Rauf and Emory: A Queens Love Story

 

In Queens, you can EAT a goat, MEET a goat and BEAT a goat, all in one day!

 

Back when I and the future Mrs. worked in Manhattan, we both shared a one room apartment in a subdivided home in Astoria Queen.

Our landlords, Rauf and Emory, were a young couple who owned the home and lived on the second floor. Rauf was a jail guard working down the street at Riker’s Island. Emory was several months pregnant and planned on being a stay home Mother. My only interaction with them was exchanging pleasantries when I paid the rent.

I enjoyed our time on 145th St, considering it a major upgrade from our former apartment, a third-floor walkup in Flushing’s Korea town. The Flushing apartment was modern and less expensive, but our digs in Little Athens offered three things not available in Flushing: fewer cockroaches, dead goats in every store front window and a shorter commute.

That first year flew by. Emory had her baby (a girl), the Mets won the World Series and I had landed a higher paying gig in Westchester. For a while I commuted by car from Astoria to Westchester while the future Mrs. continued to ride the subway into Manhattan, but we both knew we had to move.

We found a great place in Harrison, NY. A bottom floor of a newly constructed two family home within walking distance of the train station. We had so little back then, packing the car with all of our belongings. We determined we would leave Astoria that Friday evening after work.

I still remember climbing the stairs that night to Rauf & Emory’s apartment, needing to turn in my keys. Rauf as usual answered the door. He called for Emory to bring the baby and to come and say goodbye.

I spoke first. “Rauf, Emory, we really enjoyed our time here. You both were great landlords and we’ll miss and the baby.”

Rauf then spoke. “Rauf?” …Emory? My name is Ralph and her name is Ann Marie.” I do miss them both but not their Queens accent.

Should Spitzer Swallow His Words?

I had a good laugh today while watching CNN. A promo played for a new show “Parker Spitzer,” that features, surprisingly, Kathleen Parker and Eliot Spitzer. Please girlfriend, who is in their marketing department?

The promo voice over goes Spitzer: “we couldn’t be too different people, I am from the Bronx and she is from South Carolina.” I almost choked on the Spitzer statement.

True, Mr. Spitzer is geographically from the Bronx, but not that image of the Bronx that most people outside of the New York Metro area think of. Myself originally being from the Finger Lakes Region of New York State, my image of the Bronx is what I saw in the movies, “Escape from NY”, “The Warriors” and Charles Bronson in “Death Wish.” Burned out and decaying buildings of the 16th Congressional ward or the area surrounding Yankee Stadium.

Even for metro New Yorkers, their image of the Bronx is that of dilapidated buildings that they see from either the Metro North or Amtrak train car before it enters the tunnel to Grand Central Station.

Unbeknown by many, the Bronx has several exclusive areas, the most tony:Riverdale, birthplace of said ex-governor. Riverdale is geographically barely in the Bronx, situated in its north-west sector boarding Westchester County and the Hudson River.

According to the 2000 census Non-Blacks (census term, meaning WHITES) account for 92.5% of Riverdale’s population. Franklin, New York’s most remote northern county has more “Non Whites” (meaning African Americans) than Riverdale “The Bronx” does.

The community of Riverdale is highlighted in red.

Mr. Spitzer claiming he is from “The Bronx” is only geographically accurate. Myself having once charged a young lady a quarter for a kiss, does that then give me the right to call myself a “prostitute?”

Post Script: Prior to Spitzer becoming NYS Gov.,in the Kingston, NY local Wal-Mart, I met Eliot Spitzer. The Spitzer’s have a weekend house, or as they say in the “ci-tay” a country home across the river from Kingston in the Kinderhook area.

Mr. Spitzer was purchasing tennis balls and some rather ugly Fruit of the Loom “under garments” (c’mon the guy is worth $500M, shouldn’t he be wearing Brooks Brother’s Brand underwear? If I were worth $500M, I would be wearing “Mr Brooks Brother’s himself’s” underwear), while his Wife was across the parking lot in Michael’s getting, and I quote “Halloween crap.”

Mr. Spitzer and myself were in the same checkout lane and (1) it being Walmart and (2) it being Friday evening both settled in for a lengthy conversation. (This passage is entirely true):

ME: “where are you from?”
HIM:“The Bronx.”
ME: “Where in the Bronx?”
HIM: “Riverside.”
I replied laughing: “Oh please, you might have well just said Bronxville or Scarsdale.”
He replied, also laughing: “well, you’re right, you caught me.”

I never said that the man was dishonest…and that reason that he resigned his governorship, c’mon it’s like me farting in an empty church, it only affects me, it’s not like he’s Charlie Rangel…

Post Post Script: In 2005 when I became non Bi-Pedal, I learned from the staff of Helen Hayes Hospital, where I underwent my rehab, that Eliot’s brother Daniel is a prominent New York Neurosurgeon, having operated on several of the patients in my wing.

Daniel is also remembered for his quote during Eliot’s prostitution mess, from the Wall Street Journal: “If men never succumbed to the attractions of women, then the human species would have died out a long time ago.” I guess that statement then makes Daniel, Charles Darwin?

30th Reunion

I haven’t until now been able to collect my thoughts and write a Facebook message after the 30th Canandaigua Academy Class reunion. As I anticipated, I cried the entire way home, as my Wife drove and I scheduled the online banking payments for two fall tuitions as well as locating and paying for textbooks on Amazon.

