Shaken, Not Stirred

I didn’t feel a thing.

Just minutes after I entered the theater in Greenburgh at 1:49 pm for the free Tuesday movie, an earthquake measuring 5.8 on the Richter scale made its way up the Eastern Seaboard from Virginia passed Westchester on its way to Boston and beyond. No one in the theater twitched a muscle.

I didn’t know what hit me, or rather what I missed, until Ellie called a few minutes later. Then my sister-in-law Annette chimed in from Maryland to say they were all right. Then Dan called from Boston. Good thing I keep my phone on vibrate or I would have annoyed my fellow viewers, one of whom fell asleep and was snoring next to me (that’s what happens when the audience is mostly senior citizens and the movie, The Guard, has lots of heavy Irish accents).

I asked Ellie if the quake had damaged any of the exhibits at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To her knowledge it hadn’t.

Amid first reports that some thought the earthquake was another terrorist attack, I couldn’t help but wonder if people thought back to another pristine day 10 years ago...


Service With a Smile: Southwest Airlines has a reputation for cheeky, funny customer service. Among its hall of fame pranks is hiding a flight steward in an overhead luggage bin for an unsuspecting passenger to discover.

Clearview Cinemas is on a customer service campaign. Before every feature, one of the staff greets seated patrons, advising if any assistance is required one merely has to seek out an associate.

Today’s staffer clearly has a future in true customer service. With refreshing honesty he admonished all, tongue firmly stuck in his cheek, not to bring any problems to his attention because he just doesn’t care.


I’m walking around naked. Now, before you get disgusted, or excited, let me assure you I’m not ambulating sans clothing. My nakedness is restricted to my ring fingers which are sadly unadorned for the first time in more than 28 years as I had to take off my wedding bands (that’s plural) because of a skin affliction.

For the first 10 years of our marriage I didn’t wear a wedding ring as the one Gilda and I picked out from my aunt and uncle’s jewelry store was too tight. Since it has a gold braid around it, my Aunt Vicki cautioned trying to stretch it might snap the braid. During one of my trips to Los Angeles 10 years into our marriage, I decided it was worth the gamble. I handed the ring over to Uncle Harry and told him of Aunt Vicki’s fears. He scoffed at the suggestion, stepped away for a few minutes and returned with the ring I have worn continuously day and night, in the shower, in the pool, while asleep or playing sports, for the last 28 years. Thirteen years ago, to commemorate our 25th anniversary, I bought a silver ring at the Camden Town open air market in London.

My hands feels naked. They look naked. I sure hope this skin condition clears up soon.


Follow the Link: The other day I wrote how difficult it is to edit your own copy. It’s unsettling when a computer does it for you, and I’m not talking about spellcheck.

Sunday night a one line note I was sending to a friend included the following: “see the attached file.” Only thing is, I had inserted a link to a Web site instead of attaching a file, a matter of no import to me, but to my computer it was a major transgression. As soon as I hit the Send button, up popped a window admonishing me I had not included an attachment! Did I want to send the email anyway?

Zounds! We live in a truly extraordinary, scary and infuriating age when machines have the capacity to challenge your every move.

I sent the note as written. Another victory for man vs. machine.


Speaking of attachments, I call again on the NY Yankees to sever their link to A.J. Burnett. This past weekend displayed in microcosm the reality facing the boys from the Bronx. Against the Minnesota Twins, a struggling ball club this year, Phil Hughes pitched a two-hitter, Ivan Nova pitched seven shutout innings and Burnett imploded after less than two innings, being debited for giving up seven earned runs! What’s he going to do against a team that hits well?

Don’t read anything into manager Joe Girardi’s strong defense of Burnett’s inept pitching and rude behavior when taken out of the game Saturday. Girardi did what any good executive is supposed to do. Publicly he stood by his man. Privately he must be seething.

Once Freddy Garcia returns from the disabled list and the Yankees no longer need a sixth starter, the only common sense solution is to remove Burnett from the pitching rotation and even give him his walking papers. Yes, it will cost them money, but keeping Burnett could jeopardize their chances of making the post-season. Burnett is a cancer on the team, depleting the relief corps in games he pitches and subsequent contests, plus he puts more pressure on everyone in the field and at bat to be perfect to make up for his imperfections.


Zipping Along: If it happens once it happens several times each day, almost every time I proffer a credit card. The clerk or the machine asks for my ZIP code. It’s a low-tech security control, as if someone who stole my card wouldn’t be able to discover my ZIP code. Some might tell you it’s a marketing tool for the retailer, but the truth is once your card is swiped your address and a whole lot more become bytes in the merchant’s data base.

In California, the Supreme Court earlier this year ruled asking for a Zip code is a violation of state consumer privacy statutes. Retailers who persist in asking for Zip codes could face civil penalties of up to $1,000 per request.

The restriction, for now, applies only in California, but the Golden State often is a bellwether for the rest of the nation.

All Aboard the Bullet Train

Perhaps no iconic aspect of Japanese life has been more shaken by last week’s earthquake and tsunami than the nation’s reliance on a timetable-pure railroad network of local subway service and intra-city bullet trains. As precise as a fine Swiss watch, rail service epitomized the country’s dedication to fine workmanship, reliability and modernity.

During our family visit to Japan in 1991, we traveled several times on the Tokyo subway, but not during rush hour so we avoided being pushed and scrunched by huge paddles into train cars like human sardines. The rides were efficiently comfortable, though at the time we had to count stops as there were no English subtitles identifying any of the stations.

More exciting was our venture on a bullet train between Tokyo and Kyoto, some 300 miles, just 2 hours 30 minutes in transit. By comparison, Amtrak’s high speed Acela train traverses the 225 mile Washington to New York run in 2 hours 48 minutes.

As we were traveling on a busy national holiday, we couldn’t secure first class tickets. Second class meant we wouldn’t have reserved seats. No problem. We couldn’t imagine it would pose a challenge to seasoned New York commuters. As you can suspect, we were dearly wrong.

Our mistake was anticipating the patient Japanese waiting on line would remain calm and orderly once a train pulled next to the platform. We were about 15 people from the front of the line. As soon as the doors at either end of the cars opened bedlam ensued. We were easily pushed aside in the wild dash for seats. We didn’t even make it into the car before the doors shut in our faces. As bullet trains left for Kyoto every 15 minutes, we weren’t too worried about having our timetable messed up. Until it happened a second, and then a third time. Clearly we needed to adopt a more Japanese mentality. Or maybe we just had to show the locals how New Yorkers respond to adversity. We regrouped and planned strategy for the next train.

This time we were stationed closer to the front of the line. Gilda and I locked arms to block the entry, allowing Dan and Ellie (13 and 10, respectively, at the time) to scoot in and secure seats four seats. It worked, to a point.

We found Dan and Ellie in a verbal tug of war over two bench seats with two teenagers acting as an advance party for their family. They didn’t speak any English. We didn’t speak any Japanese. But New York sign language clearly conveyed our message that we were there first to claim the prize. It didn’t hurt our chances that I was bigger than either of the teenagers.

We settled in and waited for the inevitable arrival of their family. To say the parents were disappointed and angry with their scouts would be an understatement. The boys obviously lost face with their parents who rode atop their suitcases in the aisle the whole way to Kyoto.