Do You Believe in Miracles? YES!

I have been thinking of that call by a young sports journalist in the 1980 Olympic Games when the United States Men's Hockey Team led by coach Herb Brooks defeated the mighty Soviet Union by the score of 4 to 3. With three seconds left to play an exuberant Al Michaels put to words what the world had just witnessed.

That victory seemed to ignite a sense of hope in America that President Ronald Reagan was able to seize and put an end to the Cold War and the feeling of impending doom we children of the eighties felt hanging over our heads each day.

Recently I have been entrenched in my own feeling of doom. I have chronicled my battle with Crohn's Disease on the blog and the latest chapter will be written this Thursday when I go in for my second ileocolic resection in three years.

So far I have suffered through seven months of sharp pain and withering away. I am now 145 pounds, down from my jolly 200, and find myself singing that catchy Pants on the Ground song made famous on American Idol as my trousers, cinched like a potato sack around my waist, prove gravity right with every step I take.

I am fortunate to have a trusted gastro in Dr. Barry Jaffin who has thrown every treatment available to us to try and curb this latest inflammation: Flagyl, Cipro, Levaquin, Remicade, Entocort, Pentasa and Tylenol 3, but my last CT scan proved the course of this disease to be irreversible and another appointment with my surgeon Dr. Randolph Steinhagen inevitable.

I was hospitalized this June after I showed up to Dr. Jaffin's office for my first Remicade treatment in acute pain. He and Dr. Anthony Weiss wasted no time in sending me to Mt. Sinai despite my stubborn refusal. After all, I had a conference call that afternoon with important clients.

I was admitted through the emergency room, which was packed and I was reminded by the yellow body next to me and the desperation abounding that although I was grinding my teeth in pain, my problem was not the worst. In a panic, I scrambled to clear my schedule that afternoon, which was thwarted by AT&T's lack of service from the ER, but as I could not bear the thought of letting my clients down, I convinced an attending physician to take me to a spot where I might get reception. Unfortunately my Blackberry was still not working, so she agreed to take it outside the building and search for a signal so the e-mails I had written to my clients and colleagues could be sent. She saved the day.

Later that evening, I was wheeled into the CT room and there was a hold-up as a signature was missing from a form. I could hardly stand up at this point, the pain was fierce. They were about ready to roll me back to the ER when suddenly the door opened and Dr. Jaffin appeared out of nowhere and completed the paperwork so the test could proceed and afterward I could be sent to a room where I would spend the next five days.

I left the hospital with a sense of hope that I would not return for a long time. I was confident that I would respond to treatment. I was having a good year at work as a salesman and like a pitcher whose team is depending on him, I did not want to come out of the game.

Turns out the treatments kept me in the game through October and enabled me to see my second six-figure deal of the year close. They allowed me to celebrate my third anniversary with my beautiful wife, Jackie, whose love and support has been overwhelming during this time. Of course, like a prisoner on death row waiting for the mayor to call, I met with Dr. Jaffin once more to see if surgery could be avoided. For us Crohn's folks, we know that surgery can alleviate symptoms, but it cannot cure us. It's frustrating to think I may face another recurrence again and the odds say I will, but I am still fueled with a sense of optimism and have recently become a member of the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America. Perhaps it stems from the many calls from mom (each day) and dad and sister Dee and Aunt Peg and Dom and cousin Kev and colleagues from work and cue the music in the middle of my speech before I thank everyone who has helped me throughout this ordeal.

Although I don't consider myself a religious man, I do have a strong faith in God and His Son and I have prayed daily for a miracle that this Crohn's Disease leave my body and let me be. Maybe after surgery it will. I am not afraid and I know the Lord has listened to me. All the while I have been praying for a miracle, He has been bestowing them upon me.

The Good Outweighs the Bad Fifty-Fifty

The crypt door is about to close
upon my numb yet tingling toes
while the medical bills continue to stack
compounding interest on a chronic attack
as the doctor shakes his head in disbelief
and the loved ones do all they can to hide their grief
the tomb is quiet with time to think
siphoned by new media's boundless ink
we suffer and voice our genuine despair
for whom we don't know, nor do we care
but yearn for life like a wonder drug
bulging on the skin like a greedy bed bug
life feeds off life and ends in death
daring each of us to hold our breath
while the cost of living sings with glee
there ain't no such thing in the world as free
so we come and then we go
leaving others to reap and sew
the same conundrum we all must face
that nothing lasts in this holy place
except this notion that pushes us on
in spite of odds it may all be gone
to tighten our belts and remain thrifty
and hope the good outweighs the bad fifty-fifty.

