Author: earlthepearl137

“Procrastination is the thief of time,” my Mom would tell me over and over again. It didn’t stop me from procrastinating, though, because I saw it from another angle. Procrastination was just doing the things you wanted to do before doing the things you were supposed to do. As a kid, I was naturally more inclined to do the things I wanted to do. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.

After acting class at the Fulton Theatre on Monday evening, four of us went to the café across the street for coffee and chit chat. I was a little hungry, but since everyone just got beverages, I just got a great big cup of coffee. It’s late and the place was not filled – perfect for a pleasant, unrushed conversation. We talked for well over an hour. I started getting hunger pangs, but I figured I’d find something on the way home. By the time we broke up the meeting, all the little food shops on my walk home were closed. By the time I got home I wondered if this might be more than just hunger pangs. It was right in the center of my chest and I have a history of heart problems. But it also could be heartburn from the giant coffee.

So, I ate a turkey sandwich, to see if I could rule out hunger pangs. An hour later, I still had pressure right smack dab in the middle of my chest. I grabbed my cell phone, to have it handy while I waited for one of the other symptoms of a possible heart attack. I’m supposed to take one baby aspirin a day. I took two and sat at the computer while I waited to see if that changed anything. I watched Netflix until 5 a.m.

The pain remained the same. Even a professional procrastinator like myself knows that sometimes you just have to do the things you should do. I packed a bag for the emergency room and walked the two blocks to Lancaster General Hospital. I told the receptionist that I had chest pain. A wheelchair and someone to push it rapidly appeared. It was like when Cinderella’s fairy godmother turned the pumpkin into a carriage. I rode into the Emergency Room, where my wheelchair pusher advised me that Kim would take care of me.

Kim took all the information, took my vital signs, and placed a tiny nitroglycerin tab under my tongue. Within 5 minutes the pain was completely gone. Symptom relieved. Now it was time to diagnose the problem. Kim passed me to Maria, who passed me to Dr. Li. Then somebody wheeled my gurney to room 6912.

Jim, Arlene, Joelle, Ashley, Lauren, Jill, Dr. Ibarra, and a few other people all lined up for their role in this medical production. After they introduced themselves and verified that I was who they thought I was, they explained the purpose of their visit. They were there to take a blood sample, or check my blood pressure, or listen to my heart, squeeze my ankles, explain something, change my sheets, or get me food.

The first results from my blood work came back. I did not have a heart attack. They needed further testing to diagnose the problem. Nuclear pictures, and a stress test.

So, a few hours later I met the people who ran the stress test. Things went so quickly, I didn’t have a chance to catch everyone’s name, except the prettiest one, Chris. If this workout gave me a heart attack, I figured she could resuscitate me, without even using the paddles. All the women there looked good, like they actually worked out on the treadmill themselves and weren’t just monitoring patients on them. Walking on that floor I felt a little like I was at a place like Planet Fitness.

Back to my room to await the results. Positive. Normally, that’s a good thing, but this meant there was positively something wrong. It was time for my third lifetime trip to the Catheter Lab, where they might give me another stent.

Nope. Barry, Sean, Tim, and the doctor found nothing wrong. Plus, the four clogged stents that I learned were clogged in 2011, were now being bypassed by a group of capillaries. So my pit crew in room 6912, then went about detaching all the electrodes and needles attached to my body and sent me home with two new prescriptions, one for the heart and one for heartburn. That way they figured they had it covered no matter what was the cause of my problem.

I was very impressed with the treatment I got at Lancaster General, but I better end this story. Today is April 15^th and it’s 10:30 p.m. Time to start working on my taxes.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

My Amtrak Bonus points jumped up to 3600 points with another trip to New York. That’s hardly enough points to pay for a dessert at Applebee’s, but, it shows me that I’ve taken a lot of trips since I left New York. Ironically, most of them have been to New York, but at least I’m moving around and more active now.

I arrived in New York on Friday and stayed at Brother X’s house. We watched a little TV and trash talked on the commercials. We’re both getting ready for the Rage in the Cage Match set up for May 16^th in Lancaster, so we were ragging each other on how poorly we thought each other could hit a baseball. Finally, when the Yankee game was still tied in the umpteenth inning, we decided to call it a night, but get up early in the morning and head to the batting cage in Hicksville, so we could get a chance to “scout the other team.”

The next morning, we woke up bright an early and headed to the batting cage. Normally, I never wake up early, preferring to ease out of bed at the crack of noon. But this day was different. We had an adventure planned. It was like a day when we had a scout trip planned as kids. Mom could barely get us out of bed on a school day, but we would jump up before dawn on those days when we had an adventure planned.

