BOARD MEETING OR BORED MEETING!

I just returned from the Annual General Meeting of my co-op board. When I finally left after an hour and a half I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There are 95 apartments in my building and on average maybe 20 people show up each year to question the board on a whole range of subjects. I am convinced some of the attendees have prepared questions months in advance. I am also of the persuasion that for some of the folk there this is the first time they have left their apartment since last year's meeting.

I arrived late. Not because I had other things to do or because I had lost track of time. I chose to be late. I knew that the first fifteen minutes were a review of the building's financials which I had been present for in previous years and had almost nodded off on several occasions . This year I knew better. I walked in twenty minutes late and was shocked to see that the evening's entertainment hadn't commenced due to a lack of quorum. In modern English that meant that a certain number of people had to be present in order for the meeting to be legitimate. I have been called many things in the past but never Quorate which as it turned out was another way of describing Quorum. As soon as I walked in to the church hall. a board member looked at me and screamed out " Quorum is here." I looked behind me expecting to see a Mr Quorum. There was no one. I took my seat thinking that I have been called much worse things in the past.

It is amazing the lack of interest in the general operation of the co-operative that all tenants are a shareholder in. Most tenants pay their monthly dues to keep the building running without ever questioning a single board member on how their hard earned money is spent. It really is quite incredible the amount of apathy in New York City. I guess these tenants have faith in those who are involved and those who vote for elected board members every year. This year the Board is uncontested meaning that there are seven empty spaces and seven people running. So much for choice! Even if a candidate gets no votes they still get elected. So really the building I live in operates similar to a Banana Republic. A small powerful group, never properly elected rule over the masses, who don't challenge the leadership as long as their own lives are not affected.

The meeting began. I dozed off immediately before I was awoken by my wife who arrived unfashionably late, forty five minutes after the meeting was supposed to start. She questioned me if I had heard anything that had been discussed or if I had slept through the entire proceedings. I told her my new name of Quorum and that she could call me Quor for short. Janet didn't bite the bait. She seemed to be listening quite attentively to what was being said by the President of the Board. The subject being covered was the cost of the maintenance and real estate taxes. I had no choice but to listen as I was being jabbed in my side every thirty seconds by Janet after the President mentioned each and every increase for the next financial year. The net result was an increase of 7 per cent and my very bruised abdomen. So for me the outcome of the evening's events would be that I would be both financially and physically in pain. One was immediate and one I would feel in a few weeks.

Janet' main reason for attending the meeting was to challenge everything the Board had to say about the A/C units we were required to install in our apartment by the board that do almost everything apart from pump cold air into our rooms. Janet fought hard and argued well and made several points that met with nods and smiles from the general masses. She left the meeting feeling she had accomplished a lot. I attended the meeting to see the full force of all the crazies in our building come to life and propose the most ludicrous things to the board. Its sheer entertainment and worthy of any Broadway comedy script. The floor was opened up to any questions and comments. The list of items of concern raised by the resident lunatics included; the need for a fake orchid in the lobby , hop scotch chalking on the sidewalk in front of the building, what you can and cant do on your balcony, delivery men and their bladder issues and children's bad behavior in the lobby. I couldn't stop laughing. I hadn't spoken the whole evening but in response to all the children bashing from the spinster crew just in front of me, I suggested that the building should immediately expel all badly behaved children and that they should never be allowed back. One spinster started clapping. The meeting ended on that note since they realized that I was mocking the whole process. I can't wait until next year when I bring my kids with.

WHAT'S WITH EASTER? HOLIDAY OR NOT?

Having grown up on foreign shores I am very used to everything coming to a complete standstill on the Easter weekend. In most of Europe , work stops half way through the Thursday and restarts again first thing Tuesday morning. Good Friday there is little open. Easter Sunday; forget about buying anything and Easter Monday shop like crazy because everything is open and on sale. The United Kingdom is the least religious country in the world, yet Easter is observed en mass in a non religious way.

The United States is so religious, that it decides elections. Everyone says God bless this and God bless that. The President can't make a speech without referencing God at least twice. Yet with all this devotion to God it is unclear if Easter is actually a holiday. The banks, normally a great barometer for who works and who doesn't are fully open. The stock market and bond markets are both closed. Shops are open. It is most confusing.

