After reluctantly accepting some forms of technology, it looks like another of my old school habits will soon be gone. To put this tale into context, I still own one of those tripod cameras with the dark cloak you throw over your head.  OK, maybe not.  But I bought some 35mm film recently, which was pretty easy and inexpensive, but getting it developed…not so much.

The photos for this Discord classic will most likely be the last 35mm photos I take.  When I went back to the drugstore where I bought the film, I was informed they no longer develop film. “But I bought the film here yesterday” I logically pointed out. As if saying this out loud would somehow bring film developing immediately back to the store. The clerk again politely informed me the store no longer developed film. I looked at her as if to say, “but, but, but I bought the film here yesterday.” She looked at me as if to say “you bought your toilet paper here too, but we didn’t follow you home and wipe your ass.”

Realizing I would not get the film developed in the store I bought the film from, I did what any person my age should do, I went on a killing spree.  Actually, on the way home I looked for a Fotomat booth.  Remember them?  Well, there aren’t any.  I went home, put on my reading glasses, opened the phone book, took the receiver off the hook, listened for the dial tone, and rotarily called several places until I found one that still developed film. As it turns out, getting one roll of film developed was more expensive than buying a four pack of film from the first place! So that’s that.  I can no longer fight the film fight. I have several other expenses/bills first, but soon, as much as it pains me to say it, I will be purchasing my first dig-i-tal camera.

I certainly understand the selling points of such a technological monstrosity: Photos can be seen instantly, even quicker than a Polaroid.  You never run out of film or have to change rolls at an inopportune time, and with email, Flickr, Facebook, etc… photos can be shared with many people all over the globe within minutes of taking them—which really came in handy when Zano passed out during his last Vegas trip.  And while those are all good things, I suppose (except the Zano part), it takes away one of my favorite feelings (and a good Carly Simon song) Anticipation. Some of you may be too young to remember what it was like drop off a roll of film, and call the store or Fotomat a few days later to see if your memories were back yet. Pictures may fade a bit but they last forever (assuming you do not lose them), and I do not think waiting a few days for eternal memories is a big deal.

I also had pen pals way back when: Sonja in OR, Barbara in TX, Charlie and Karen in different parts of PA, and some others whose memories have faded like an old photograph. I remember that feeling in my gut as the school day drew to a close, wondering if I would have mail, actual envelopes with stamps and postmarks on them, with handwritten ink notes on paper inside, delivered by a human being. If I had letters, great! If not, something to look forward to for the next day.

When the Zanos visited me Easter weekend I needed someone more mature than Mick to have a conversation with, so I talked with his 11-year old. I am not sure how the topic came up, but I was explaining to her how phones were not always portable, households used to share one phone number (and often one phone), and going further back, several houses on one block used to share a phone and number. She certainly has mastered her father’s blank clueless stare. Then I told her about busy signals and not being able to leave a voice message. She looked at me as if I was reading a fairy tale.

“You are making that up!” she insisted.

When the Zanos and I got separated for a few minutes on the Strip she texted me. When we found each other and I told her I do not have texting, she looked at me in a confused gross amazement. I would describe it as the way a vegan would look during a backstage tour of a butcher shop. Oh, and we did that later in the day.

Oh, and if your phone is so smart, why does it not tell you the text did not go through?

When I set my VCR to tape a show as the Zanos and I went out, she laughed. Excuse me, she LOL’d, or more grammatically correctly, L’dOL (Remember grammar? Whatever happened to grammar?). She has a fleeting memory of VCRs. At least mine is VHS. If you do not know what BETA is, Goggle it (yes, back in my day it was called Goggle).  And try explaining what it was like not being able to tape/record a show to someone born in this millennium.

