I wasn’t going to rail about this, but it’s starting to look like a good idea to exercise the demons.

With an unexpected bit of afternoon off thanks to Friday’s snow storm, I set about being a good dad. I scooped up my lovely daughters to take them to get their new glasses. We meandered our way up Elmwood down Amherst St, with an eye to Delaware to better take Delaware Rd out to Sheridan. At 4 on a Friday, this seemed better than hopping on the 90.

Apparently, you cannot make a left turn from Amherst Street on to Delaware Ave from 7AM to 7PM during the week. This is news to me, and apparently the two cars that got busted doing the exact same thing right behind me. I’ve never noticed the now prominent sign alongside the road telling you this about Amherst St. Seeing as it isn’t in the main thoroughfare category of Delaware, Elmwood or Main, I can’t help but wonder why it has that designation.

Given all the people making turns off those streets during morning and evening rush hours, I couldn’t help but wonder if Buffalo’s finest weren’t better spent say working the intersections by Utica. Perhaps they wore, as the demeanor of the gentle fellow who stopped me didn’t scream customer friendly. My kids were in the car, so I led by example, even asking permission to open my glovebox.

Office Krupke was not amused. Seeing how I was guilty, I took the punishment like a grown up (paid the fine this morning, after whining to my mom last night).

Reading the complexities of the back of the ticket makes me think the whole exercise is at the heart of what is leaving New York State emotionally exhausted and morally bankrupt. The fine includes a $20.00 processing fee and a $60 handling fee. I’m pretty sure the machines doing that processing and handling aren’t in need of such upkeep, that by screwing up and ignoring what looks like a recent sign, I actually donated to Pedro Espada‘s pension fund to a degree.

What a world

Had one of our big benefit parties for my office on Thursday night. It seemed to go pretty well. We were all still speaking on Friday, so I guess that is a good sign.

The staging of those things is always a project. We spent all day Thursday getting ready, along with a chunk of Wednesday, so it is a project. This year's was even more of challenge as I took a rare fall (for me) in front of the ex's house on Tuesday night. It was one of those wind knock you out, what did I smack my head against, just how big is the bruise gonna be specials.

Even better in front of the kids, I have a sneaking suspicion number one son saw me go. Couldn't him to admit it.

So with a bruise on my shoulder blade that resembled Italy and one that resembled my pocket knife on well, where my pocket would go, we spent a day and an a half prepping for a the party. It looked fun. I have a tendency to spend those events looking for problems. You get the occasional fun moment, but it is mostly making sure everything is moving.

Seemed to go well. Spent a large part of this weekend sleeping with aided my recovery along with the occasional elixirs, Sleemans, jack, etc

My favorite television program, my can’t miss, never get sick of it show is “Top Gear.” I never miss it, discovered courtesy BBC America a few years ago and have been hooked ever since. The next season of new episodes returns on February 7th and to celebrate that and my birthday on the 8th (although I suspect more likely the former), the producers put out a call for first car stories on the Top Gear website. to tell your tale of automotive woe.

Presenting mine:



Gruesome, isn’t it. That isn’t the exact car. Mine was black and and the black paint job couldn’t cover up for what a bad idea this was. When I picked up the car, the radio was the easiest thing to fix. When I got rid of the car 16 months later, it was the best part of the car. In the intervening months, I believe it was trying to kill me.

Ford had a good thing going with the mustang, but the 70s were not the best of times for that brand. With an alarmingly regularity, various parts of the car daisy-changed their ineffectiveness to rob me of sanity and spare change. While both my judgement and Mustangs in general have righted themselves, I think it took experience for both of us. The car had a thing. It didn’t like Maple Road to get me to my bookstore job, always hitting the red light by UB, all the better for the 4 cylinders of the engine to scream in pain and torture as the car made it up the hill. The patch of ice that sent me for a 100 foot or so skid on Sheridan Drive. The seat that lost its latch while I was driving, while my Mom was in the car. Yes, kids, the days before Carfax were not pretty ones. In between those incidents was a steady display of mechanical revolt, a impressive daisy chain of automotive uprising. I was almost a believer that FORD did at one time stand for FOUND ON ROAD DEAD. At the time, it was a 50/50 split on whether that would be the car or me. Since those days, we’ve both smartened up. The mustang still intrigues me. It looks more like it should, back closer to Carroll Shelby instead of Carroll O’Connor.