I have to work tomorrow. I will come to work in jeans which in itself is a rarity reserved for those non holiday-holidays. I get a day back for working on Good Friday. I will do little to no work tomorrow. I will listen to music, watch T.V, play video games, speak on the phone and nap at my desk. I have to be present just in case the world blows up. If it does there won't be much I can do about it since anyone who I could trade with will be at home.

Less than two per cent of the United Kingdom attend church services at least twice a month. More than 30 per cent of Americans attend religious services monthly. Even with these statistics weighing heavily in favor of a religious holiday, The United States finds it very hard to make it a National Bank Holiday, forcing most businesses to close. The only religious day off is Christmas day. So millions of would be practicing Christians have to work on Good Friday because of the separation of church and state argument making it near impossible to impose a day off for religious activities. In the United Kingdom this is completely the opposite. Millions are off work for a religious holiday they have never been to church on.

Good Friday in New York is a heaven for those selling fish. New Yorkers of THE faith eat fish in abundance on that day marking the start of the Easter weekend. Many attend midnight mass and non Catholics flock to church on the Sunday celebrating Easter in full with a big family dinner following services. Outside of the U.S.A the average Joe couldn't give a hoot about the religious significance of Easter but milks the holiday so much that they even have the Monday off. Yes that's right. There is such a thing as Easter Monday, a term Americans have probably never heard of. Me, I am still stuck in Passover mode. I have been off work the past two days eating cardboard and other well known digestive blockers. I always work Good Friday. I allow my practicing Christain colleagues to not have to work on their Observant Day. I am not alone. Most of my Jewish friends in NYC are at work tomorrow relieving those who need a day off to celebrate Easter. We co exist so well here in New York. Everyone scratches each others backs. So I end this blog with a great "God bless New York City" for all who live here and take off the non holiday- holiday and those who work to allow the non holiday-holiday celebrations to flourish.

THE FINAL JACKET CHANGE

For the past four weeks the biggest question has been, "when will Rob finally put his ski jacket in storage and revert to a lighter variety of outer clothing?" I played soccer last night in the rain in sub forty degree weather out on Roosevelt Island. I may swap my ski jacket for a large animal hide plus fur soon if the weather doesn't improve.

Pundits everywhere refer to Global Warming and its horrendous affects on the environment. I don't mean to challenge any expert on the subject but following one of the harshest winter's in New York history I am now more convinced about the existence of New York cooling. The climate has a profound influence over people's mood swings. The drearier and colder the weather the more miserable I certainly seem to be. After five months of consistent precipitation I am officially declaring that I am waving a white flag to Mother Nature. I give up. She has won hands down. I have never been so depressed about the weather here as I am right now.

I must openly admit that in the month of April,I have put my Spider Ski jacket away no less than five times already. It is almost a month into Spring and every time we get a day of glorious Spring sunshine, coupled with a gust of warm air from the South, my mood improves and the jacket gets retired. This false hope usually lasts a maximum of 24 hours until depression sinks in again as I reach deep into my closet for the aforementioned jacket. I have had enough. I am declaring war on New York weather. What happened to the four distinctive seasons we all used to cherish here? Springs and Falls were the best but now they seem to have meshed themselves into either a freezing winter and a scorching summer. On behalf of all New Yorkers I give an official warning to all weathermen and women who may read this. If you appear on T.V or radio and announce any more daytime temperatures below 35 degrees for the month of April, I will form a committee whose sole aim would be to banish you from New York City until next Winter.

It seems like I am faced with two choices. I can wear my spring jackets and freeze to death on the way to work or continue to be dressed for the tundra until it finally warms up properly and consistently. Living in New York City used to be so pleasurable because it wasn't too cold and was only too hot for a limited amount of time. Spring and Fall weather more than made up for the discomforts of the occasional extreme cold or hot climate. This is not the case any more. I now fear all weather forecasts. I dread getting up in the morning because I am petrified of precipitation. This may seem strange considering I grew up in one of the rainiest cities in the world but the difference is that this is what is expected when one lives or visits London ; not so New York City.

