his death from lung cancer, thousands appeared on the rainy day for his funeral in Mexico City. The ceremony was a national event, lasting three days. In the US, he is honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

In essence, as I ate my chile rellono smothered in mole, I realized that Cantinflas is the epitome of "The Merry Mexican," who accepts the harshness of life with a grain of salt, adds a squeeze of limón y chile to make it flavorful and is more than happy to laugh at himself, especially if he can simultaneously make fun of others who take themselves too seriously.

The epiphany got me wondering, "Who came first? Cantinflas or our cultural reputation for eternal cheerfulness?"

I'm apt to believe that Mr. Moreno merely embodied and projected the gnawed-up apple core of our culture; much like Vicente "Chente" Fernandez, Mexico's greatest living singer has interpreted the sappier side of how we handle life and it's endless bounty of little glories and it's occasional gush of lovelorn tragedy.

I also like to think that in my own small and somewhat-humble way, I too manifest my heritage with my optimism in spite of other's obstacles; a youthful wit that admittedly lies dormant beneath 14 years of angst-ridden and impatient parenting; the counter-corporate funny fotos of my family that I have hanging in my office; and my humility in the light of life...

...for, in the end, we must all bow before the light.

Some of the counter-corporate fotos of my family
that I have up in my office that show that
I am indeed a merry Mexican...

Ep 32: Running down Requa; the wrong side of the mountain

God bless America! We're slated to hit 77 in NYC today.

Friday, May 10

Running down Requa I caught a glimpse of the majestic mist hanging over the Hudson.

I wanted to soak it in, but I was running, late for the train.

My lament lasted only a few minutes because five minutes after our first stop the entire river was swallowed up by a magical blanket of fog and for a moment it felt like we were either on a vintage amusement park ride or in some scene from the Shanghai Express.

Alas, there was no Marlene nor any exciting episodes with Chinese warlords, and the thrill promptly ended once we rolled into Croton-Harmon.

Speaking too soon, we slipped back under cover as soon as we left the last stop before Grand Central and the dissipating heat of flanking thoroughfares fueled by exhaust and anxiety.

The beauty of the blur lasted for many miles, past the veiled prison-town of Ossining (i.e. home to Sing Sing), past the legendary Sleepy Hollow and its headless henchman, and past the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge*, until we came into the clear between the Palisades and Croton-on-the-Hudson.

Once we sunk into the Bronx and then Harlem all hope was lost; the swaths of red brick and pale concrete reminded me that my joy ride was over.

Back to work, back to worrying about mediating teenage angst and self-interest with parental duty and the bigger picture; back to banging my head against the wall of ex-spousal indifferences; back to the aggravating concern of absent-minded and perilous childcare; back to being the stripped screw at the office; back to being a greying grown-up at the top of the mountain of my life.

The view into nothingness looked good until it cleared; perhaps I'm looking down the wrong side of the mountain.


*Spanning almost three miles it is the longest bridge in the state of New York. It was named for an American Indian tribe from the area called "Tappan"; and zee being the Dutch word for "sea".

It is right to give thanks and praise to pace of the snail;
seen running with me down Requa

Ep 31: Outta Commission ['cause Life is Never Dull]

Every boys' home should have a basketball court.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

The Peekskill Commuter has been quite out of commission lately. With all that's swirling about in my noggin and all the calls to duty, there's virtually no space or time or place to conveniently compose these posts.

Life has been occupied by one task after another: assemble this compost box; now create a basketball court for the boys; pick up and move a 200 lb antique desk dresser into the house by yourself; move all of the furniture out of Dominic's bedroom, for the fourth time in a month, by yourself, so we can paint; take care of the baby; refurbish and refinish another antique armoir; take five minutes to eat some cold ribs, cheese and a beer; buy and set up a bifurcate faucet and garden hose system, so we don't have to drag the 100 foot hose back and forth across the flower bed every night...

A real man's lunch: cold ribs, cheese and beer.

And that's just a sample of the work that's waiting for me a home; don't get me started on the mountains they've got me moving back at the office. Ugh!

As a colleague commented yesterday after I told her about my latest childcare conundrum, "Life is never dull...[for the Peekskill Commuter]."

At least I've got that going for me. : )

PK

Turning another man's tarnished junk, into my treasure.

Ep 30: More like hour by hour

Friday, May 3

Here it is, Friday again.

For me, the realization is not the celebratory TGIF that it used to be.

Rather, it's the scary acknowledgment that yet another week has passed.

More than ever, I fully understand why old people often say "Enjoy them [the kids] while you can..." or simply "Time flies," because before you know it...you're dead. (See Ep. 11, Don't Blink!, April 3, 2013)

I used to believe that a positive twist on the inevitable - time does fly, but don't forget you're the pilot - could counter the disconcerting loss of control.

Alas, no longer. Now, at times, it simply feels that will power and the power of positive thinking are powerless against fate.

I am busier, and relatively happier, than ever, but sometimes it feels like I'm Bill Murray in Groundhog Day - I wake up, make coffee and Milo a bottle, take a shower, get dressed, kiss my beautiful wife goodbye, triple check that I have everything I need, run down Requa, and hop on the train. And before I know it I'm waking up at six AM to do it all over again.

This morning a conversation with a colleague who lives one stop north in Garrison, intervened.

We talked about art fairs and fishing licenses and secret keys that opened the gates to virtually private lakes. I responded that such leisures and pleasures might have to wait another season, because after two months I felt I was still busy moving into our new house.

She responded with an understanding smile, "Well I guess you've just got to take it day by day."

"More like hour by hour," I replied, with a tired chuckle.

I'm 45 and if I'm lucky I'll live twice long, it only seems that the next half of the journey will go twice as fast.

Guess, I better buckle that seatbelt.