Sam-I-Am

The following has been shamelessly inspired by the Dr. Seuss story, Green Eggs and Ham.  Although the style is in the Dr. Seuss format, the words have been inspired by recent local events. Enjoy.

I am Arthur.

I am Sam.

Sam-I-am.









That Sam-I-am!

That Sam-I-am!

I do not like that

Sam-I-am!

Why did you bury

Your heads in the sand?

Why did you do so

Sam-I-am?

We did not do so

Said Sam-I-am.

We should not, would not

Replied Sam-I-am.

You did not respond

To the EPA.

For four long years

Filed their letters away.

Why did you bury

Your heads in the sand?

Why did you do so

Sam-I-am?

We would not, could not

Respond to the EPA.

For four long years

Hoped it would go away.

We did not bury our 

Heads in the sand.

We should not, would not

Said Sam-I-am.

The network computers

You let them die.

Loaded with viruses

Was my reply.

Why did you bury

Your heads in the sand?

Why did you do so

Sam-I-am?

We did not know 

They were obsolete.

We tried to keep this

Off the street.

We would not, could not

Respond to the EPA.

For four long years

Hoped it would go away.

We did not bury

Our heads in the sand.

We should not, would not

Said Sam-I-am.

South Main, South Main

Surely you jest.

For eight long years

You made a mess.

You did not meet

In the street.

You did not meet

In the heat.

You did not meet

In a box.

You did not meet

With a fox.

Why did you bury

Your heads in the sand?

Why did you do so

Sam-I-am?

We looked at pictures

For eight long years.

We tried to settle all your fears.

We chose to meet

When we had something to say.

My how time slips away.

We did not meet

In the street.

Or in the heat.

Or in a box.
Or with a fox.

We did not know 

They were obsolete.

We tried to keep this

Off the street.

We would not, could not

Respond to the EPA.

For four long years

Hoped it would go away.

We did not bury

Our heads in the sand.

We should not, would not

Said Sam-I-am.

Deal with blight.

That's what we said.

We gave you the money,

Said go ahead.

My mouth formed a frown,
While wearing a crown,
When the newsman relayed
That nothing came down.

Why did you bury

Your heads in the sand?

Why did you do so

Sam-I-am?

Believe me, believe me

We talked about blight.
In one of our heads
There was a bright light.
Hear what we say, hear what we say
Do nothing at all
'Til post Election Day.

So we chose to wait

By a gate, with a plate,

Without a date.

We looked at pictures

For eight long years.

We tried to settle all your fears.

We chose to meet

When we had something to say.

My how time slips away.

We did not meet

In the street.

Or in the heat.

Or in a box.
Or with a fox.

We did not know 

They were obsolete.

We tried to keep this

Off the street.

We would not, could not

Respond to the EPA.

For four long years

Hoped it would go away.

We did not bury

Our heads in the sand.

We should not, would not

Said Sam-I-am.

The taxes, the taxes

Where did they go?

They were not collected

As far as we know.

The money ensures this town will survive.

It's what helps keep the city alive.

Why did you bury

Your heads in the sand?

Why did you do so

Sam-I-am?

We did not collect them?

That's news to us.
We really don't understand
All the fuss.
A million in lost revenue
Is a drop in the bucket in
Our point of view.

Believe me, believe me

We talked about blight.
In one of our heads
There was a bright light.
Hear what we say, hear what we say
Do nothing at all
'Til post Election Day.

So we chose to wait

By a gate, with a plate,

Without a date.

We looked at pictures

For eight long years.

We tried to settle all your fears.

We chose to meet

When we had something to say.

My how time slips away.

We did not meet

In the street.

Or in the heat.

Or in a box.
Or with a fox.

We did not know 

They were obsolete.

We tried to keep this

Off the street.

We would not, could not

Respond to the EPA.

For four long years

Hoped it would go away.

We did not bury

Our heads in the sand.

We should not, would not

Said Sam-I-am.

The truth, the truth

Won't you try the truth?

Nothing can hurt you 

When you tell the truth.

Try it, try it

You will see.

Oh Sam-I-am 

Just once for me.

