Spare Parts

There is something serene, yet overwhelming about the closing of another year. As the last few days of 2008 come to an end - the hours of another year dwindle - we are brought again to beginnings, from which we hope to gain new opportunities to do better by others and ourselves. Aside from the 12 grapes and the yellow underwear - silly traditions that have somehow followed me throughout the years - we have the importance of taking stock in all we did, or did not do in the ending year and hoping for more strength of character with which to improve in the coming year. We have just come down from the whirlwind of Thanksgiving gatherings and Christmas festivities, finding that the ride was overrated and the destination somehow without substance. At some point, it all becomes a blur to us of mindless activity not fit for memory making. In its repetitive series of actions that culminate in similar reactions of gift giving and getting without meaning behind it, I find something lacks, but not...

For my first year of high school I, along with several of my friends from junior high, went to the High School of Fashion Industries in Manhattan. It was a far cry from our small, former school on the tree-lined streets of tiny Jackson Heights. Perhaps it was our adventurous spirits that led in that direction; forgoing our so-called "zoned schools", for a place that was out of our immediate atmosphere. Perhaps it was the word fashion in the school's name. Whatever it was, we went there with hopes and aspirations that seemed so possible at the time, but only exist in the briefest of moments in the open field of the adolescence's mind. Fashion was a selective school, meaning that you couldn't get in simply because you lived in the neighborhood. You had to either apply on the merchandise end of it, or on the art side of the school's requirements. I knew how to draw and I enjoyed doing it, so I applied on the art side. For weeks before my entrance exam and...

Here's the thing: I honestly did not think I would enjoy an entire stage musical of 80s hair band songs. I mean, seriously, how good could this possibly be? But oh, how wrong I was! Today, despite the ice cold, post snow-day weather, Joe and I headed into Manhattan for what was one of his early Christmas gifts from yours truly. If you know Joe, you know that he isn't one to get excited about plays or musicals. Rock concerts and wrestling events, yes, but theater? Never! That's my caveman!! However, since he first read about the upcoming musical, "Rock of Ages," his interest in seeing it grew. So, as a gift, I got two tickets to this new Off Broadway musical about a bar in the late 1980s on the Sunset Strip in California. The 'plot' brings the snickers and giggles even now. I will admit that I grumbled at having to trek into the City on a day when I didn't have to, so I could do something I didn't want to do. I complained that, unlike our yearly...

On Friday, when I returned in the early evening from a bit of shopping, I noticed that water was puddling heavily along Lincoln Blvd., which feeds into our street and is the only way to get to our house. Of additional concern was that the water, seen dark and thick in the beams of light from the front of my car, was moving rapidly from right to left. River water! It's as if I said a curse aloud! All of the bells, alarms and whistles went off in my head. This is not a good thing! I mentioned my concerns to Joe, when I walked in the house. But, as anyone who has ever lived in a flood zone can tell you, most of the time with such minor flooding, you tend to discard the warnings with a mere shrug of your shoulders. However, later that night, as I ambled about the place with a flicker of worry in the back of my mind, the telephone rang. I looked up at the television screen and saw the 973-number, followed by the words "Lincoln Park" and "Main" mingling with othe...

**Disclaimer** The following entry is not, in any way inclusive of everyone I work with. Most folks are great and dandy and I enjoy working with them. For the others...you know who you are!*** Today is my company’s holiday luncheon. Outside it is absolutely dreadful! Cold and rainy with darkening clouds and an overall depressing feel to the day. It is making it an unhappy commute for everyone, not to mention a more likely than not, late arrival of the caterers who will be dragging in the office party food and beverages. To say that the weather is putting a damper on things is by no means a way to inject a pun herewith, but to state a fact. Not one person whom I have seen step into work today has looked anything short of miserable. My, what a festive bunch we all are! To be honest, I could not give a rat’s ass about this gathering. For starters, it’s a huge snooze-fest. Employees spend the better part of the afternoon grazing like cows around the food-laden tables. Most grab their foo...

Every evening, when I board my bus home, I notice a trend that is not one to be proud of. I notice that exhaustion is a new way of life for the working poor and the vanishing middle class. Each evening, I watch and wait, along with the countless other work weary riders, on lines to rival a good day at Great Adventure. Except that at New York City’s Port Authority, a line is never a good thing and there is almost never a good day.There will be no thrill ride at the end of this line. Exasperated and exhausted we stand. Some are reading books, or magazines, listening to iPods, staring blankly into space, trying to gauge how many seconds of sleep they can steal while standing along walls and past ticket vending machines. We’re all heading towards the few gates to buses that will drag us all out of the City limits. Once we have managed to be within eyeshot of the coveted bus, we begin to pray, peeking at the red-lighted number counting the boarding riders. We watch…36, 39, 44,...

On Saturday, in the early morning hours of December 6, my brother and I drove our father to John F. Kennedy International airport. There we were to make sure he arrived to the departure gates of Delta Airlines, checked his large bags, verified gates and departure times and basically assist him with all of the concrete and confusing details of modern travel. This is where we were to leave him for the first leg of his return trip to Colombia, a mere nine months since his return from there back home. This time, however, his exit was more bitter than sweet. With the holidays just around the bend, my already heightened emotions made it doubly difficult to watch him walk away, becoming a small figure in the distance, farther away from his two children. And us, left behind, along with all we have left in this world to hold on to our childhood. The unkind understanding of knowing he had bought a one-way ticket, with the hopes, or intentions of returning to us in six months. I cri...

The frustrating thing about people who call corporate offices is that they seem to forget that they're calling a professional establishment. They lose all semblance of manners and decorum when they find they have reached "an actual, live person" - as I have been called on many occasions. Instead of being thrilled to pieces, as I would imagine I would be, should I encounter a similar situation, they seem upset because they were all set to just leave a message, or press some buttons to get an answer, or possibly get all their business done with an automated lady who has a slightly sexy twang to her voice. "Oh, um...I was expecting a recording, um...what the hell was I calling for again?" That is how most of the calls begin. To center them, I repeat the name of the company - in case they dialed a wrong number. That is usually followed by a long silence, where some days I swear I hear crickets in the background. Sometimes it is just dead silence...

Last night I had one of those moments that will remain with me indefinitely. Of the things I am grateful to my job for is the opportunity I have to meet authors I admire. For the record, I have met Mitch Albom, Rosa Guy, Edwidge Danticat, Julie Andrews and, last night, Khaled Hosseini. Dr. Hosseini wrote The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns . I attended the book signing, which turned out to be so much more, with a friend from work and her mother, who is also a fan of this extraordinary writer. As a result of this job of mine, I and my friend and her mom, were able to have seats reserved for us in the very first row, directly in front of Dr. Hosseini. Good thing, too, because by the time the author arrived, the place was packed with people from one end to the other. We, however, were happier than peas in soup! There was a decent stretch of time between when we took our seats and when Dr. Hosseini actually arrived. During that time, I witnessed, with admittedly quite a bit of...