So here we are in the middle of April. The air conditioning units are being cleaned for use in May, the shoots of Spring tried to peep up out of the soil and say hello back in March but even they needed ski jackets. They couldn't survive the cold nights and so a whole blooming crop went to waste. Of course we will re plant again and again until we get flowers; such is the resilience of all things New York. So I will continue to wear my extra layers of clothing and protect myself until one day I will wake up in a complete sweat as Mr. Summer will arrive sending Mrs. Spring on her way without even giving her a chance to unpack and settle in.

New Yorkers - Nicest People on Earth!

New Yorkers have an awful reputation of being arrogant, unfriendly, and most of all unhelpful. Visitors to many major Metropolises complain about their inhabitants in the same way. Paris certainly doesn't escape criticism and nor does London. New York City is certainly near the top of any list describing how awful the locals are. In my view this couldn't be further from the truth.

I heard an amazing New York City story this weekend that made me not only smile but made me feel extremely proud of the people who live here. I was not a witness to what transpired as I was out of town for the duration of the weekend but I was told of the events first hand by someone who was there and was instrumental in the happy outcome.

A woman from Texas was visiting New York City this past weekend and meeting up with a whole bunch of friends at a classy New York restaurant on Saturday night. It was a reunion of sorts but I am unaware of what the event was. A feast was eaten by this woman and her friends and drinks were flowing. The dinner party disbanded at around 10.45pm and the participants went along their way with many of the visitors returning to their hotel rooms so as to rest before the long journey home the following morning.

A New York City native left a trendy midtown restaurant at around 11.pm, Saturday night . She had been out with a fellow New Yorker for dinner. Her husband was away and she didn't want to stay home with the kids. She hailed a cab on departing the restaurant and headed home. She climbed into the taxi and gave her destination to the driver. She suddenly felt a lump in her rear end. She had sat on something bulky and metallic. It was a camera, that had clearly been left behind by a previous passenger. The question was now what to do with this piece of lost property? The natural thing to have done would have beeen to inform the driver of the lost camera and let him hand it in to the taxi authorities. I have always been a follower of the policy of wash your hands of any potential problem. Not so this woman.

She reached her apartment building and got out of the cab and went inside with the camera and made it her mission to find out to whom it belonged. They was no address or name on the object and so at first glance no easy way of finding out any information relevant to returning the camera to its rightful owner. This lady would not give up. It was a digital camera . There were numerous photos of a large party gathering at a restaurant that were the last photos stored. It was impossible to tell from the photos who the camera belonged to and even if every photo was of the same person what good would that have done? The scrolling continued in a desperate attempt to find something. It was then that she stumbled across a photo of a restaurant check. She used the zoom function so as to first notice how large the check was for; over $3,000 dollars. She then focused on the name of the restaurant which was also on the check and that it was that evening's date on the check, which it was.

She put down the camera and called the restaurant. She asked the employee at the other end of the phone line if anyone had reported a camera missing. The question was answered in the affirmative and a contact number was handed over. First thing Sunday morning a phone call was placed and a message left. Later that afternoon a woman with a strong Texan accent called my wife Janet from The Lone Star State and burst out crying on the phone. She had been celebrating a college reunion in New York. She had taken a whole host of photos of friends she hadn't seen in years because of the distance involved. She thought her camera was lost forever. She couldn't believe someone had gone to such great lengths to retrieve the phone and locate its owner. She ended the conversation so thankful as well as appreciative of how friendly and helpful she had found New Yorkers . What a great story. The camera has since been picked up by a friend of hers in the City and memories of a great night out have been kept intact. I reached two conclusions from this event. A few bad apples may spoil the New York crop but in general New Yorkers are kind, considerate and aim to please and that my wife is a superstar.

A TALL STORY INDEED

It's not often you stumble across a five foot eight, nine year old. Add hockey skates to the equation and the young boy stands almost five foot ten. Put him against a four foot three, eight year old on the ice and it doesn't take much to work out what the result is.