We will not tell the truth at all.

We will not try it

Not at all.

We do not like the truth

Was said.

To tell the truth

Our party's dead.

They stuck to their guns

I watched with dread.

A dark cloud passed

Overhead.

Their team gathered

From miles around.

And their collective

Heads went into the ground.

I walked away,

To my dismay and

Heard them all faintly say:

We did not collect them?

That's news to us.
We really don't understand
All the fuss.
A million in lost revenue
Is a drop in the bucket in
Our point of view.

Believe me, believe me

We talked about blight.
In one of our heads
There was a bright light.
Hear what we say, hear what we say
Do nothing at all
'Til post Election Day.

So we chose to wait

By a gate, with a plate,

Without a date.

We looked at pictures

For eight long years.

We tried to settle all your fears.

We chose to meet

When we had something to say.

My how time slips away.

We did not meet

In the street.

Or in the heat.

Or in a box.
Or with a fox.

We did not know 

They were obsolete.

We tried to keep this

Off the street.

We would not, could not

Respond to the EPA.

For four long years

Hoped it would go away.

We did not bury

Our heads in the sand.

We should not, would not

Said Sam-I-am.

That Sam-I-am!

That Sam-I-am!

I do not like that

Sam-I-am!

Alderman Art Knows BS

Does anybody remember Bo Jackson?  Bo Jackson was a Heisman Trophy winner from Auburn.  He played in the NFL with the Los Angeles Raiders and played Major League Baseball with the Kansas City Royals.  In the late 80's and early 90’s he endorsed Nike cross-trainers with the successful "Bo Knows" advertising campaign.  Some of the famous ads were; Bo Knows Football, Bo Knows Baseball, and then there's the time he went on stage and played guitar with the great Bo Diddley.  Bo Diddley states afterwards,  "Bo, you don't know diddley."

Well Bo may know football, but Alderman Art knows BS.

Before I begin let me give you my qualifications for being an expert in BS.

First and foremost we have to look at education.  I have a BS degree.  In fact, there is a gold foil stamp under my BS degree that indicates I graduated magna cum laude.   This means that I excelled in the pursuit of my knowledge of BS.

Work experience.  I sold used cars for nearly a decade in the toughest automotive market in the world...Southern California.  To be successful in such a competitive marketplace means you will have tons of BS experience.

Recently, I completed a three-year appointment to a national USPS advisory board.  This meant that I was able to travel to Washington DC several times a year and sit at the big table with high-ranking federal employees.  This experience enabled me to hear and partake in BS at a national level.

With all of this BS experience, I must say that the BS served up by the opposition is low grade.  You see, speaking as an expert, quality BS should have some elements of truth in it.

The opposition talks about stagnant.  I would suggest they look up the meaning of that word instead of selling the public their BS.

The mayor dealt with a 4-million dollar lawsuit from the EPA because the previous people practiced their "Ostrich Politics" of burying their heads in the sand and ignored 4 years worth of letters.

She acquired new computers and greatly enhanced the network environment at City Hall because the previous people again buried their heads in the sand and pretended obsolete operating systems, viruses, and an unstable network was the way to conduct the business of the city.

She allowed the Redevelopment Agency to be disbanded because when you put your head in the sand and hold the city hostage with your promises, don't meet to discuss the future, and then state you were looking at developers pretty pictures, you lose faith with the citizens of Derby.

She formed a blight subcommittee to deal with blight rather than to talk about it.  By the way, the former people were funded to do exactly what we've done, but instead, once again chose to bury their heads in the sand and do nothing.  To date, three buildings have been torn down, with several more on the way.  The blight subcommittee has led to a clean and lien program which cleans up blighted properties and bills the owners.  This has also led to the formation of a volunteer group called Derby Cares.  Derby Cares will help residents with light maintenance needs to either get off or prevent people from being added to the blight list.

On the mayor's watch we have seen the development of Pershing Drive and the clean up of the blighted former Dworkin Chevrolet.  The Derby Cellular property has been sold and we are in the final negotiations of acquiring a property in the redevelopment zone.

