There's always a sequel

Cancer Roadtrip Part II

Thursday August 11th - Once I was able to rouse The Colonel from what appeared to be his surprisingly comfortable slumber in the tub, we found his pants and headed for NYC.  How his pants got on our neighbors balcony I have no idea.  We parted ways at the New Rochelle MTA stop and he told everyone within ear shot "I shall return!"  I tell ya, The Colonel is a hoot.

I scarfed down my first slice (technically three slices but who's counting) of New York pizza at Two Boots in Grand Central Terminal.  I'm partial to what I think is their original location in the Village but I was getting remarkably close to punching an old woman that kept bumping into me so I thought some food would take the edge off. 

It didn't.  She went down like a ton of bricks.  You'd think somebody with a walker could take a solid shot but no.

After a quick getaway I checked into our hotel - Free Coffee and Cookies in the Lobby - and awaited my Lovely Girlfriend.  We'll skip over the particulars of her arrival (Smiley Face Emoticon would go here if I wasn't All Man and refused to use such sissy things) and jump to our Historical Drinking Tour. 

August 12th, 13th & 14th - If you are unfamiliar with Historical Drinking then you clearly haven't been following my blog, shame on you.  In brief, it's visiting the oldest bars you can find, drinking your face off and claiming it's all in the name of higher education.  Here's the list - The Fraunces Tavern, 1719.  The Paris Cafe, 1873.  The James Brown House aka The Ear Inn, 1817.  McSorley's Old Ale House, 1854.  Pete's Tavern, 1864.  PJ Clarke's, 1884.  The Palm, 1926.  Donohue's, 1950.  The Hi-Life, 1991 (okay, some of them are just bars.  So sue me).  The Subway Inn, no known date, also nothing even remotely historical here, kind of dangerous really. 

We also hit Coyote Ugly, which has never been the same since Tyra Banks ruined it.  I know Piper Perabo was the star and Tyra Banks only a supporting part but I think Piper Perabo is kinda cute and Tyra Banks has that annoying talk show so I'm placing all the blame squarely on her manly shoulders.

If anyone reading is a venture capitalist (or just has a bus and some free time) I'd like to start a tour company that specializes in Historical Drinking.  There's got to be at least a dozen major US cities where this would absolutely work.  Boston, NYC, Philly, Chicago, New Orleans and San Francisco would be no-brainers to start.  We'd hire Well Educated Lushes as tour guides, I've got a few friends in mind already.  This is the stuff you come up with when you sit around all day fighting cancer.  Sorry, but I am contractually obligated with blogspot to drop at least one cancer reference in each post.  Seriously, this is a killer idea, someone come up with some cash for it.

We ended our trip with a visit to the new apartment of our LA Friends that recently re-relocated back to New York and their Adorably Giant Baby Boy.  This kid is a monster and about as cute as any child can get without crossing over to the cartoon zone.  That's when someone stops appearing human and instead takes on the looks of a caricature that you would take home from a street fair.  It's not cute, it's just sad.  But this kid is not there.  He's just damn cute.  And big.  And his folks are the salt of the earth and I wanted to include them in this blog so the kid gave me that opportunity.  So there.

Anyway, it's past midnight and I'm getting a little punchy from the chemo so I will sign off with a big Thank You to all that made the Cancer Roadtrip possible.  The Colonel/Admiral/General/Commandant, My Lovely Girlfriend, Our LA Friends, Our Feisty Insurance Adjustor and The General's Brother.  I couldn't have done it without you.

Finally, I was recently informed that my Father needs to take a trip down to Boston and visit Dana-Farber.  He'll need someone to drive him (me) and of course my Mother will want to come.  If we can only talk my Sister into joining us...

Cancer Family Roadtrip!!!

Better than a slide show!

Tonight I reveal my Cancer Roadtrip Re-Cap, in Two Parts!  It does not have any of the Cancer Movie Moments I had so hoped to capture but it does have a close approximation to them.  Either way I had a hell of a good time.