Life Burns Bright

It begins slow. A few beers at a friend's apartment adorned with Indian skeletons and comfortable couches. Off to a cocktail reception in a cab to midtown. Eat light, drink from Tom Collins glasses while chattering idly about things present and future with old acquaintances. Across the street to a hole-in-the-wall for contrast. Jimmy sitting in the corner playing video poker. Shots and beers, gay conversation and a beautiful woman in a blue dress who has simply had too much. On to another bar for mozzarella sticks and vodka in short glasses. Revelry highlighted by the Mets winning after a rain delay that did not catch you although it did others. And then, alone, you settle the tab and hail a cab. Call the wife while zig-zagging through the financial district across the Brooklyn Bridge where you stop in the corner bar and your neighbor is happy to see you. Then home where your wife fixes you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pours you a tall glass of water to go with your aspirin. The dog is happy to see you and licks your hand and you realize when you look back at your wife that the night is not quite over. Life burns bright and you are intoxicated by its stare.

Nearby a Bar in Buffalo

People laugh when I tell them I would sweat bullets in Buffalo, but they never had a bat the size of a 747 buzz them while they were strumming chords on a stairway landing in the

The Bosche Lofts, Buffalo, NY

main foyer of an old building causing them to drop their guitar with a reverberating bellow and retreat back to their apartment. 


I'd sweat through my t-shirt as the heat seemed to suck the air from the one-time factory that faced Main Street with its back on North Pearl Street a few blocks from Artvoice's office where I secured a summer internship.

My bedroom window faced Main Street and was opened wide letting in the heated arguments between lesbian lovers that would spill out from the bar nearby late at night. I'd lie awake listening and invariably find myself taking sides based on whose case was more convincing. This steady stream of drama piqued my curiosity and I visited the bar one day to take a look. It was daytime and there weren't many patrons. Upon inspection, the bar was no different than any of the other ones in the neighborhood, so I hopped on a stool and ordered a beer. 

Roxy's, Buffalo, NY (1999 - 2014).

Since then, Allentown has undergone significant renovations. The old building at 916 Main Street has been restored with modern lofts and amenities galore. The lesbian bar nearby has been converted to office space. The Artvoice office is now a parking lot, but the old building still haunts me. Perhaps it was the gigantic bat whose sonar locked in on my musical vibrations or the heated arguments on those hot summer nights, but I can still feel the vibrant energy of Allentown pulsating amid the ruins of an abandoned metropolis and I've never picked up my guitar more than I did back then.

Yes Vice President Biden, 'This Is a Big F--king Deal!'

On this day when Health Care Reform was signed into law with two boxes of pens and an unyielding left hand, I received confirmation from my doctor that I have a recurrence of Crohn's Disease at the point of surgery I underwent just over two years ago to remove it. While I am fortunate to have had coverage throughout my life, I shudder to think what may happen if and when I lose it.

To President Obama and the bleeding hearts in Congress, your actions today have done more to preserve freedom for Americans than a thousand wars ever could -- the freedom of the sick to suffer without the added burden of knowing the potential financial liability their illness may have on their loved ones. That's a big fucking deal in my book.

Haunted

Haunted by the misuse of letters
and a generation of bed wetters,
Haunted by our government debtors and casual Super Bowl bettors,
Haunted by the beauty I can not possess and the empty bottles to subdue my stress,
Haunted by the things I can not confess and the image of a devil wearing a blue dress,
Haunted by a disease with no known cure and the politics of business I seldom abhor,
Haunted by the feelings I'm not so sure who it was outside my door,
Haunted by the memory inside my head and the Sunday evenings right before bed,
Haunted by the letters which are still unread
and the dreams deferred that end up dead.

Sinead O'Connor & Shane MacGowan, Holland, 1988

Haiti

Life and love are four-letter words
spreading their wings like soaring birds
Rising high and pristine like a snowy peak
only to fall like a salty tear down a cheek

Happiness comes when we least expect it
and then a tragedy greedily affects it
No one can fathom an explanation
and no one should turn their back on a hungry nation

We are one in our humanity
puzzled by the world's insanity
We must lay down contrived polarity
and help our brothers and sisters in solidarity

Surely where there is death and pain
Life and love will rise again
Even if it's for only a moment
The people of Haiti have always shown it.