Our mayor made cleaning up our city a priority.  Look at the wonderful work our Public Works Department has been doing.  Have you seen the entrance to Witek Park, the Ryan Athletic Complex, and the many repainted crosswalks throughout the city?

This mayor worked with the tax office and collected over a million dollars in taxes that were owed.  The others chose to bury their heads in the sand and just let this cycle of uncollected debt drain the city coffers.

This mayor dealt with our sewage treatment plant and roads by allowing the citizens of Derby to decide what to do by going to referendum.  Despite having a referendum ready to go two years ago, the others kept their heads buried in the sand because they didn't want to deal with these real challenges during an election year.

She conducts weekly open hours for the citizens to meet with her, has hosted several public Discover Derby events to seek input on the direction of our city, and she has consistently let the best people lead.  Mayor Dugatto doesn't care if your name has a D, an R or a U after it.

So to the opposition, I would like to say go peddle your low grade BS somewhere else.  The people of Derby are sick and tired of your petty divisive antics and see that this city is becoming vibrant with each day Mayor Dugatto is at the helm...and that my friends is no BS.

From now on your Delta Tau Chi name is Flounder

In about one month, I will attempt to hike to the summit of Mt. Whitney in California.  Mt. Whitney is the highest summit in the contiguous United States with an elevation of 14,505 feet.

Normally, the hike is a 2-3 day hike to the summit.  I will be trying to climb 11 miles up and 11 miles back down in a single day.  In other words, my group and I will be doing an extreme hike.

An extreme hike sounds interesting except for the fact that I get winded walking up to my mailbox (anyone who has been to my driveway understands that there is no disgrace from being out of breath after walking up my driveway).

Anyways, my buddy, Scott has been following my progress on Facebook and has offered me advice when I've asked for it.  My latest attempt at understanding where I am (and where I need to be) with regards to training occurred when I told Scott my training regimen.

"Well Scott, I've been going to the gym and setting the incline on the treadmill to 15.  I just ran a 5k road race and I've been on a couple of small hikes."

He replied, "Sounds good.  Try doing long distance runs or hikes at least once a week and climb 3-4 thousand foot elevations and you'll be fine."

Is that all?  I'm having a problem with the "you'll be fine" line.

I just climbed the highest summit in Connecticut three weeks ago.  The elevation was 2,316 feet, but the actual elevation gain for that hike was a mere 1,560 feet.

Two weeks ago, I did a 10-mile hike up and down two moderately sized mountains (mere hills when compared to Whitney) and was limping the last 1 1/2 miles back to my car. Going downhill was taking its toll on my knees to the point that I was wincing in pain with each step.  Never mind the fact that I couldn't walk for nearly two days after the hike.

Last week, I flew up a mountain and back while wearing knee support and I felt fine.  Of course, my pace was 26 minutes per mile.  Let's see, if I use 26 minutes per mile as a baseline.  For the sake of my poor math skills, we'll round up to 1 mile per thirty minutes or 2 miles per hour.  At that pace, I should complete the 22 miles in 11 hours.

But wait...the books say it takes 16-20 hours to complete the round-trip journey.  It looks like I would need to hike at a 1.25 mile per hour pace to be in that range.

This past weekend, I went up three grueling mountains and back and felt great.  No knee pain and was able to walk afterwards.  Although it seems like the training is paying off, the hike was only 5 1/2 miles.  Twenty-two miles is a whole other ballgame.

Let's talk about my group.

It seems like there will be five of us.  Scott, his youngest son, Gus, and two of Scott's California friends (Tim and Kevin).

While communicating with Scott he told me they all have nicknames.  I don't know if this is a ritual sort of thing or tradition when you attempt Mt. Whitney, but Scott is known as Scott the Wolf.  His son, Gus is known as Gus the Bus.  Tim the Dragon is on board as is Kevin the Brown Trout.

Me?  Well I can't help thinking of the movie Animal House.  The scene where John Belushi gives everyone their Delta Tau Chi names.

It seems that Scott has proclaimed that from now on, my Mt. Whitney name is Arturo the Viking.