Tuesday, August 9th - The World's Youngest Ever Lieutenant Colonel (he may make General before this post is through) and I head for Manchester, NH.  Weather is spotty for the FisherCats game, we've got a cooler filled with beer for The Rear Admiral and four little red wine bottles for me.  We pre-game at the hotel.  I manage to sip down a single serving of vino.  I don't feel comfortable revealing how much my traveling companion had since he's an upstanding member of the military and his wife reads the blog.  I will point out that I finagled the keys away from the good Colonel but only after hearing how he has flown multi-million dollar planes far drunker then now.  The rain held off, the FisherCats lost to Erie and the Colonel staggered through the stands trying to pick fights with children. 

*A few of those last parts may have not really happened. 

Wednesday August 10th - We hit the road early with Mohegan Sun in our sites.  We check in to The Spa of Norwich (an extremely romantic find for two dudes.  Thank you, Priceline) and hit the casino Race Book.  Cocktail waitresses are scarce plus the bartender keeps track of how long it's been since your last one. Telling The General's Brother who drove down to join us (no relation to the John Travolta stinker The General's Daughter) to come back in twenty for his next freebe six ounce beer.  Six whole ounces!  You shouldn't have.  We hit a couple of winners, splitting up about seventy bucks in winnings.  One ticket could have been a 1500.00 payday if we'd played the superfecta but hey, no guts no glory.  The Commandant ordered several strangers to drop and give him twenty in response to the loss.  He's crazy with power, I tell ya.

After gorging ourselves at the moderately priced but well stocked buffet we hit the craps table.  It was a star studded event.  We had Corsican Albert Finney, Senile Jerry Adler, Charismaless Billy Shatner, his unhappy wife (Caucasian Uhura?), and an Undershirted Lester from The Wire on what can only be described as The Heater of his otherwise totally unlucky life.  Lester from The Wire was betting huge on the Don't and looking back it's stunning that no one joined him.  This table was so cold you could have chiseled an ice slide in it for vodka shots.  Despite it all I grounded out a five dollar windfall before calling it a night around 1:30am.  The General made it back to the room closer to three, rambling about single-handedly crushing Communism and threatening to put me on KP duty.

Part Two Tomorrow!

Andrew Carnegie's got nothing on me.

I am not a joiner type.  I'm not an activist.  I'm not a protester or a marcher.  Sure, I'm friendly.  I'm engaging.  I'm supportive - not so much as to actually get involved but I'll click "like" on some one's cause on Facebook.  Provided I'm not in a rush or don't want to engage in a lengthy online discussion of how important whatever that cause is.   

Basically, I'm a selfish prick most of the time.  No, probably all of the time.  Having cancer is a big boon for this kind of behavior.  I can say and do as many selfish things as I like with the perfect excuse at the ready.  "I don't care about your stupid play, I've got cancer damn it!"  "Don't you know I've got cancer, this place is a dump!"  "Man, your new girlfriend is a bitch!  No offense, that's the cancer talking." 

Having cancer means never having to say you are sorry.  At least until you're cured.  Once that happens I'm sure I'll have to make the rounds like a Twelve-Stepper.  That's were my Dad really lucked out.  He hit the mother-load with his inoperable, incurable prostate cancer.  Nine years of treatments with no end in sight.  Nine years of blaming every outburst on cancer.  A cool cane.  A handicap sticker.  Free blankets.  Some guys have all the luck. 

As further evidence of my selfishness I am now joining a cause.  But Jules, that's incredibly philanthropic, you say, without knowing what it is but assuming it must be since I am finally getting involved.  I am joining a cancer cause.  Essentially, My cause is Me. 

I am driving with my Father (that lucky cancer riddled bastard) in Champion the Cure Challenge.  A fifty mile road rally to raise money to help find a cure for the many diseases called cancer.  We will be driving in his 1990 Honda Prelude Si complete with 160hp and the always tasteful red, white and blue paint job.  Not since I was a child and unable to make totally selfish decisions without severe parental correction have I participated in any kind of walk-, run-, dance-, or rock-a-thon. 

Secretly, I'm hoping that a cancer road rally is as funny as it seems in my mind.  A sort of Cannonball Run for the infirmed.  A convoy of Lincolns, Olds and Buicks filled with driver's that are only able to go a few miles at a time before needing to stop for bathroom breaks or long naps.  If that's the case I will dominate this thing.  I'll be the Mario Andretti of Cancer Racing.  Gentleman, Start Your Engines.