There were only two kids using the cages. They were brothers 10 and 8-years old, two years apart, just like Brother X and myself. They were just as competitive, too. The owner of the place came over to watch us all complete, and he told the boys that in 50 years they would probably be just like us. They left right after he said that.

We started hitting against the slowest machine that was set to throw the ball at 35 mph. Before too long we each were hitting the ball most of the time, so we kept moving up to higher speeds. (After all, we now had the whole place to ourselves.) We moved quickly from 40 to 50 to 60, and then when we faced the machine that was throwing at 70 mph we were missing more than we were hitting. After that I took a few swings against the 80 mph machine, but had little success. Neither of us even tried to hit against the 90 mph machine. Like Clint Eastwood said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

Some people don’t seem to have any limitations, though. On Saturday afternoon, we went to see an Off Broadway production of my friend Marianne Driscoll’s second play. The first show, McGoldrick’s Thread was an award-winning, smash musical that ran for an entire month at St. Mark’s Theatre. This, her second play, is currently at the Cell on West 23^rd Street. It’s called The Biscuit Club, and the actors all play various dogs in a kennel. One night while Gus the owner is away from the kennel, Chester, the old resident dog, is talked into letting them all out of their cages for a little while. When the dogs are uncaged, the fun really begins. Congratulations to Marianne, cast, and crew. The show is a real treat.

http://www.thecelltheatre.org/events/2015/4/9/the-biscuit-club

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

I signed up for a class on Scene Setting at the Fulton Theatre. I thought it was going to be about writing scenes. Turns out, it’s an acting class. There are a dozen of us in the class. The rest all want to be actors, and this class is designed for them. I’m enjoying the heck out of it, though.

Sometimes it feels more like a yoga class. We stretch while breathing deeply and make buzzing noises with our lips that we’re supposed to be able to feel in our chest, lower back, and abdomen. We get on the floor and roll around. Well, I don’t get on the floor. I played the Bad Hip card immediately and got a free pass. I’m allowed to sit or walk around while the rest of them are crawling around on the floor acting like whatever animal the instructor just called out. Enraged dragon. Sad frog. Lazy Cow. Jubilant Jackass. I can mosey around weakly snarling, rib-bitting, mooing, and heehawing, while the rest of the class is down on all fours, really throwing themselves into the roles. It was a pisser. If classes had been this much fun back in high school, I might have spent a lot less time in detention.

A lot of the class is about us bonding as an ensemble. We stood in a circle and threw a bean bag around. Whoever caught the beanbag had to say their name and toss the bag to someone else. Eventually, most of us knew the first name of everyone in the class, and this was only the first class! Good ice breaker. I’d like to be able to do that at a party. You forget somebody’s name, you can just toss them the bean bag, and they’ll yell it out.

For homework, we had to prepare a short monologue about ourselves, and in the second class, we had to perform it. Everybody opened up about themselves, and some told tales that they might not have even told their best friends. Some even cried, but it was an acting class. Were they caught up in the moment, or were they just really doing a good job of acting? Since this is not an advanced acting class, I’m inclined to believe that people were just being real.

After class, Meg, Leni, and I went for coffee in the café across the street from the theatre. It brought me back to when I was working at NYU School of Medicine and taking free classes at NYU. After each class, a few of us would usually head to a local bar. There was one favorite hangout that had cheap beer and served a great cheeseburger on a Kaiser roll with a big side of popcorn. Actually, the popcorn was free. Everybody who was drinking got a never-ending bowl of it, with much of it ultimately winding up on the floor. The floor was a little bit slippery, but that was a great place to do your homework, especially if you liked popcorn.

Last week, I went to the Fulton Theatre for their production of The Producers. I imagined that most of the performers had gone to classes just like this when they were first learning their craft. I wondered how many in my class would ever wind up on the stage. I know that if a script ever calls for any enraged dragons, sad frogs, or lazy cows, we have some people who are just perfect for the part. Who knows? Even I might wind up on the stage someday, if they ever have a role for a crazy old jackass who can only walk on two legs.  Hee Haw.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

I frequently travel back to New York to visit with friends and family. I usually plan my trips so that I visit as many people as possible. I didn’t have to make people plans this time, though, because half the people I know in New York would be at the Driscoll’s annual St. Patrick’s Day Party. So, I made menu plans instead. I’ve been eating a lot of fish and chicken here in Lancaster. It was in the mood for some of my favorite marinated meats, Corned Beef, Pastrami, and Sauerbraten.

