There is something about the South Grand Island bridge that makes my chest tighten and fear a little for the vehicle I’m driving across. Perhaps it’s the inescapable feeling that it seems like they have never finished building it.

No road sissy I, I’ve taken on the Beltway, I95, the Henry Hudson Parkway and even the 401, going into Toronto, in my father’s car, with him helpless trapped in the car ahead of me (If that doesn’t prove your manhood, I don’t know what will). Maybe it is the see through gate in the driving lane, but tonight it was the repaving project that bore the bridge’s surface raw, exposing every nook, cranny, industrial stapler that may me question the wisdom of my journey.

My initial plan for tonight was simple enough. On the relative spur of the moment, head up to the falls. Avail myself of free parking at the casino and stroll down Old Falls Street for the Hard Rock Cafe Show.

I encountered that fixture of Western New York Summers, the construction induced traffic jam. Where the I90 and the 190 became one traffic was a stand still. Nearly threw in the towel, almost wish I did as I passed through a booth stuck on go, to trek out on to the Bridge. Six lanes of heavy traffic trying to distill itself to two. I look to my left and see some space, which is a good thing as I look to my right and see a semi within inches of my door. The road of the bridge is a collection of mismatched segments designed to make you suck in your breath each time you had the bad fortune to cross a seam.
You reach the Apex where the construction ends and the Civic in front of me rides the break down the entire second half of the Bridge. Your brakes, moron, but are you FRIGGIN KIDDIN ME???

Doesn’t anybody know how to coast anymore.

I was halfway across Grand Island before I was breathing normally again.

Thanksfully, the Hard Rock, Old Falls Street, the Scott Celani Band and the Philharmonic threw a nice block party. That street proved to be a nice impromptu ampitheater. Only sour note was the BPO should have advertised a night of Progressive Rock as the advertised Pink Floyd only amounted to a few songs. As an advertiser myself, I like a little more truth in my advertising, but I really liked the plentiful refreshment vendors.

Nice night, didn’t even mind the bridge on the return

“…with continued dark raging until the morning”

Apparently my landlord never caught the forecast from Al Sleet. In light of the cost of five flourescent light bulbs burning in our parking garage, he went through the expense of putting in three sets of glass block windows in the back to allow for natural light to light up and save expense. Only one small problem with that theory. Night. The windows let in the dark too.

The holiday gave rise to a whole collection of random notes. Bear with me as I clean out a few mental pockets.

I’m fond of joking that my lovely former spouse and I are in the three phases of parenthood: With the youngest, we can still solve the occasional issue with a hug and a kind word. With the lovely middle child, we are the loveable buffoons who occasionally have the money. With the eldest, we are the fucking idiots with the money. And so it goes. Funny what you note and when you note it. We sent the mighty middle child west with her best friend and the friend’s parents on the fourth to spend time in Las Vegas followed by a canyon tour. Being all of 15 (and about to turn 16, as she would want me to add), her mom and I got over our fears of our child two time zones away and went on a charm offensive to get her at peace with the idea. The tragical history tour left last night and about 9 we got a call from chicago. “Did you like the first flight?” “No” was the curt reply. Apparently, she was really jazzed, but we were never going to see that.

I awoke to a text saying “I’m on a monorail.” So, I guess mission accomplished. Considering when her older sister turned 16, she was briefly in a bar with me in Williamsburg and now she is in Vegas. Either, we are either irresponsible or the coolest parents ever. I’ll opt for the latter.

While all this was going on, amazing number one son and I were watching a little tv and decided at the last minute to head down to the Central Wharf downtown to check out the fireworks. Got to say to Buffalo Place, well done. All the parking spots were open and reasonably priced. I slide into a space by the arena at 9:45 and we walked over the bridge to the strains of Lance Diamond turning somebody’s mother out in short order (although Lance may want to consider the turkey burger at Louie's, now what I mean?). The wharf wasn’t overly crowded and we caught a neat little show without working terribly hard. Not going to lie about the appeal of that. Nice half hour of pyrotechnics to cap a day, that sort of lost track of the holiday a little.

A friend of a friend lost his house saturday night and I started Sunday at a funeral for another. A little recentering was in order and Buffalo Place did the trick.

I’ve been paying casual attention to the World Cup and a couple things struck me.

The English soccer team is, as somebody already pointed out, like what Notre Dame is to college football, not nearly as good as advertised but they are there largely due to their own implied right to be there.

It’s not the horns that bother me, it’s the crappy officiating and blatant overacting. Some of the attempts at drawing penalties have been such blatantly bad theater you’d think Leonard Pimpf Garnell was doing play by play. Incredibly, the refs fall for it. I saw a guy get nudged in the chest and he covered his “eyes” in pained hysterics. Get up, jerk.

Not a fan, more of an appreciater, I wish there was a little ambiance for the English major leagues. I remember watching broadcasts on Channel 17 on Sunday mornings that inevitably my Dad and I would mock. If Arsenal got up too much, their fans would start serenading the opposition. Nobody says “You ugly!” like a chemically serene football fan.

It’s nice to see Papa Jakes and Cafe Aroma coming to life as different breeds of sports bars.

The US is out, but they gave it a good run, going deeper than ever before. Since they lost, there have been calls for the head coach, how he should be replaced, yada, yada, yada.

It’s a game, everybody should take a deep breath. It’s okay. The whole idea is to do your best. Isn’t that what we want to teach kids coming up. Shouldn’t we be happy that we made progress and our guys were among the best in the world? That’s a pretty good day’s work in my book. No shame in Ghana snagging one from us on the pitch as next time we see em on the ice, they are so our bitch.

Well, just how you want to start a Monday...

I knew something was off, as I woke this morning feeling pretty good. Pulled out of the driveway with the car filled with a really nice version of "Bartender" by Dave Matthews coming from the cd player. Nice vibe for the short drive into my office.

The local gendarme has taken to parking a car at the exit of Delaware Park for some official reason, I think, mostly to garner some extra change.

I follow rules of the road and pull up at Amherst and Colvin and out of my side mirror see a police car jockeying for position, but it was unclear as to what he was doing. I turn into the park on Colvin and he fires up the lights, looking for me.

"Excellent!"

The kind officer wanted to know if I knew why I was stopped and I honestly couldn't tell him. Apparently, back at Nottingham and the Park's exit, it looked to him like I was on my phone talking.

My phone was resting my pocket, where it wasn't used since Sunday afternoon. After he discovered that, he asked me about hands free devices, told him I don't use any as I don't take calls while I drive.

With that I was free to go, without a ticket. I guess the lack of a ticket was his apology for wasting both of our time, embarrassing me (as my boss drove by during my bust) and of course, being wrong.

Heck of a way to start the day.