**For Donations send a check or money order to Champion the Cure c/o Healthcare Charities One Cumberland Place Suite 300 Bangor, ME 04401.**

Or you can send Cash, care of Jules.

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A Remote Location

Don't ever let anyone accuse the people of Northern Maine of wanting to be found.

I've always appreciated the remoteness of Maine. The stillness. The tranquility. But My Good God, it should not take a twelve hour day of travel to go 450 miles!

This is how I ended my Cancer Roadtrip, slogging through Amtrak terminals, chasing down connecting T-lines and barreling through a down pour to make it home. It should not take more time to travel from New York, NY to Old Town, ME then it does to fly across the entire Continent - with a lay over.

But your trip down seemed so effortless, what changed? You may ask. Or don't ask, see if I care. I'm the one with cancer here, not you! Unless you are reading this and you actually have cancer, in which case - Fight on Brotha or Sista.

I'll tell you even if you didn't ask (selfish for not asking). My buddy, the Youngest Ever Lieutenant Colonel in the history of the Air Force, that took me on the Cancer Roadtrip, had to return to his wife, child and job - as the Youngest Ever Lieutenant Colonel in the history of the Air Force! Or maybe he isn't, the records are spotty at best. I tried to get him to take off more time to chauffeur me back up to Maine, promising him even more cliched sick-kid-on-a-roadtrip happenings but he couldn't do it. I know, I know, he's even more selfish than you are for not asking.

This is also what prevented me from posting yesterday, no wifi on either of my trains. They advertised wifi. According to the little logo on the outside of the trains we were supposed to get wifi but to no avail. As a result not only was I inconvenienced (a crime in it's own right) but so were my throngs of readers (almost 5000 views at this point and less then half from me hitting refresh!).

Now for the good news. A double post day! That's right, since yesterday I failed to fill your minds with stories of my valiant battle with cancer... okay, mundane daily activities, today I will give you Double the Jules! You ladies out there know what I'm talkin about.

So stay tuned. Same Cancer Time. Same Cancer Channel.

Calling Warren Zevon

After polishing off a perfectly rare 24oz ribeye steak last night at The Palm (thank you, Lovely Girlfriend's expense account!) I excused myself from the table. I took a moment to take in the famous caricatures covering the walls, many from when they opened in 1926, checked out the private upstairs dinning room and used the men's room.

When I returned, My Lovely Girlfriend and our Feisty Chicago Insurance Adjuster (in town on business and able to join us for dinner) were sending the waiter away. He was taking the dessert menu with him. I assumed they had chosen something for the table to split. Instead I was informed that they didn't want dessert!

They sited the calorie count. I just ate a pound and a half of steak! Does anyone really think a dietary argument will work on me at this point? 3000 calories for the carrot cake. Okay, I hadn't planned on sharing but I'm now willing to if it means we still get dessert. They would not budge.

As I launched into a diatribe of how un-American it would be to leave this Cathedral to Juicy Red Meat (I've always considered myself a bit of a Cathedral to Juicy Red Meat) without the perfect finishing move to make our large intestines tap-out an army of waiters surrounded me. Happy Birthday to You filled the air. A hefty slice of NY Cheesecake plopped down in front of me with a candle in it.

It was not my birthday. Not for another four months. The problem, as my Lovely Girlfriend pointed out, is there is no appropriate song for Hodgkin's Lymphoma. There isn't even an appropriate song for a benign tumor.

This is were the late, great, Warren Zevon comes in. Cancer needs a Composer. Warren's 'Keep Me in Your Heart for a While' is one of the most heartfelt good-bye songs of all time. Until it was hi-jacked by that annoying boob Seth Rogen in one of the most incorrectly titled movies of all time - Funny People. After two plus hours I would have settled for just One Funny Person but it never happened.

As much as I love that song, it is a swan song. I'm looking for a Cancer Anthem that squarely puts a boot up cancer's ass. This would be a job for Toby Keith if cancer posed a threat to his First Amendment right to pen awful songs. I've been noodling a couple of tunes in my head but I'm no songwriter. Here's my best effort. *Sung to the tune of You Say It's Your Birthday.