For six months of the year my youngest son Bradley plays ice hockey for the House League at Chelsea Piers. I think he is a Squeak or a Mite or some other minature term describing the under tens hockey teams that assemble every Sunday morning between six a.m and eight a.m for a highly entertaining and somewhat nerve racking competitive match. There is practice for each team either on weekday afternoons or on 'off Sundays' and Bradley's mood for the remainder of the weekend is pretty much determined by the outcome of the game.

The Spring season is a little light on players as there is a direct relationship between an increase in the outside temperature and the reduction in the number of players from Chelsea Piers available for selection. With that in mind, the powers at be invite two other clubs to participate in the Spring league. One team is from Harlem and the other team is from the land Jack visits when he gets off from climbing the beanstalk.

I helped get Bradley ready for his game. I tied his skates nice and tight, the way he likes them. I adjusted his helmet so as to allow his mouth guard to fit properly and so that the protective headgear was properly in place. He was ready to get on the ice when both Bradley and I spotted him. He was wearing the same hockey jersey as the team we were about to play. We both found this a little confusing. He couldn't possibly be....no, there was no way... you've got to be joking ...how can this be? He was playing for the other team. He was a good foot taller than anyone else in his team and then add some more for the distance between the top of his head and the tallest head in our team. I looked at Bradley and assured him that height didn't matter in this game. I told him he was probably a bad skater and not to think of his height advantage at all. That worked wonders as after fifteen minutes the other team were winning 6-1 and the giant had scored five of them.

I am not one to say nothing. Just ask anyone who knows me. I couldn't resist searching out his parents ,who, upon observing them weren't that tall. I slid behind them in the bleachers and opened up with some small talk. " That number 48 is sure having a great game," I chirped, waiting to engage the parents in some truth seeking conversation. I was now in
"fact finding mode." They responded with a polite and somewhat modest ," thank you, our son is doing well today."
" So how old is he then?" I quickly came back with, not one to beat around the bush. I was still sipping my coffee between the dialog and almost choked to death on one fateful slurp, when they replied that he had just turned nine. I just couldn't believe that this kid was nine years old. It bothered me. I did not accuse the parents of lying, far from it, and my next remark was meant to be humorous rather than confrontational but it probably came out wrong. I asked the parents if they carried with them a copy of their son's birth certificate. They completely ignored my comment and wisely carried on watching the massacre unfolding in front of us on the ice.

Without any hope of finding proof of any age embellishment I returned to my seat dejected. Another parent asked me if I had found out the truth and I revealed somewhat sarcastically and in a raised voice so that certain partieS could hear me' that not only was this kid nine years old but that he had just turned nine. I tried to make a joke of the whole incident by announcing that this same nine year old had driven to the game by himself and had parked next to my Volvo. The other parents from Bradley's team were amused and laughed along with or at me. Not so the relatives of the hockey giant. They moved further away from me in protest. I didn't want to make any more fuss and so I resigned myself to the annoying loss for which Bradley and company could do nothing about. After the game when we were all helping our kids get back into civilian clothes I noticed out of the corner of my eye the Giant standing at the concession stand quietly awaiting his turn. I needed one last banter to help me get over the losing hump that I was feeling. I joined the line immediately after him and waited until he placed his order. He chose a bagel, toasted with butter. The server then asked me what I wanted and I replied " I will have 20 of whatever he is eating." I enjoyed my parting verbal jab. It made me feel so much better and so I retreated back to the four footers who were eager to leave after having been mugged on the ice by a teenager and his friends.

CLOTHING STORE LINE-UP

Faced with the choice of having no birthday presents at all and receiving at least some, even though I would be buying them for myself, I wandered down Fifth Avenue in search of something I needed. I am an extremely efficient shopper. I need no help in choosing what I want and can decide within seconds whether or not I will make a purchase in a store almost instantaneously. With this tremendous shopping ability in tow I set about my task.

In all fairness to those who feel the need to buy me something for my annual anniversary commemorating my arrival date in this world, they do persist in pushing me for an answer to the age old question of what I want for my birthday. I am not one who has everything but I am one who needs very little. I don't do gadgets. I usually don't like others buying me clothes even though my wife points out to me constantly that someone should. I love buying my own wine and picking out my own books and music. In essence, I am a birthday present buyer's nightmare. So these days I am told to buy what I want and give it to my wife the day before my birthday so that it gets wrapped and presented to me once again by my kids and wife on my actual birthday. I am worthy of an Oscar nomination based on my surprise and delight in receiving such fantastic gifts and thank the kids profusely for picking them out so dilligently. All of them play along with this charade as they try to convince me of the huge effort they took in finding me these presents.

I walked in and out of three stores in quick succession. The clothing was either way too trendy with lots of bells and whistles on them or they were geared more for the middle aged golfer who always wears pastels and plaid shorts. Not for me! I was looking for shirts I could wear for work and then double up their role at the weekend for use as smart casual ones. I was finding it very difficult to find the aforementioned particular type of shirt. At each store where I thought there was a possibility of finding decent clothing, I was approached by a very helpful sales assistant who tried to point me in the right direction. They always greet you with the coined phrase ," hello sir can I help you?" I always responded." Yes please. I am looking for a couple of shirts. I prefer blue or gray or mauve but not too mauvey or blueish. I don't like dark blue and sky blue doesn't really suit me. The gray can't be really gray. It has to be lighter than gray . Oh and one more thing, these shirts are for work where it is business attire and also for the weekend where I am much more casual." By the time I have finished with my perfect description the sales assistant has usually vanished. I wait for a couple of minutes to see if they will return armed with bundles of choices but instead I normally find them hiding behind pillars or hanging out in the fitting rooms.

With visions of a first present-less birthday my spirits were becoming more and more downtrodden, reflected in my hunched up posture as I ascended Fifth Avenue. I was running out of options. I then stumbled across a store whose window had tons of shirts that fitted my description. I entered through the revolving doors and was immediately met by an employee who asked the usual question. I walked straight passed him, my eyes fixated on the business casual shirts displayed on a shelf a few paces away. I held a few up into the light and then put them against my body to work out the correct sizing. The employee was hovering over me asking me if I needed help in deciding which shirt and what size. I was too excited to pay him any attention whatsoever and instead I scooped up a couple of my soon to be birthday gifts and headed over to check out.

The first question I was asked in trying to pay was, " did anyone help you today?" I replied that someone did indeed hang over me for an extended period. I was asked a whole series of follow up questions. I answered, "no, I don't know his name; no, I don't know what he looks like; no, I don't know what he is wearing and no, I have no idea if he has an accent." The cash register operator was aghast. This had clearly never happened before. She continued to hound me about the missing identity of the sales assistant and wouldn't ring my shirts up. I begged and pleaded to just pay and leave but she then informed me that all the salesman were dependent on commissions. I felt awful. I had to find out who the mystery man was so I demanded a line up.

" What do you mean by a line up sir?" she retorted, looking ever so slightly confused, represented by a downward movement in her eyebrows. After a short consultation with another member of staff it was hastily arranged. Nine friendly, well groomed and eager to earn commission staff duly lined up by the cash register. Each one was dressed in the clothes they sell in the store and no one looked familiar at all. I walked up and down and looked them close in the eyes trying to jog my memory. The truth was I had not had any eye contact with the staff at all since I entered the store. It was hopeless. So I simply said out aloud, " You know who you are . The one who clung to me when I entered the store. I know who you are but I want to see if anyone else is trying to be dishonest." At that moment one person raised his hand. I would never had guessed it was him since he had really spiky hair and was the weirdest looking out of all of them. He had a tattoo on his neck. He had a large crucifix hanging around his neck . He spoke with a rather bad speech impediment. Only a blind brainless buffoon couldn't recognize him.

With this ordeal out of the way I shared the check out counter with three other customers who had waited rather patiently during the line up. I hastily handed my credit card over , signed the slip and grabbed the bag and ran. I was extremely pleased with my two shirts that I would receive the next day for my birthday. I jumped in a waiting taxi and went home. When I walked in to my aprtment, my wife promptly ushered me into the bedroom and asked to see what I had bought so that she could wrap them before teh usual dinner mayhem started. She took the two items out of the bag and removed the flimsy protective paper. She loved the pastel sky blue sweater and dark gray shorts I had bought. After all that I had grabbed the wrong bag. I smiled back agreeing, knowing I would never wear them!