All of you have changed in my eyes. Why did everyone get so tall all of a sudden? For the ladies that felt that I was staring at your chests, I’m sorry, I wasn’t. For me, that’s called “eye level” now. So do you see I do find the positives in a bad situation?

For those of you who believed my pre-reunion post, that my Wife was a Russian Mail Order Bride and that you couldn’t understand her that was an obvious lie. But what’s the difference, I can’t understand her anyway or what woman for that matter.

I missed some of you who couldn’t make it. Mike Falk, what the Falk? Chris Baker, was there a Rush concert that night? David Spanagel, the Doctor didn’t let you out for the evening? Mark Hogan (I wanted to taunt him, now that I don’t need new shoes). Tom Crawford, c’mon quarterly filings, what a lame excuse. Doug Bolger, anybody? Doug Bolger? And for the second consecutive reunion where the hell was Phil Petti?

Take-aways from the reunion:

-Yes I do have the hots for John Scharr, that’s why we’re always together. Did you see he pushed my wheelchair in for me?
-Jeff Haag, c’mon you’re bigger than them, time to kick their butts
-Barb Radak, wow she is actually a nice person and a looker. Who knew?
-Jeff Wolfanger thanks for the blasts.
-Steve Steinberger, c’mon you promised to dump me out of my chair.
-Randy Mabie, thanks for not coming, it would have been hard not to look at your junk all evening.
-Can we no longer call Fuzz, Fuzz?
– I still can’t keep the Brown’s apart, but one of them does have a purty mouth
-Deb Como, you are right, he is hot.
-Liz, Shawn, Ladies, cross-dressers (did I leave anyone out?) thanks for organizing it.

I did not want to comment on the ladies in our class (with the exception of Barb Radak above), because that would be a far too long, far too complicated and most likely a far too vulgar posting. I’m sure over the course of the remainder of this year this will seep out of my head and it’s onto my keyboard. I must tell you that it is a dangerous area to enter with most of us in relationships, and some with farm animals.

I was however happy to see Winnie Cooper, still looking the same as she did 30 years ago. I’m sorry that our bond today is Wheelchairs.

One truth be told from all this. My thirty years later reference in the Cannon had me as a gynecologist. CLOSE, very CLOSE. My neighbor (Dr Andrew *******) is gynecologist AND the only one in town. Try being my Wife and two Daughters.

Yours Truly, Douglas T. Neidermeyer

No pain in my A** Epidural Day

I wanted to start this blog on a day that was hopefully a big event in my life. Today I am getting an Epidural. The purpose of the Epidural is to hopefully lessen or eliminate the pain provided by my T8 paraplegia. (I’ll circle back later in my blog and cover the incident that made me a paraplegic.), but first the Epidural.

I had been complaining to my Spinal Cord Physician, Dr Inocencia Carrano, (I call her Dr. C) that my two painkillers were losing their effectiveness, and I needed to up either of my dosages in order to function.

I define “not to function” as that physical and mental state where I can not think of anything other than the pain. It’s a fairly broad definition, but think about it, if you’re in pain it’s difficult to think of anything other than the pain you’re in.

Hospitals are now attempting to measure or quantify your pain by asking “…on a scale from 1 to 10, what number would you say your pain is?…” What number would you assign “it f*ckin hurts” to?

The procedure will be performed at my physician’s office in Middletown, NY. My Wife and I arrive promptly at 10:30 a.m. and I wheel into the procedure room.

Problem #1, the table is approximately one foot higher than my wheelchair. I can elevate myself out of the chair, but not that high. Two of the male Doctors and a nurse lift me out of the chair and onto the table face down, right onto Problem #2.

Problem #2 can be a whole other chapter, I am wearing a “Holter.” No, not a cross-dressing halter, I said hOlter A medical holter is a series of electrodes and wires connected to a silver box the size of an IPhone. Not unlike an IPhone, the holter is used to record your heart beat and rhythm to a recording device for a 24 hour period.

It’s not the fact that I’m wearing a holter that is a problem, actually it is. I’m lying face down on eight bulking electrodes. They are bulking and they are cold, and boy do I feel them. However, I am soon distracted by the discomfort of the holter by the beginning of the Epidural.

Going into this, I thought an Epidural was similar to a Spinal Tap. I am familiar to a Spinal Tap since I had two when I was sophomore in high school. I was wrong. An Epidural is not a long needle that goes up your spine; rather it’s a needle that’s plunged in to your “whale tail or “anal taint” region. (…”it ain’t yur butt hole..’ thus anal taint) of your back side. Fringe benefit of my paralysis, I don’t feel the needle going in or coming out.

Five minutes after the first needle was plunged I was done. Would I now feel a true by-product of being a T8 paraplegic? Would I now have no feeling from the belly-button down?

Truth in advertising: being a T8 paraplegic does NOT mean you have no feeling from that point down. I have feeling, it’s what the Doctors call neuropathic pain. It’s what I call the “phantom pain.”

Even though I could have one of my legs hacked off by a black bear with a hatchet (quite prevalent in my neck of the woods) I would feel no pain. Some time later, after my stump has healed up, I would develop a throbbing pain in BOTH legs.

No explanation for it.

…more later.