You say you've got Cancer
I've got Cancer to ya
We're gonna have a good time.

Weak, I know. Like I said, Cancer needs a Composer.

History in a Glass

Pop quiz - What does Jules Vincent have in common with George Washington, Butch & Sundance, Teddy Roosevelt and Albert Anastasia?

No, no, besides the magnetic charisma and an innate ability to lead men.

Still no answer? Okay, I'll give it to you. All of us have had, at one time or another, an adult beverage under the roofs of the historic buildings of NYC. I doubt George Washington stopped to considered the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl St as significant at the time. As, I'm sure, Teddy Roosevelt didn't care if The Paris Cafe would ever wind up on the Federal Registry of Historic Buildings. That's what makes it so special. These spots weren't a publicity stop, they were the regular haunts of famous - and very often infamous - men.

Historic Drinking is my favorite thing to do in NYC. Any city really. I've always hunted down the oldest pubs, restaurants and hotels with the express objective of consuming a cocktail there. Kind of like time travel with a buzz on. See how George McFly survived Biff with a rye whiskey old fashioned in your hand.

That is what makes my current trip to New York so difficult. I CAN'T DRINK! I've cheated a bit. Nursing a beer while sucking down glass after glass of water. Taking a baby sip from two fingers of beautifully brown bourbon in the perfect rocks glass. Watching the bartenders mixing elegant concoctions and dreaming of having "one of those" as my next one that I know will never come.

It's pure torture. Sober as a judge while in some of the best watering holes on the planet. PJ Clarke's, Pete's Tavern and McSorley's are on the schedule today. That means a non-drink with the likes of Frank Sinatra, ee cummings, O. Henry and Richard Harris. Sure, you could slug back a beer in any old alleyway and there's a halfway decent chance that Richard Harris had one there but I doubt there'd be a plaque.

Why not visit a museum instead? That would be the obvious question. In response I say two things. First, would you visit an exhibit of Roman art when you could actually step back into ancient Rome? Second, do you know any museums that let you walk around with a Jim Beam and Ginger?

Seriously, does anyone know of a museum that has cocktail waitresses? I'll go there now.

Welcome Back, Vincent

The NU Hotel, 85 Smith St. Brooklyn, NY 11201. That is were my beautiful and talented
girlfriend got us a free room while she is on her business trip and I am on my Cancer Roadtrip. As a man of modest tastes and meager means (like any good Mainer) this is a SWANK hotel. Metal ice buckets! Over 12 channels on the tv! Clean towels and linens! Metal Ice Buckets!!!

I lived in Brooklyn in 95 and 96 but could never afford the Brooklyn Heights/Carrol Gardens neighborhood that we are now hanging in. I lived in and near by Bensonhurst. Guidoville. The Ribbed Tank-Top Capital of the World. Sausage and Peppers stands for a far as the eye can see. I could go on and on.

And I will! Where Hai Karate is in Hai Demand. Home of the Weeping Jesus Wall Hanging. The original creators of the Madonna/Whore Complex. Where every man is a king and every wife a victim of domestic violence. Okay, okay, not every wife - they're Italians not Irish.

Either way, we had a great night walking around Brooklyn Heights and a fantastic meal at Armando's. We returned to the hotel to catch Donnie Brasco on AMC and that's when it occurred to me (and the ultimate point of this blog posting, finally) wouldn't being a cancer patient be an excellent cover story to infiltrate the Mob?

Depp was Don the Jeweler. I could be Lympho Julio, maybe Jules the Pale. The FBI should be all over this. I'd happily sign up to take on the Greater Bangor mob. Plus, it appears that I'm already qualified to hit the streets. I'm Italian, I love both mob movies and cop movies (so I've got pretty extensive training already) and I've got cancer. My "in" would be an abundance of prescription meds that I'm more than willing to peddle. My cover story would check out as I eventually lost all my hair and could no longer keep down all the canollis.

I would get in so deep with these hardened criminals that I would take on almost all of their characteristics. Except I can't smoke, drink or stay up much past 1130.

I think we just found Marty Scorsese's next hit!