I only ever cooked a corned beef just once in my entire life. It took three long hours to cook. It tasted great, but, after that, I chose to only eat corned beef that somebody else spent three hours cooking. My favorite corned beef sandwich was the special corned beef sandwich they served at a bar in Secaucus, NJ called Charlie’s Corner. The special, which ran all day and all night during St. Patrick’s week, was a corned beef Sandwich and a pickle for a nickel. Of course, you had to eat at the bar, the take-out price was much higher. Charlie once told me that he would go through two tons of corned beef that week.

Corned beef and a pickle, for a nickel. You couldn’t beat that. Almost. The spread that Marianne and Tres put out for their Patty’s Party, was even better. So, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I started my meat parade with corned beef at their party. Delicious, and the best part is that I didn’t have to spend 3 hours in the kitchen.

Another pickled meat I love is Sauerbraten. That’s even more labor intensive. It takes two days to make, so I never made it. Fortunately, I had the best sauerbraten in the world at least once a year when my mother was alive. Since then I’ve had to settle for the pot roast in sauerbraten sauce that most German restaurants serve. My friend John in Long Beach tells me that the new German restaurant in his neighborhood makes a mean sauerbraten. So, that was on the menu for Sunday.

Das Biergarten is a place that looks like a small beer hall in Bavaria. The waitresses are costumed to look like those darlings who carry so many pints to the thirsty tourists at Oktoberfest. I remember the place from many years ago when John and I used to go there to wet our whistle. Back then, it was called The Digs, and it was decorated more to look like a bar. The old and the new quickly became one in my mind, and I started calling the place, Das Digs.

The first appetizer on the menu is Das Pretzel. That made me laugh, so I ordered one. Then we got down to the serious business, the Sauerbraten. It was delicious. Not as good as my mother’s, of course, but delicious. Two meats down, one to go.

New York Pastrami is the very best. The owner of the Alley Kat Restaurant in Lancaster used to drive to the Carnegie Deli in New York every week to pick up 60 pounds of it. This winter, he got tired of making the drive, so pastrami was dropped from the menu. I was Jonesing for some juicy pastrami, so I made sure that my train reservation on Monday was for a late train. This gave me all afternoon to go to the Blarney Stone, just a few steps from the train station. The pastrami sandwich was thick, lean, and delicious. The beers went down pretty smooth, too. I rolled out of there just in time to catch the train home.

The next day when I got on the scale, I was 6 pounds heavier than I was when I left the house on Saturday morning. Now I remember why I’ve been eating fish and chicken.

I hope everyone had a Happy Healthy St. Patrick’s Day.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

It’s on. Brother X and I, will compete in The Rage in the Cage, in the batting cage at Clipper Magazine Stadium at 3:30 P.M. on May 16^th. The actual game doesn’t start until 7 p.m. though, so there may not be a lot of witnesses to the event.

I love competition, and competitions with Brother X are my favorite. They’ve been going on for 64 years. I’ve always had a two year advantage on him, of course that was back when I was a kid and being older was an advantage. Now, at 66, being 2-years older is more of a disadvantage.

As a kid, I had the size advantage, so he had to use cunning. This led to his becoming devious and mischievous, and earned him the nickname of “Devil Incarnate,” at least according to page 92 in brother Kevin’s book, A Song for Lost Angels. After reading that I stopped calling him Brother X and jokingly started calling him Beelzebro X. I think he like it, because he knows it fits.

Here’s an example of the devious, mischievous nature of Beelzebro X. About 15-20 years ago, we were standing behind my parent’s house in Yaphank, looking at the lake far below. X bent down, picked up two rocks, offered one to me, and said, “I’ll bet I can throw further than you.” Without giving me time to think about it, he reared back and threw the rock about 10-15 feet past the shoreline. We both heard the splash, and he turned to look at me. Now it was my turn.

He was prepared. I wasn’t. He’d been playing baseball with his son the previous two weeks. The only thing I had been throwing back were beers and shots. Sibling rivalry, however, demanded that I try my best. I reared back and threw the rock with all my might.

I don’t know where my rock landed. I was in too much pain to notice or even care. I know it didn’t make the water because there was no splash. Or if there was a splash, I couldn’t hear it over X’s laughter. He knew that throwing a ball with all your might, when you haven’t thrown a ball in years, was going to be very painful. That’s the whole reason he set me up for the competition. As usual, he won because he was prepared.

So, now I plan to turn the tables on him.

The Barnstormers had a promotion back in December. Buy 5 tickets to games and you could take batting practice with the team. I bought 10 tickets and got two coupons for batting practice with the team on May 16^th. I called my brother and invited him to join me in the batting cage. He said, “Yes,” and I started preparing. I turned my laundry room into a batting cage, and I prepare daily for the upcoming battle. Hee hee hee, payback.

