Thoughts of a Common Man

So, feeling good, living in my own skin, huh? Why do I write such things? As soon as I mention that life is basically livable... ...BAM! I stopped at a stop sign and waited patiently as the line of cars on the Robert Moses Parkway was long. The guy driving the big van behind me didn't actually feel like stopping. When you are operating a vehicle that does not come to a stop when the vehicle in front of you has stopped there will be a loud... ...CRASH. It kind of pisses you off, you know. I got out quick. The guy was out of his vehicle even quicker. "I'm a freaking idiot!" he exclaimed. "I was just going to say that," I said. He pointed to his new shoes. They were shiny brown workboots. "I just bought these yesterday. My foot slipped off the brake and when I went to hit it, I hit the gas." "I hate your new boots," I said. We assessed the damage. There was enough to file a police report. "How do you feel?" he asked. I felt all rig...

As luck might have it, I was listening to Bruce on Sunday morning. You see, I was up early and since no one else gets up with me, except for Melky and Paris, I needed to entertain myself with something after taking them for their ride. We saw a squirrel. Damn, we were fired up. So, I headed to the YMCA. A bunch of fat guys trying to slim down and chase away what will most likely be a lot of suffering as we pay for the sins of our youth. And I had the headphones on, as I attempted to run for the first time since the second knee surgery. I made it a half a lap. I must have looked like a wounded seal. A big one. And Bruce happened to come on, singing of Better Days. My soul checked out missing as I sat listening to the hours and minutes ticking away. As per usual, my mind is often very contemplative on the weekends as I try and assess everything. It felt good to be moving. It felt better to know that we would all be together today for dinner, movies, the NBA Game that Sam wants to watch. ...

This is an actual port-a-lav from an actual jobsite here in lovely Buffalo. There were two reasons why I took the photo: 1). The walls were filled. Usually there are a couple of items on the walls, but this particular shithouse was a true canvas. It appears that a union carpenter and a non-union laborer were really pissed off about one another in regard to how they made their living and evidently, their sexual orientations. 2). Reason #2 was even more pronounced. It was because I actually read something I liked. A man perched on the opening wrote, at eye level: "Every woman is a whore - except your mother - and don't ask your father about her." I had seen said quote before, but I laughed anyway. What goes through the mind of a man to write such stuff on a wall? A couple of years ago I saw my own name on one of the walls: "Cliff is a &*ckHead," was how I was honored. "No he isn't!!" Someone wrote underneath it with a line pointing up. So, I had ...

So, Tim Thomas of the Bruins didn't want to go to the White House to meet Obama. What country does he work in? Oh well. Much like I felt when that nutbag threw the shoe at Dubya, I think the office of the presidency should be honored...no matter if you think the guy in there is dim or not. But this is America where we can make such stands, so I don't hate Thomas for it...it's his call. Howard Stern is going to be on Dancing with the Stars and people cringe about that, but I stand up for my boy Howard. Is he a worse guy than Steven Tyler who abused everything, was arrested a zillion times and treated women horribly? Howard is a proud father who's always stayed clear of trouble. I might even have to watch the show now...at least once. Did you catch the State of the Union? I didn't. I might have liked to have heard the speech, but I hate the format with the standing and the clapping and the love that isn't there. Earlier in the year I finished reading the Stephen K...

Three years ago today...sucked. How do you live broken-hearted? Listen to Bruce. Live the prayer. This is the Land of Hopes and Dreams I'll think of it a lot today. Thanks for writing it Bruce. Land of Hopes and Dreams Grab your ticket and your suitcase Thunder's rolling down the tracks You don't know where you're goin' But you know you won't be back Darlin' if you're weary Lay your head upon my chest We'll take what we can carry And we'll leave the rest Big Wheels rolling through fields Where sunlight streams Meet me in a land of hope and dreams I will provide for you And I'll stand by your side You'll need a good companion for This part of the ride Leave behind your sorrows Let this day be the last Tomorrow there'll be sunshine And all this darkness past Big wheels roll through fields Where sunlight streams Meet me in a land of hope and dreams This train Carries saints and sinners This train Carries losers and winners This train Car...

Back about 25 years ago I worked for a company that was based out of Brooklyn. Some of the guys on the crew were Jersey Shore-like Italian guys with the gold chains and the bada-bing, bada-boom lingo. Everyone's named ended in a vowel. During that summer I went to a 4th of July party sponsored by John Gotti. I may have wrote about it before. I was scared out of my mind at that party. There was a guy in the crew who handled all of our bets on the football games. The Bills were on the verge of being good and I remembered betting ten bucks or so, in a friendly bet with him. "Da' Bills ain't beating da' Bengals," he said. "It's set: Bengals versus 49ers in the bowl. 49ers will win but not cover." "Whatever," I said. And we bet. The Bills lost. The 49ers won the Super Bowl two weeks later. They scored on their last drive to pull it out. They didn't cover the spread. I remember asking bada-bing how he could be so sure. "Lots of money...

That poor kicker with the Ravens. He missed a chip shot field goal that would have tied the game. No matter who you were rooting for, you have to feel for the guy. I guess it goes with the territory, right? You're paid to make 'em and when you miss 'em, people are going to hate you. About 12 years ago the Bills ate up a hundred million in tax money to re-do the stadium. I was there mostly every day for the construction. As the project came to a close the Bills let the workers line up and try to kick a 35-yard field goal. There were 50 of us. We all tried. My attempt was only 23 yards short. 47 other guys missed too. Check the math: Two guys made it. I'd be 34 and a half yards short if I tried to kick it now. Yet the thing about it was that it was certainly embarrassing to miss that kick in front of 49 other guys. They were hooting and hollering as I approached the ball, and laughing and teasing as my kick harmlessly landed on the 20 yard line. It was about then I decide...