For those returning to the workplace in the days before and after July 4th
For valuing your life, and your quality of life, as well as your work contributions, your employer should not be in contention for a gold medal. “Allowing” you alternate work arrangements for the past sixteen months…
In late-1980 as a 13-year old delivering The Daily News in the New Jersey suburbs, I didn’t enjoy having to be out of the house at 5:30 AM every morning. Like clockwork, I would head off on my bicycle, whatever the temperature.
By MICHAEL PHELAN
NOV 23, 2020 AT 10:31 PM
My late-September 1980 birthday took place only a week after my parents were divorced, an event which brought some peace to our home after years of turmoil and stress, but did create a vacancy which had not existed…
Memes and video clips applauding those who were raised from the 1950s to 1970s for “surviving” have been around since Netscape Navigator. These posts usually criticize regulations like lead paint mitigation and bike helmets, implying that obese children first appeared on earth during the Clinton administration.
We’re not so different — you, me, and that person far away, perhaps in a so-called “flyover” state. I try to keep these topics from my children, but the 8-year-old heard and asked about George Floyd this past summer. …
Younger people who won’t have the thrill of getting fake ID’s which won’t work, causing them to walk the streets of Manhattan until dawn. Those who won’t be eyewitnesses to the future of hip hop, freeze their asses off standing in Times Square on New Year's Eve or get to an age where they’d appreciate Sinatra and Scotch following a life they are proud of.
Older folks whose hair won’t fall out or turn grey, won’t dance at their children’s weddings, won’t take nine years to rebuild that ’72 Pontiac GTO, won’t travel the world, or write the great American novel.
We each go into 2021 emptier for their losses, but hopefully having learned a thing or three.
All the wishbones I pulled as a child, never fruitful.
The cigarettes, lottery tickets, and beer I’d be sent to the corner store for, and of course the unemployment checks brought to pay for it all.
A roll of the dice; a pull of the slot machine, and everything would change for us. My dad consistently preached these strategies with his Irish brogue, in between three to five-day visits to Atlantic City.
“Oh, well,” he would reassuringly promise each night after the pretty lady announced the winning lottery numbers. “Tomorrow we’ll get it!”
James M. O'Flaherty
Daddy, writer, entrepreneur, INFJ, exhausted empath, COVID Long-Hauler, rose-colored dreamer. John Lennon in a world of Pete Bests.