Then, I made a mistake. I let it slip that I was practicing. So, now he knows that this is a serious competition and he’s practicing too. I’m quickly losing my tactical advantage.

So, I secretly stepped up my training, and I thought I might be regaining my advantage, until I had a conversation with him. He had been practicing, too. “Plus,” he said, “I’m even boning my bat.”

“You’re making love to your bat?” I questioned him worriedly.

“No, you moron. I’m boning my bat. You rub a big dry soup bone along the barrel of the bat and it compresses the wood, making the bat harder, less likely to break, and able to drive the ball further.”

I never knew about that, so I looked it up on YouTube. Some bat manufacturers even sell pre-boned bats. Unlike corked bats, they’re 100% legal.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjZWGkmTiu8

So, I better go find myself a nice big soup bone, and try to catch up, because I have a feeling that my devious little brother may have outsmarted me again.

At least one thing makes sense, though, now. Now, after all these years, I finally understand why I always saw the nuns I had in grammar school rubbing their pointers and yardsticks with a soup bone.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Tommy and Lydia from back in the day.

You know how it is when you go to a reunion. At first you don’t recognize the people and you’ve got little in common to talk about with them. Then, the years quickly melt away, you start to recognize them, and you’ve suddenly got a million things you want to talk about.

This past weekend as I travelled around New York, I saw Tommy Powers, who I hadn’t seen since his 40^th birthday. Tommy and I went to grammar school together, different classes, but the same grade, so we’ve know each other for around 60 years. I also saw his wife Lydia who I haven’t seen since Tommy’s 40^th birthday. He was the best man at my wedding, and I was the best man at his. They’re now celebrating their 40^th wedding anniversary. They looked good. Too good. He’s got all his hair, and Lydia looked the same as when I saw her 25 years ago.

Another blast from the past was seeing my ex-wife Ginny, who I last saw in Florida in 1991. She, too, looked the same as she did back then. I can only assume that she has a picture in the attic that is aging incredibly fast. It just couldn’t be possible that I was the only one who aged over the years. Next I saw her brother, also named Tommy, and his wife, also named Ginny. With them were, her sister Jeanie and her husband Larry. I hadn’t seen any of them since the 80’s. Right away, we picked up right where we left off 30 years ago, repeating George Carlin routines. “Hey how ya doin’? Nice place, but if it was me living here, I would run some beams and struts out this way and then run conduit…”

Unfortunately, they weren’t content to have aged much better than me. They also had proof that they always looked better than me. They had videos from back in the day and I saw myself with an Afro Haircut that made me look like Linc on the Mod Squad. I remember getting that haircut when I was working for the Telephone Company as an escort in Harlem. I figured that someday it might save me from a severe ass whupping. I guess it worked, because I never got beaten up when I worked in Harlem, and I was just a skinny thing back then. My extra pounds melted away as quickly as the years did, while the video played. Unfortunately, those pounds came right back as soon as the DVD stopped.

Tommy and Ginny’s daughter, Lisa, was there too. She was about 4 years-old the last time I saw her. Now she’s an accomplished equestrian with her own Horse farm on Long Island. We went to see her stable of Hunters and Jumpers and they were all magnificent animals. Her trophies and ribbons fill a room.

The big shock of the weekend came later, though. My ex-wife made dinner for the whole gang, and it was delicious. How did that happen? Back when we were married she could barely boil water. She explained to me that she watches a lot of cooking shows, now. Well, I’ve watched thousands of horse races and I didn’t turn into Willie Shoemaker or Buddy Gilmour. I was starting to think that she must have more than an aging picture in the attic. She probably made a deal with the Devil. I thought her divorce attorney looked like he had horns.

That reminds me of the old joke where the Devil shows up at a church service and everybody runs except one old man. The Devil turns to him and asks him why he’s not scared. The man answers, “Why should I be afraid of you? I’ve been married to your sister for 35 years.”

It was a great weekend, capping off a great week in New York, and it sure was nice to see the old gang.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The following is a guest blog written by Brother X:

You’ve heard of the Thrilla in Manila and the Rumble in the Jungle on May 16th you can see the Massacre in Lancaster.  A BATtle of brothers not seen since Cain and Abel will take place. Earl the Pearl Paulson (the local favorite) will challenge infamous sibling Donald “Duckie” Paulson (better known to blog readers as Brother X.) to a baseball hitting contest at Clipper Magazine Stadium in down town Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
Readers are invited to see these two sexagenarians swing it out. It may turn into the disaster in Lancaster.  Here is the tale of the tape:
Earl.                                Bro X
66          Age                    64
5’11”    Height                5’6″
28″         Reach                26″
Hips   Major ailment     Cataract’s

Another month, another trip to New York. It seems I do more things in New York since I moved out than I did when I lived there. Last night, I went to a Broadway show, Kinky Boots. I never used to go to Broadway shows, unless somebody had an extra ticket that they were giving away. I’ve gone to a few off Broadway shows since I moved to Lancaster, but now, going to a real Broadway show, I’ve finally stamped myself as an official tourist.