Reading List: Assholes * A Theory

Contrary to popular belief, I am not an asshole. That's right, I have proof.  My sister gave me a book for Christmas titled, Assholes* A Theory by Aaron James.  Who is Aaron James, you may ask?  Well, Aaron James is not a comedian or humorist.  He has credentials that include a Ph.D from Harvard and he is a professor of Philosophy at The University of California, Irvine.

Assholes * A Theory

I have to admit when I received the book, I thought it was going to be a humor book.  Instead it was an academic study of assholes (the people, not the anatomy).  The book was not an easy read, but I'm glad I labored through it.

I've used this term all my life.  I've called teachers, coaches, neighbors, family members, celebrities, and countless strangers this name for many decades.  It may be hard to believe but this word has actually been directed at me a time or two in my lifetime.  I now have a new appreciation of the word and in fact, have academic proof (backed up with references and citations) which proves conclusively that I am indeed not an asshole.

I may have my share of asshole tendencies, but according to James, I am not an asshole. Some may argue the fact that someone who argues publicly that they are not an asshole proves that they are an asshole, but James has done the research and easily dismisses this argument.

The author goes into much detail and gives many examples of real and true assholes. Stripped down to its most basic definition. James defines an asshole as:

(1). Someone who allows himself/herself to enjoy special advantages and does so systematically;

(2). does this out of an entrenched sense of entitlement: and

(3). is immunized by his/her sense of entitlement against the complaints of other people.  (Assholes * A Theory; James, Aaron, 2012; Anchor Books, New York)

Allow myself special advantages?  Nope, not me. Entrenched sense of entitlement? Nada. Immunized by a sense of entitlement against the complaints of others?  Again, I'd have to say, no.

If someone wants to do an academic study on jerks, they may be on to something.  In the meantime, I will relish in the knowledge that for once academia is on my side.

The Battle Between Arturo and Arthur

This week I find myself in a bit of a pickle (pun intended).  I received a text message several weeks ago from my friend Scott that read, "Arturo, I put in for Mt. Whitney.  I will let you know if we win.  I put in for several dates in mid-August.  I'll let you know."

The first clue that I may be in trouble was the way the message started.  Only my high-school buddies call me Arturo.

Before I get to the meat of this story, let's describe how I became Arturo.

I had enrolled in French when I first entered the doors of Derby High School.  I had visited my grandfather in California and he advised me that Spanish was the way to go.

I pondered this during the Summer of 1976 and had made up my mind to drop French and enroll in Spanish 101.

There was just one problem...as a freshman, I kept getting moved to the back of the add/drop lines.    The lines were impossible to negotiate and every time I made some headway a junior or senior would cut in front of me.

As a result, it took me nearly two weeks before I was finally able to drop French in lieu of Spanish.   During those first two weeks, I continued attending French and to this day, the only French phrase I know is, "Je m’appelle Mademoiselle, Heitz.”  Since my name is not Miss Heitz, this phrase has proved to be utterly useless to me.

The first Spanish lesson had the class introduce ourselves in Spanish.  We went up and down each row, starting with Joe Daddio.  "Mi llamo es Jose," he said.  "Mi llamo es Juan, Mi llamo es Nilda, Mi llamo es Maria," and so on and so on.

When it was my turn, I stood up and said, "Mi llamo es Arturo."

Suddenly, Tony Battaglino stood up and yelled in a booming voice, "Arturo!!!"
The class erupted in laughter and Tony was sent to the office for disrupting the class.  That, my friends is how I came to be known as Arturo.

Recently, I must have commented to Scott to let me know the next time he was going on a hike.  You see, Scott has been posting some fantastic photos of his hiking adventures.

I looked up Mt. Whitney and discovered that it has an elevation of 14,501 feet which makes it the tallest mountain in California AND the tallest peak in the lower 48 states.

I had one saving clause is this hike business.  In order to hike Mt. Whitney, one had to be selected in a lottery.  Well, Scott just sent me a message informing me that his group of six (which includes my name) has been selected.  In other words, the hike looks like a reality and is scheduled for August 10th.