I still have a cassette player in my car, complete with The Big Chill soundtrack forever embedded in it. Zano points this out every time he visits, usually accompanied by some snide ass remark. Zano’s daughter held the dingy white cassette tape like a museum curator might hold a shard of some 3^rd Dynasty Egyptian pottery. I was going to explain how cassette players are more advanced than eight track players, but you have to choose your battles. Anyone else remember waiting thru five lousy songs to get to the one you really wanted to hear? Back then, it was not a hardship. Anticipation…

I actually have a computer, probably not as advanced as yours, but at least I have one. And one of my favorite sites on the interwebs is The You of Tubes. I have no idea how to put anything on there, nor do I want to. I use it for listening to old songs like Peter Frampton’s Show Me the Way, which I believe is about programming one’s DVR. There were plenty of beautiful women in the 2000s, but I still hold a special place in my heart for Peggy Lipton, Barbara Eden, Farrah Fawcett, Catherine Bach, et al, and their images are all over YouTube. In fact, I dream of Barbra Eden.  If you laughed at that one, you’re officially an old fart.  Two fairly modern songs I recommend people listen to on YouTube, or Ithingies, or PMS players, or whatever gizmos you have—which will be obsolete this time next month—are Tim McGraw’s Back When and Mark Wills’ 19 Somethin’. I also watch a lot of pre 1984 pro-wrestling there, as I much prefer it to the post 1984 product. Why and how the product changed is not Discord material, but trust me, it is like the difference between the PGA and mini golf.

Everything these days is instant this and automatic that. The whole world is all orgasm and no foreplay. While I am certainly pro orgasm, a big part of me still thinks that sucks, but not in a good way.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to my Viewmaster Land of the Lost, reel 3.

I now call Arizona my home, and have for six years.  But, recently, I started to consider to just what I miss and don’t miss about Lawn Guylin’.  To start with, FOOD plays a big part of what I miss. Hell, food plays a big part of what I AM. And I have news for the people of Arizona: just because an establishment has the name ‘New York’ some-fucking-where in the title, does not mean the pizza will taste as such—unless you have the wrong kinda shrooms on that bad boy.

Not until you have ventured into some local “Marios Pizza” will you understand. I also miss what we called pork stores, places where you could go to purchase home-cooked-almost-as-well-as-Momma’s Italian style meat and pastas. A place you could get sausage, or as we called it phonetically, sawzeetch, ravioli, Bracioli (brazshoal). I can smell ‘em now, sawzeetch & peppers, an Italian man’s Viagra. Oh, and real imported Auricchio, a provolone cheese that smells like dirty socks (very hard to come by in AZ—the cheese, not the dirty socks). Farm stands all selling their own home-grown veggies. Making sauce out of those tomatoes deemed too ripe when the season ends (lovingly called ‘Mahoo’). Not to be confused with Mahoo Ahmadinejad, who most days I would like to hurl tomatoes at.

I also miss going to a hot dog vendor and getting real “dirty water dogs”. They would be Sabrett brand hot dogs cooked in the same water all day—with the water eventually getting its aforementioned look. The taste cannot be beat. As with most really good food, you don’t look, you just eat. I miss real pretzels too: hot, soft, big, fresh, and salty as hell. Not the out of a box & into a ‘wave variety. We’re talking bowtie-the-dough and bake it fresh. Real deli, I miss real deli. A different lunch every day, all home style, all great, not having the same meal twice in a month, Deli.  Yep, I miss that shit.

Road construction: Overnight and weekends only! with finish dates religiously adhered to or construction companies faced massive fines for each late day. That seems to be the opposite approach in Arizona.  Are they offered more pay because they’re holding up traffic?

“Ah, look we’ll double the money if you finish this road someday.”

And it beats me why anyone would rather work during the day in 120° heat instead of cool nights. I guess you have to be born here to understand that one. There are a whole host of things like that. When I ask a given question, I get this look—you know, like a dog gives you when it just isn’t gittin’ what you’re a sayin’. Yeah, that look.

I miss the fact that as an Italian-American, I was part of the majority. Here, I am the smallest of minorities. Vee-necked tee shirted guidos, all getting out of matching 90’s Iroc-Z’s, talking with their hands but not necessarily with a need for sign language. Big haired guidettes, sitting in the car, talking to their friends on the cell in a language not heard anywhere else on ‘oit’. The term ‘hayadooin’ being THE mandatory greeting, but definitely not a question, ever.