At least I’m not planning visits to the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty any time soon. And I haven’t ridden the double-decker sightseeing bus, yet, or taken a Hansom cab ride. When that happens, I’ll really be considered a tourist. I just bought a Smart Phone, and now I have to make sure I resist the urge to take selfies at New York landmarks, like Radio City, bagel shops, and pizza places.

Like usual, I’ve got a lot of things planned for this visit. On Friday, I’m going to see The Mavericks at Town Hall with Maria. This is the third time we’re going to see them. How many more times before I’m labeled a groupie?

Tonight, I went out to dinner with people I worked with at Cyber Medical back in the 1990’s. We laughed so much tonight, it was just like it used to be when we were all working together. No wonder that company went out of business.

In addition to seeing Kinky Boot this week, I also plan to see a lot of cowboy boots, too. I’m going to a Country Western Dance on Saturday. I don’t dance much anymore, but the main purpose of this visit, like all my visits, is to see old friends, and I have plenty of old Country friends and some are still willing to risk injury to their toes by letting me waltz them around the dance floor another time.

On Sunday, I’m going to dig even deeper into my past. I’m going to visit with one of my best friends from when I was a kid in South Ozone Park, Tommy Powers. I was Tommy’s Best Man when he married Lydia 40 years ago, but I’ve only seen them a few times since then. So that should be a real blast from the past, especially since my ex-wife Ginny will be there. I haven’t seen her since 1991. That reminds me of an old Woody Allen line. In his stand-up routine, he said, “I saw my ex-wife the other day but I didn’t recognize her without her hand out.”

Of course, I’m only joking. I would never say anything bad about my ex. She still has lawyers on speed dial.

Well, I hope the next 4 days are as much fun as the last 2 have been. Now, though, it’s time to go to bed. This city may never sleep, but I need my 8 hours. I’ve got a lot of New York to see tomorrow. One thing I’ve learned, though. New York may have thousands of famous touristy things to see, but it’s the people that live there, who make me keep coming back.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

According to Amazon, “La Vigila “THE FEAST of The 7 FISH” is The Southern Italian Ritual Christmas Eve Meal of 7 Fish, Representing the 7 Sacraments of The Roman Catholic Church…” I looked it up, to make sure I had it right, but there were a lot of Italian-Americans in South Ozone Park, when I grew up there. So, I was already familiar with this custom.

I didn’t have any fish for Christmas Eve this year. I’m not Italian. Neither is Debbie, but she does have one big fish back in her life this Christmas. Back when her husband Kevin was alive, they had an aquarium, and one of the fish was a sucker fish, with a life expectancy of a few years. When her husband passed away six years ago, she gave the fish to her mother, and the fish is still alive today.

Not only has the fish survived. It has thrived. Her Mom finally said to her, “I’m gonna have to do something with your sucker fish. He’s grown too big for my aquarium. So, rather than giving the fish a tour of toilet bowl falls, Debbie went out and bought herself a bigger aquarium. Now the fish is back living with her.

We were talking about Christmas presents and she said that she didn’t know what to buy me, since lately when I see something I like, I’ve been buying it for myself. My Dad left me some money, and I’m just trying to give his soul peace by enjoying the money he gave me. Last year I bought a ticket package for The Lancaster Barnstormers that included the right to throw out the first pitch at a game. This year I bought that package again. Plus, I bought a package that allows me to take batting practice with the team.

“You can buy me a bat,” I said. So we went to the Sports Authority and she got me a nice wood bat, and one of those weighted doughnuts to put on the bat to make it look like I’m a serious batter.

“Well, now you’re all set,” I said, “but I still don’t know what to get for you.”

She wiggled her ring finger and said, “I’m a six and a half.”

We both laughed.

So, now today is Christmas and I’ll be going over to her house for Christmas dinner. I bought her a bunch of things and even wrapped them. One of them is very tiny. I’m gonna give that one to her last.

When she gets to that gift, I’m gonna ask her what she thinks it might be. After she guesses, I’ll give it to her. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she unwraps the tiny aquarium ornament of the fish from Finding Nemo and my little handmade sign that says, “Wrong. Go Fish.”

Merry Christmas, everyone. May Santa fill your net with abundance.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl