Saturday, March 7, 2026
I just received notice that the CCNY Alumni Association is sponsoring a trip to Morocco in October. That permits me to revive my story about Morocco in 2019, actually about leaving Morocco, actually about my luggage leaving Morocco. We departed from Casablanca on a flight codeshared by Air France and Delta, changing planes in Paris.
We arrived in JFK safe and sound except for my big, olive green bag. I reported it missing at the airport and then daily on phone calls to Air France and Delta. Each day for two weeks, I was promised that my bag sitting in Paris would be on the next flight to New York. Meanwhile, I provided an inventory of its contents to the best of my recollection. Although I asked for nothing more than the return of my belongings — a pair of shoes, dirty laundry, a sweatshirt — I was promptly sent a check for $600.
Then, after two weeks, I got a text message from a Delta employee at the Punta Cana International Airport in the Dominican Republic. She was staring at my bag which had been sitting there for days. On her own initiative, she contacted me from the detailed information on my luggage tag. Casablanca-Paris-Punta Cana. The bag got to New York the next day. The laundry was intact, the shoes and some miscellaneous items missing.
. . .
I looked up "tutting" after reading it in a newspaper article about dancing. It's a dance style modeled after the angular moves associated with ancient Egyptians like Steve Martin. That made sort of sense, although I first thought of "tut, tut" as a warning . . .
[Hold on, I just jumped up to answer the phone. It was my daily call from Justin Romano about my non-existent business loan application for $156,000. Justin has replaced a sweet-sounding lady with the same message who had been trying to contact me for weeks. Justin and the lady also had in common a sort of teletransporting; each telephone call came from a different location, such as Hollywood, Florida, Summer Shade, Kentucky and Halethorpe, Maryland. Even when the originating point changed, eerily the amount that I wasn't asking for remained the same. I think that I should change my voicemail greeting: "I'm not in. Just send me the $156,000."] As I was saying, "a warning about bad behavior."
Sunday, March 8, 2026
I pass Bareburger, 2233 Broadway, once a week or more. Outside is a sign promoting its “14-hour smoked pastrami”. So, I’m wondering, how special is that? The more hours the better? How many hours would be too many hours? How am I supposed to know? Is there a secret number Jews are supposed to know?
Monday, March 9, 2026
As I have gotten older, I know more about some things and less about others. Here are a couple of items that challenge me. A male author who is about to publish a Judy Blume biography was told by a female friend “Mark, I love you, but that has to be written by a woman.”
Also, a bride-to-be “who is currently planning a wedding in Italy for next year, posted a video on Instagram in which she described in detail her strict requirements for her bridesmaids, including, in addition to wearing the typical matching dresses and hairstyles, adhering to a pre-wedding diet and not being pregnant.”
Tuesday, March 10, 2026
“[T]he Trump administration has started to loosen restrictions on Russian oil exports in a bid to temper rising gas prices.”
So, Iranians are dying, Israelis are dying, Americans are dying, Lebanese are dying and Russia benefits.
. . .
There was a ray of sunshine tonight, actually several. Sam Fuchs, Navy veteran, joined me at Madison Square Garden to see the Rangers play hockey. We had passes to the Chase Lounge, free food and drinks from a cornerstone of capitalism. The menu tonight was potato salad, sliced brisket sliders, baked mac and cheese and BBQ Brushed Bacon Cheddar Bratwurst with Frizzled Onions. Portions are small, but returns to the buffet are unlimited as is the Diet Pepsi. Best of all, 4-0 Rangers.
Wednesday, March 11, 2026
I went to midtown to make a deposit in my periodontist’s grandchildren’s trust fund. It gave rise to three serendipitous encounters. I stopped for lunch at a Halal cart on Pershing Square for a platter of chicken and mystery meat over rice with salad and a 20 oz. bottle of Coke Zero ($15). I am an equal opportunity eater, after all.
The man serving up the food told me that, until he came from Egypt to America one year ago, he had never seen snow. He still finds it intimidating (Serendipity 1). I sat at a table outdoors and got into conversation with Harrison, a techie working for Bloomberg the company, not the man. He, Harrison not Bloomberg, comes from Seattle and got an engineering degree from USC. He so impressed me that I thought he was from Brooklyn, went to Stuyvesant and CCNY (Serendipity 2).
On the Madison Avenue bus, I met the lovely and charming Pearl S., whom I haven’t seen for years. I was so excited that I got off at the wrong stop (Serendipity 3).
. . .
Madam Honey Darling and I went to the theater tonight to see a preview performance of Death of a Salesman, starring Nathan Lane and Laurie Metcalfe. They both gave excellent performances to a full and enthusiastic audience. Biff and Happy, the two Loman sons, I had a problem with. I’m not sure if I was dissatisfied with the writing, the casting or the performances. In any case, they fell short.
Friday, March 13, 2026
A great big Thank You to Mossad Moshe for bringing our household into the 21st century.
. . .
The Upper West Side’s Power Couple wishes Oakland’s Power Couple Happy Tenth Anniversary.
. . .
Hit the road, Jack?
. . .
In conclusion:
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