In the meantime, my current GM product is sailing along just fine, finally got it some dry pavement to go on here on the ice planet Hoth, and it went like a puppy on a romp in the park. But I think about that car periodically as one of my colleagues at the Zoo has a black mustang (a proper one), a bad idea wrapped in a decent paint job. When a vehicle’s main attribute is looking cool in the windows of Casey’s Nickelodeon (where Talking Leaves is now), that should be a problem.

Lord knows the Mustang thought so.

But not necessarily any wiser....

47 years ago, Monday, the Beatles arrived, I waited until a day later.

Nothing reminds you that it is anything but a milestone when you get notified that the child is throwing up. Instantly, the morning at home coffee tastes slightly like the swill at the office and the delight of the digital greetings generated by Facebook and a few well-meaning bots during the overnight get dampened a little with the reminder that even though I took off, as a parent you are never really off.

So, as I sip the evening’s ale, cleaning out some random notes as I head a little closer to grumpy old man hood.

I, like at lot of hockey fans here, have been following the gossip leading the Buffalo Sabres‘ new owner. Out of the hullabaloo and the questionable practices of recent months, I have an admiration for Lindy Ruff as a stand up guy. He wouldn’t slip any contract extension under the public relations wire. That is a nice show of integrity that combined with Mr. Pegula’s supposed Cup desires might make Buffalo desireable for free agents and guys with Kaberle-like no trade agreements. It does kind of stink to see Rene Robert upset with the club, Don Luce and Craig Ramsay succeeding in other colors, and one of the hottest GM possibilities, Rick Dudley, landing elsewhere.

I’m not really concerned that the national anthem got a little butchered at the Super Bowl. I don’t think it was intentional, stuff does happen. The bloated faux patriotism of reading the Declaration of Independence by football folk past and present seemed rather shallow.

I never been huge fan of the remastering of classic albums. I’ve picked up a few a long the way, but I’m not enough of an audiophile to always pick up on the subtleties. The packaging and production is getting pretty elaborate. When the anniversary remaster of Bruce Springsteen‘s “Darkness on the Edge of Town” was announced. I was really intrigued because there was a lot of there there, so to speak, but not enough to justify the $80 price tag. Well, gift cards are good things as with the aid of amazon largess, only $30 will bring that home to me. Got to buy yourself a present sometimes, ya know.

I’m shocked, shocked I say that Hassan was found guilty. Yes, that is sarcasm dripping off your screen. If anything the local version of “trial of the century” was a nice demonstration on how accused should probably think twice about representing themselves. I am a little relieved that all the media folks can go cover something else.

Go see the Skiffle Minstrels play sometime. Try to have a bad time, you can’t do it, I dare you. You’ll be in a good mood by the end of “All Night Diner.” If you aren’t tapping something at the very least, then I’m pretty sure you need a check up.

You never have to check tire pressure on a warm day, it’s always days like today where the wind is blowing and your gloves are just bloated enough to ensure you got remove ‘em. One of Murphy’s laws that makes me want to smack Murphy with a bag of hammers.

I’ve been checking on the Sabres game while writing this and coverage on the Versus network is still headache inducing, including Tampa-rooting announcers. That just seem wrong on a number of levels.

Yeah, 47…the new 37.

Sure, it stunk getting into work this morning, then I got the reminder about this lovely storm from somebody who had the termerity to not be alive when it hit. 34 years ago today, I got a whiff of capitalism. Neighbors went to Florida two days before and hired me to shovel their driveway while they were away, figuring they’d pay me for a couple of passes. Can you say eight?? My best childhood chum and I went on a record purchasing bender at National Record Mart with our proceeds.

Till that storm, helping my dad with the snow removal largely consisted of staying out of the way while he ran our behemoth of a snow blower. Mom would say “perhaps you should help your dad.” I could sincerely reply “I am” while watching tv. This made sense as the snowblower was a big one and the last thing you needed while running it was somebody else “helping” at one end of the driveway.



This was mammoth snow and the blowing made things impressive until you had to move them. My childhood home had such an odd shape that a roughly eight foot wall formed outside the back door, but left enough of a canal to the garage that we could make it to the garage to access our “Battery of snow-fighting equipment.” It was a rare occurence as usually helping my Dad clear the driveway meant staying out of the line of fire (and usually inside), but I think even my brother was party of the relocation of the driveway campaign.



The winds made it a multiple day chore, but by the time the worst was over, I was an ace snowblower pilot and using that on those Florida bound neighbors, who are still stuck listening to everybody else’s Blizzard tales.

My longtime partner and crime used the almost two weeks off from school on some arctic architectural pursuits, constructing a snow fort still legendary in its expanse, two floors, complete with slide to get from the balcony level down to the mezzanine.

Even the neighborhood bully was impressed