Haiti - Food for the Poor by Worship In Action (2014)

BanJO

I want to be the sand between your toes,
the place where nobody goes,
the fragrant aroma in your nose,
your silky hair tied up in bows,

I want to see the smile in your eyes,
be free of goodbyes,
smooth the lotion on your thighs
and shop for bikinis in your size,

I want to be near when the sun goes down and hold you like the straps on your gown before the evening parade around town, as close as I can and not drown,

I want to see the sunrise light your hair, caress your navel to shoulders bare, traipse along your neck with utmost care
and abandon paradise as I'm already there.

Jacqueline Dowling

Wait

Dupont Circle

To begin with nothing
At a quarter-turn the sun shines
The world is filled with promise
to shout so loud the Capitol shakes
and Wall Street trembles as the French sigh
and open another bottle of wine
Haunted by the threat of your every curve
Knowing you're the one God has put on this earth
Half-turn and the melancholy grabs me like a bouncer
Why this ending must be so sad
Why I'm tortured by the things you said to me in a cab
God's great painting springs to life
Joggers take a bench to let their circumlocution run
I am mute
My hands are tied/she got me with/nothing to win ...
Heart bursts again like the finale of Moulin Rouge
And I end as I began with nothing to lose
But this burning desire to be with you
Now and til the end of time.

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

Too Much, Not Enough

Too much time deadening the senses
Too much time patching up old fences
Too much time thinking up sentences

Too much time chasing skirts
Too much time teasing flirts
Too much loneliness always hurts

Too much time not knowing
Too much time not growing
Too much prick, not sewing

Not enough pain from playing
Not enough faith in what I'm saying
Not enough thank you love for staying.

Other poems:

• Confidence
• Haunted
• Hawaiian Surf Princess

Exhausted

Like the noxious fumes from a tailpipe
Soft and brown as a banana that has gone ripe
Piled high as a butcher's bin of beef tripe

Exhausted

As in James Brown's sole (not soul)
As in tenth frame at the Melville Bowl
As in where lies the remote control?

Exhausted

The tipping point where the lung inhales
The easterly breeze puffing out the sails
The veterans who are tough as nails
A sense of humor like Christian Bale's

Exhausted

The river before the rain
The tooth after the pain
The friend who went insane
The life inside the brain

Exhausted

The sun as it rises
The hemline as it rises
The toast as it rises
The buttery world with no surprises

Exhausted.

Everest

Everlast. Ever past my wildest expectations and concept of nausea, with dimples as cavernous as canyons in fresh gelato park side refreshment a testament to the def chef sublime blonde on a Sunday afternoon caisson where a dark white-spot mare won the Preakness with a mouth full of Cheerios and sweetness of a woman who knows how to strain moonshine with pantyhose.

My Obama Story

Fitting that it begins in Hawaii where my wife and I spent our honeymoon island hopping, slurping pineapples thousands of miles away from the hustle and bustle of New York City in a land where whales run and the day is driven by the sun.

After two healthy weeks, we took the red-eye from Kauai to L.A. where our friend Amber picked us up and drove us to her beautiful home where we were able to sleep in her guest room. We woke up and had a casual breakfast with her husband Jess and our mutual friends Allison and Tobin before going to the California Democratic Presidential Debate where Amber's father, the producer of the event, was able to get us past the security and the Hollywood Boulevard shouts of Go Tell Ya Mama/Vote For Obama. Tobin and Allison had made up their mind for Obama, but it was still early -- Hillary was out in front and John Edwards had just dropped out due to his extramarital affair with his hundred-dollar haircut.

Lucky for us the row of seats reserved for the Edward's family became available and we were seated directly behind Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw, a few rows ahead of Brandy and Quentin Tarantino. Across the isle sat Pierce Brosnan, who my wife couldn't stop gawking at until Leonardo DiCaprio showed up and I found myself gawking, too.

Hillary owned the first half, espousing on healthcare and really coming off strong. Obama seemed tenative, but gentlemanly. I recall Wolf Blitzer asking him if Hillary would be on his short-list for potential V.P. candidates and Obama said coolly that Hillary would be on any one's short-list. I recall Wolf saying that would be a dream ticket and while the crowd sent forth its approval, Stevie Wonder got out of his chair and jumped up and down.

In the second half, the question on Iraq came up and this eloquent man put words to the feelings in my heart that I could not. He reminded me of the time when I saw Eric Clapton play at Madison Square Garden. I remember saying something to the effect of he's no God just when he hit a note that sent a shock up my spine and caused me to spill my beer all over my lap. I was transported far beyond the earthly boundaries I've come to know. Barack Obama caused the same reaction and when the debate was over, my mind was made up.