THE WORST PLACE IN NEW YORK TO BE DELAYED

I am not the greatest fan of leaving New York City but when I do I want the process to be as smooth and quick as possible. The recent increase in air traffic over New York City has led to incredible delays at its three airports. The top five delayed airports in the country feature all three of New York's flying hubs . It makes for disaster when traveling to and from this metropolis. The whole process of leaving New York is made that much worse by the lack of facilities at one Gate area at La Guardia Airport that I seem to get stuck at on a monthly basis.

Air travel should be equated with the solitary word 'misery'. Just thinking about flying out of La Guardia gives me bouts of depression. Even if you have enough common sense and arrive ninety minutes before the scheduled take off time, having already printed out the boarding card, checked to see for any delays and packed only hand luggage; the process is still so daunting. The passenger still has to go through security; the luggage needs to be scanned and then they have to wait near the gate ; board the plane and sit strapped in, on the aircraft waiting for a take off spot. Nothing mentioned above is a pleasant experience.

Even the most seasoned travelers struggle with the moving goalposts of Homeland Security regulations. One week something is permissible and the next it is declared capable of bringing down an aircraft and banned completely. An example of this is mouthwash. Up until a few weeks ago small bottles up to 200 ccs were allowed in hand luggage. Last Friday I had my 150 cc bottle confiscated. The amount was changed to 100ccs becuase of increased securtity measures. The Homeland Security officer said I could finish it before I went through security. I replied that my breath was bad, but not that awful. A special search was then reserved for me following my bout of sarcasm. Mouthwash is still allowed on board but only in tiny quantities. I would hate to be a victim of mouthwash terrorism , as fresh breath could clearly cause airplanes to dive out of the sky for reasons no one can explain to me.

I do consider myself an expert in avoiding the luggge scanning machine and body search apparatus. With the exception of mouthwash I never travel with liquids. I buy any provisions I need at my destination. I wear lace-less shoes so that I can slip them on and off. I don't carry any weapons and avoid objects that could be confused with guns, knives or bombs. I refrain from wearing a belt or any jewelery that would ring the bell unnecessarily. I normally breeze through all surveillance machines and providing there isn't a long line in front , it goes quite quickly. There is nothing worse than being stuck behind the passenger who knows nothing about air travel. They usually are carrying enough liquid on them to be classified as a small stream. They have so many sharp objects in their bags that they resemble a traveling dentist. They have a tendency to wear boots with laces that wrap around fifteen clips per boot and take half an hour to remove, per foot, and have no idea about the removal of all metal objects including chewing gum wrappers, coins, pocket knives and rapper type gold chains. Being immediately behind one of these novices can cost an extra fifty minutes of frustration and mental torture.

This brings me nicely to THE "A" GATES at La Guardia. This is the home of Air Canada, Continental and Jet Blue. I think as it starts with the letter A it was the first wing of La Guardia. It is so antiquated that I imagine this part of the terminal was built in 1652 some two hundred years before the invention of air travel. It was updated during the prohibition period because it is impossible to be served any alcohol once through security. I guess the planes that latch themselves to the A Gates get so delayed that the authorities dare not serve alcohol to passengers because they would either get violent in response to all the delays or they have so much drinking time while waiting that the majority of the passengers would pass out before the flight took off.

What is made even worse is that at "Gate A land" the passengers cant even sit down for a meal either. Their are literally no facilities at all for the waiting ticket holder. There is a pretzel making kiosk and a sandwich shop that sells rubbery things Saran wrapped so thick that it is impossible to see what is really inside. The food and drink services are so bad it makes even the die hard New Yorker like me want to get the heck out of town as quickly as possible. Some of my finest experiences in air travel have been at airports where there are plentiful supplies of food and drink and delays and cancellations don't feel that bad because you get to eat drink and be merry with other customers. I honestly believe that spending time at a New York Airport and in particular La Guardia is like receiving a jail sentence. You have to go through strict security controls, there is literally only bread and water available, you spend huge amounts of time inside and if you argue with the authorities the chances of getting out get smaller and smaller.