Driving on L.I. is something everyone from Arizona should be mandated to do prior to receiving a license. This will weed out the people not serious. On NY roads you will find women texting, grooming, drinking coffee, and driving 70 mph better than most Nascar drivers could. They take the term ‘multi tasking’ to a whole ‘nudda level. A line of cars some 40 miles long, on the very misnomered Long Island Expressway, all going to the same place, at the same high rate of speed, all a bumper’s length away from the car in front of them. No one makes a stupid move, no one. They would not last long there. Not one “single vehicle roll-over” to be seen. No one just “loses control” of their car, Evah!

The Hamptons: This is a term most of G’ilanders use derogatorily. Dissing Hamptonites was a favored pastime. The Hamptons are the east’s equivalent to Scottsdale, or Snottsdalians, only WITH brains. I never thought I would ever meet a more plastic, false, self-absorbed group of people in my life.  Sorry, but the Hamptons were dethroned by Scottsdale. As far as snobs go, Hamptonites are the Dalai Lamas to the Scottsdale’s Paris Hiltons.

That about takes care of what I miss. Let me now tell you what I DON’T miss about life on the east coast:

Winter: Snow. Ice. Grey skies for months. Cold rain. Rain so humid and cold your joints seize up at the sight of a dark cloud. It’s the only place on Earth where one can freeze and sweat simultaneously.

Fall: Falling leaves, raking leaves, carting leaves away, anything leaf related, frankly. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I even had to blow leafs.  I feel so dirty.

Lawns: Cutting, feeding, watering, edging, and raking…to summarize, fuck lawns. I like the southwest’s yards full of brightly colored gravel.  When you actually do see a weed, you’re like somehow proud of it…anything that grows green in the desert deserves our praise. 

Having to travel through New York City: Sadly, no matter where on Earth you wanted to go, it was through New York City. Millions of cars, idling, waiting for their turn to “Escape from New York” through one of three ways out. Two tunnels two lanes each under two bodies of water, complete with eight miles of the lovely and talented Manhattan Island between them.  For all of your trouble, you ended up in Joisey. Or, one bridge to Staten Island, the longest single span bridge in the U.S (Verrazano) then on to south Joisey. Or, and my favorite hateful drive, the Cross Bronx Expressway (Satan’s Driveway), 3 lanes and 8 mph all the way to the George Washington Bridge, 3 lanes, 2 miles, 1 hour, $8.00 toll, and finally onto Joisey and freedom.  The only good news about this road is the mufflers and other car parts tended to collect in the pot holes making them slightly less deep and harrowing. Just think of how bad it really is when true freedom means New Jersey.

Paying Property taxes: They are ten times what they are in Arizona. Cops? Yeah, we got lots of them, thousands. As you see one diminish in your rear-view mirror, you see one getting larger as you approach him. You pay dearly for them. Truly the Beverly Hills Cops.

Pinheaded progressive liberals: A lot of whom seem to reside in the northeast. In AZ, I am a pinheaded progressive liberal comparatively. I do not tote a gun, nor do I like the smell of horse shit.  Nor do I have a tea party flag on my property, nor am I a “Premium Member” at billOReilly.com.

In my previous life, I spent almost 30 years working for a Long Island supermarket chain. I have driven the L.I.E. enough to do it blindfolded (and did once on a bet). I have worked in every little town in both Nassau and Suffolk counties. I have worked at the Grand Opening of stores I had to oversee the closure of years later. I have had tug-of-wars with rats over a loaf of bread, and opened stores for which I felt much pride. My mind often goes back to those days and the colorful people I met there. That all being said, I could easily go the rest of my natural born days without ever again seeing the towns of Moriches, Mastic, Ronkonkoma, Bay Shore or Patchogue. And, yes, I even know how to pronounce those names (despite never running into a native American there). The town of Shirley, however, will have a spot in my heart for eternity. That marked the last store I ever worked in (after I got a buyout option of my union contract).  Anyway, as I was leaving the building on that last day, the store manager got on the P.A system and said the following as I walked out the door:

“Attention customers, Elvis has left the building.”

A very misty Crank