Scott provided me the "good news."  "Arturo, we're going to about 8,000 feet and camp for the night, so our bodies get acclimated to the high altitude.  Then, we'll get up before sunrise and hike 11 miles up the peak and then 11 miles back down.  It's going to be awesome."

I could think of a lot of adjectives to describe what I just heard, but I don't know if awesome is one of them.  Tiring, strenuous, insane, and irresponsible, all come to mind, but hey, I'm Arturo.  Arturo would try anything.  Therein lies the problem.

Arturo got me in a lot of predicaments.  Arturo made bad choices.  Arturo was a fun-loving guy, but he knew no limitations.  Arturo had to apologize for his antics to many people.  Arturo ceased to be Arturo in 1988 and became Arthur.

Arthur realizes he needs to train and get in shape for this endeavor.  Arthur should probably say no to this hiking proposition, however, buried somewhere deep inside Arthur, Arturo lurks.

Arturo would never back down to a challenge and guess what...neither will Arthur.  See you in August, Scott.  Mt. Whitney, both Arturo and Arthur look forward to your wimpy little 22 mile walk.

RIP Grandpa

I lost my father-in-law almost two weeks ago.  Although I'm dealing with my own emotions, they pale in comparison to the people I love the most.  My wife lost her father and my children lost their grandfather.

Pasquale (Pat) Altieri (although even after twenty years of marriage to his daughter, I still called him Mr. Altieri) was a tough man.

He was a gifted athlete who was a two sport star in football and track and field.  He graduated from Harding High School in Bridgeport and it's amazing to read all the yellowed newspaper clippings sitting inside a dusty old photo album.  Despite getting letters from The University of Michigan, Yale and other high-profile schools, he decided to attend Brown University in Rhode Island.

He injured his hand at Brown and only played on their freshman teams.

After his injury healed, he chose not to return to Brown.  Instead he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps where he played football and captained the Marines track and field squad.

After serving honorably in the Corps, he received a try out with the Boston Patriots of the brand new American Football League under coach Lou Saban.

The NFL has come a long way from the letter Pat received from the Boston Patriots telling him his first class train ticket and food expenses were covered totaling just over $16.

He started a couple of exhibition games for the Patriots before injuring his ankle.  In those days an injured player was told, "we have a game to play tomorrow, if you are unable to play, you'll be released from the team."

After being released from the Patriots, he returned to Derby and played semi-pro football for the Ansonia Black Knights where he played with his cousin Nick DeFelice (a former member of the New York Jets)  and friend Larry McHugh.  When the Black Knights moved to Hartford, Pat decided to hang up his cleats.  Nick DeFelice recently said, he had no doubt if Pat and Larry joined him in Hartford, the three of them would have been on the New York Jets.

As we were going through the clippings and old photos, my daughters said in unison that they never knew how great an athlete grandpa was.  They further stated if it were daddy, he would have told everyone of his accomplishments.  I smiled because I realized they were right.  Unlike moi, Mr. Altieri didn't talk much.  But when he spoke you knew his opinion.

After his football career he went into the family business and owned Altieri Press in Bridgeport until 1996. Altieri Press was the last union print shop in Bridgeport.

Altieri Press was always printing brochures, stag tickets, programs, and raffle tickets for just about any non-profit group or family friend that asked him for little or no cost.  Don't believe me? Look at any of the old Derby High school programs printed in the 70's and 80's.

When my daughters were born, I saw a change.  He was still the tough guy I had known since I was a child, but he seemed to laugh much more frequently.

It didn't matter what the girls did, he found humor in their shenanigans.

He attended their dance recitals, plays, and athletic events.  When their elementary school was in danger of closing, he became a silent advocate and supporter of the school and attended all the events we hosted to help keep it open.

At 78 years-old he continued to go to work each day for the City of Bridgeport in their print shop. No disrespect to Wal-Mart greeters, but at 78 years-old he was doing a physically demanding job and he would often come home bloodied and bruised.  Yet, he never complained.  I know he continued working so he could give a little something extra to the girls each holiday.

So here's to you Mr. Altieri.  We're going to miss you, but will cherish your memory for the rest of our lives.

L-R Brittany, Grandpa, and Ashley