We went across the street to the after party at the Roosevelt Hotel. I had been there a few years before on a random weekday in October and there was only a handful of people by the poolside bar. I imagined what the place must have been like in the days of Gable and Grant. Now I knew. The patio was swarming with people and Topher Grace and Fran Drescher bumped into me while Tobin, Jess and I ordered mixed drinks of Grey Goose and Red Bull. There were passed hors d'oeuvres, but in true L.A. fashion no one ate them.

Toward the end of the event I made a bet with Jess that Obama would win the election. There was no doubt in my mind even though the early returns showed Hillary had won the debate and held a comfortable lead in the polls, but I felt it in my bones, just like I felt the Giants were going to upset the Patriots in Sunday's Super Bowl.

Once the bartenders made last call, Tobin and I ordered a final round and I declared that I was going to dive in the pool. Then I realized the D.J. was playing Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow and I went over to him and said, "Yo, man, you've gotta play an Obama song -- this is a Clinton song!" The D.J. looked at me and said, "What's an Obama song?" I thought for a second and said, "Changes by David Bowie." He switched the record immediately and I slid out of my shoes and handed my blazer to Tobin. I got some good amplitude off the brick patio before plunging below the CNN balloons and out the other side where security was gathering around holding their ear-pieces and pistols and motioning for me to get out of the pool. They thought I was some jackass, but the dive was premeditated upon arrival and fueled by memories of Kauai.

In fact after I made my bet with Jess, I told Dave Chappelle's publicist that I would jump in the pool if Dave Chappelle told me to. I offered to plunge into the big CNN balloon with a butter knife and slide down into the water as an homage to Errol Flynn in The Sea Hawk. She asked me to hold the thought while she checked with Dave. She came back and said, "Dave Chappelle can't officially tell you to jump in the pool, but he did tell me, off the record, he wouldn't mind seeing it happen."

The water was warm and because it was Hollywood, I hammed it up for the crowd with a leisurely backstroke before climbing out of the pool. The lead security guard realized I was no threat and in an unspoken nod he let me address the crowd, so I threw my arms in the air as high I could in a soaked dress shirt and shouted "Obama" in a scratchy voice before being led out to the parking lot.

My wife said she had her back turned when she heard the splash, but knew instinctively that it was me and was able to track me down by my soggy footprints. When she saw me in the parking lot, she belted out, "There's my shame!".

I had asked the guards for towels and they said there weren't any available. I found that odd as we were standing by a pool outside a hotel. Then I dropped the name of the party's host and was instantly given a stack of plush towels. Ah, L.A. Tobin appeared shortly thereafter with my shoes and blazer and we all piled in a cab that was waiting for us with its heat cranked up.

The next morning we went for brunch at Barney's Beanery and there was a valley girl at the table behind us recounting a fabulous party she had been to at the Roosevelt the night before. I was ready to cringe at the mention of someone going in the pool, but luckily it didn't come up.

Jackie and I returned home late Saturday and, of course, the very next day the Giants pulled off the impossible by beating the Patriots. When the last second ticked off the clock, I ran out on 14th Street in Brooklyn and took off my shirt as if I was still in Hawaii running into the surf at Kaanapali before kissing the ground. Much like Obama, I bet heavy on the Giants, too.

Shea Stadium: Twist And Shout

As the Mets look to open their new season in a new park, I look back on the old one.

Shea Stadium was home to many memories for many people including my very first game, a 4-0 loss to the Astros behind a complete game from Nolan Ryan. I went to the game with my father, my best friend and his father. Our memories of the game are hazy, but the disappointment of the loss lingers and in many ways brings us together as Mets fans. The game was played on Tuesday, Aug. 31, 1982 and I was eight-years-old.

Some 26 years later I would see my last game at Shea. Fittingly, it was a 9-5 loss against the Cubs. David Wright homered for the 33rd time that season and Kerry Wood recorded his 33rd save.

While I feel like I sat in every section of the park, my first game's seat was at field level behind first base and my last game's seat was a bench in the picnic area.

The tearing down of the old to make way for the new is nothing unusual for baseball. This year the famous House That Ruth Built will move in the shadow of its predecessor and that of the Polo Grounds and the kids will line up outside McDonald's not far from where Jackie Robinson made history in Brooklyn, but the memories will some how remain enshrined in the hearts of millions of fans, some broken, some hopeful, some ready to love again.