Welcome to the Shorty Club!

In this cozy corner of contemplation, where the air is thick with the aroma of?bourbon?and the gentle wisps of a?cigar, we gather to muse upon life’s curiosities. Here, there are no rigid rules, no prescribed paths—just the ebb and flow of conversation, like the amber liquid swirling in our glasses.

Bourbon Whiskey: Our faithful companion, aged to perfection, whispers tales of oak barrels and distant Kentucky hills. Each sip carries the weight of history, the warmth of camaraderie, and the promise of shared secrets.

Cigar in the Ashtray: Resting gracefully, its ember glowing like a distant star, the cigar invites reflection. Its fragrant tendrils weave stories of contemplation, of pensive evenings spent unraveling the threads of existence.

And so, my fellow Shorty Club members, let us raise our glasses—whether they hold bourbon or simply the elixir of thought—and toast to the musings that bind us. Here’s to wit, wisdom, and the delightful randomness of it all. ??P.S. If you happen upon a particularly intriguing topic, feel free to share it with the club. We’re all ears (and taste buds).?

April 29, 2024

Choreography of Courtesy

The baby in row 23 had cried for two hours straight, as if auditioning for a role in “Tears of the Skies: A Melodrama at 33,000 Feet.” But now, mercifully, the little cherub had surrendered to slumber. The gentle hum of the air conditioning was mostly drowned out by my noise-canceling AirPods, and the in-flight movie played on, offering a riveting choice between “Romantic Comedies for the Lonely” and “Action Movies That Make Your Heart Rate Soar.”

Being in the aisle seat was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I had the privilege of stretching my legs whenever the guy in the window seat decided to commune with nature. His bladder, I suspected, was the size of a pea. Or perhaps he’d been sipping from a thimble-sized cup of water throughout the flight. Either way, I empathized.

Between these interruptions and my indecisiveness in picking a movie (seriously, how many times can one scroll through the options?), I hoped to finish this cinematic masterpiece before our wheels touched the tarmac.

And then, like a soothing lullaby, came the announcement: “Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for landing.” In just over three hours, we’d flown 1,100 miles—a feat that would have impressed the Wright brothers, had they been around to witness it. The pilot’s voice, warm and friendly with a hint of Southern twang, made me wonder if his mother knew he was out here playing airplane captain. Most pilots these days looked like they’d just graduated from the “Pilots R Us” academy. In fact, some seemed significantly younger than the in-flight pretzels that was considered my in flight food.

Our descent was smoother than a kid covered in sunscreen on a slip-n-side. The runway greeted us with a gentle bump, like a polite handshake from Mother Earth. Within seconds, most passengers were on their cell phones, texting variations of “We landed!” or “Arrived!” to whoever they felt needed to know. Meanwhile, the seatbelt sign blinked like an impatient toddler, urging us to keep our restraints fastened until we reached the gate. Fat chance on that happening! It was a seatbelt rebellion—a silent protest against this silver tube that held us hostage for the last 3 hours.

As the plane taxied to the gate, the overhead compartments became the final frontier. The mad rush began, akin to a Black Friday sale at a Best Buy. My window-seat companion stood, craning his neck, as if expecting a secret exit to reveal itself. I sat, knowing there was nowhere to go. Then, from three rows back, emerged a guy who defied the sacred order of deplaning. He sidled up the aisle, eyes fixed on the exit like a sniper dialing in his target.

I shot him a look that said, “And where do you think you’re going, sir? To the front of the line? To the VIP lounge of impatience?” You see, there’s a system here, people—a choreography of courtesy. We deplane from the front to the back, like orderly dominos. Sure, there’s the occasional bachelorette crew struggling with oversized bags, but overall, it’s a well-rehearsed ballet.

But aisle guy and window guy? They half-stand, half-hover, as if caught in a conundrum of uncertainty—neither seated nor fully committed to disembarking. What would happen in a real emergency? It’d be like that scene from “Airplane!” when they say, “Don’t panic!” and then promptly yell, “Panic!” And suddenly, inflatable slides would deploy, and we’d all slide into chaos.

Despite the grunts and groans, we eventually shuffled off the plane. A quick walk to baggage claim, and there stood aisle guy, impatiently waiting. We’d arrived at the same time, yet he acted as if his suitcase held the secret to world peace. But here’s the thing: Those extra minutes spent orderly exiting the plane don’t save the universe. They do, however, make a world of difference in how we treat each other.

As Theodore Roosevelt wisely said, “Politeness is a sign of dignity, not subservience.” So let’s keep dancing, my fellow travelers—two-step to the baggage carousel, fox trot to the taxi stand, and waltz our way through life. Be polite, practice courtesy and remember, even if the pilot looks like a teenager, he’s got this. Probably.?

Bleeding Blue

On that cold, windy day, I gazed out of Sister Joyce’s fifth-grade classroom window. My seat afforded a perfect view of the parking lot that separated Notre Dame School from the Parish of Notre Dame. There, before me, stood hundreds of uniformed New York City Police Officers, lined up in solemn anticipation. Their collective presence was surreal, for the fallen officer they awaited was none other than the father of one of our sixth-grade students—a young boy I knew well.

At that moment, my own father, a New York City police officer, occupied my thoughts. I wondered about the dangers he faced daily, the risks inherent in his duty, and whether he would return home safely. The sea of blue uniforms, standing at attention, symbolized both honor and vulnerability. For me, it was my first experience of a line-of-duty funeral, albeit attended while sitting through multiplication tables and science lectures delivered by Sister Joyce.

Fourteen years later, I found myself attending another funeral—this time as a police officer myself. It was the solemn farewell to PO Raymond Canon of the NYPD. The somber atmosphere weighed heavily on my heart as we honored a fellow officer, someone my age, who had paid the ultimate price in service to the city.

Over the next three decades, I would bear witness to countless line-of-duty deaths. Each one etched into my memory—the faces, the sacrifices, the grief shared by a tight-knit community of law enforcement professionals. And today, as tragedy strikes once more—four officers killed and four wounded executing a warrant in Charlotte, North Carolina—the tally for 2024 reaches 55 fallen officers.

Yet, where are the protests? The calls for reform? The political outrage and corporate demands for justice? As someone who no longer wears the uniform, I still bleed blue. Always have, always will. The duty to protect and serve transcends time and circumstance, binding us together in a shared commitment to public safety.

The St. Michael prayer for police:

Saint Michael, heavenly protector of law enforcement officers,

Watch over us with your steadfast presence and unwavering strength.

Grant us the courage to uphold justice and protect the innocent.

In times of danger, guide our actions and shield us from harm.

St. Michael, we seek your intercession for protection and guidance.

With your divine guidance, may we serve with honor, integrity, and compassion.

In your mighty name, we pray. Amen.