Saturday, December 20, 2014

ALL Lives Matter

Rafael Ramos, left, and Wenjian Liu
Rafael Ramos and Wenjian Liu. Learn those names.

They are two New York City police officers who were murdered this afternoon.

I'm sickened.

I'm pissed off, and not afraid to say so.

"They were, quite simply, assassinated," said Police Commissioner Bill Bratton.

There probably aren't any words, yet allow me to write a few.

The media will give it a special name, of course. It's what we do.

Channel 11 has already gone with "Ambush in Brooklyn." No fancy name, no hard-hitting graphic, helps it make any sense. If anything, it seems useless.

For the love of God. TWO cops are dead, and the suspect said it was coming on Instagram.

"I'm putting wings on pigs today," he wrote.

Oh there was more than that, including hashtags that indicated these murders would be revenge for the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.

Think about it. This guy shot his girlfriend in Baltimore, then came to Bed-Stuy. He had that much time to ponder what he was doing. Cold-blooded is perhaps the nicest way to put it.


Of course, the always-upstanding Al Sharpton said he is "outraged." Jesus, way to step out on that limb there. Then again, ol' Al and I have never been on the same page, so why should I be surprised?

The great City of New York is a mess right now, led by a mayor whom the police force turned their back on. That says a lot to me.

The same mayor, who said tonight, "Now is not the time for politics." Yeah, well too bad, pal. You put yourself there. You can't cherry-pick it.

While I should just stay out of it, I can't. I know police officers, and love them. What happened today was a clear message, and it's not a good one.

Let's be quite clear here: black lives should matter. Eric Garner's life should matter. Michael Brown's life should matter.

Yet so should mine. My mother's. My son's.

And cops lives matter also. They put their lives on the line every day, whether it's in Ferguson, New York City, or Carmel.

Is this hard to understand?

I understood the need to protest what happened in Missouri and on Staten Island, albeit peacefully. I don't - and won't - understand looting, destruction, and violence.

To me, tonight, the protest card is revoked. Done.

Will LeBron James wear a pro-police T-shirt? Will members of the Rams, Jets, Giants - whatever - take the field in NYPD caps?

Will there be editorials in local papers denouncing the behavior tonight?

Or is it all just agenda-driven?

Who is advocating for the police? Rallies? Protests? Will we see those?

Al Sharpton will surely advocate for the police, right? Not. A. Chance. EVER. Apparently, neither will Mayor de Blasio, unless needed to save his own political career.

It's a strange, scary time.

Tonight, hug your kids. Your family. Express condolences and thanks to a police officer. There are so many great ones, just trying to keep us safe and do an honorable job. I get that you might want to express something on social media - I mean, come on, I'm here - but think. Think a lot. Then think again. Then, after you've thought one more time, hit send.


They were two innocent cops sitting in a patrol car.

Rafael Ramos and Wenjian Liu.

They're now dead.

All lives matter.

The End of an Era

Sean and his dad. Traditions live. December 22, 2012

Traditions. I've always believed in them, to the point of being told I can be a "get off my lawn" type of guy. Seems strong, but OK.

I've tried to go The Big E every year, but came up short this year. Oktoberfest at Hunter Mountain? I got there in, er, October. I love Opening Day in baseball and calling a football game every Thanksgiving.

Traditions change, of course (baseball has done a phenomenal job screwing up Opening Day).

Traditions also end. One of those will die tonight.

Every year for over a decade or so, my family and I have gathered to visit the Christmas display of Rick and Joan Setti in Norwalk, CT. The group has changed over the years (people come and go) but a core group has gone for a long time now.

Yes, there's been a missed date here and there. For instance, I was laid up with kidney stones in 2010, so Sean went with the rest of the family. My mom missed last year due to her open heart surgery, but a group went on Christmas Eve, as a snap decision, with the snow falling furiously.

The Setti's have decided that it's time to stop the display. According to a report in the Norwalk Daily Voice, they're not moving to Florida, as was rumored. They're just stopping because they think it's time. It's a lot of work, and you know that if you've ever been there. The number of miniature houses, wooden figures, and lights are staggering.

The couple will have their Christmas village featured on an ABC Family channel show called "The Great Christmas Light Fight" on Monday, Dec. 22. Their Facebook page has more, including the possibility of an eventual tag sale.

Selfishly, I'm sad. This night - this display - could often melt the heart of a six-foot tall Grinch. What's worse is that Sean is sad.

This is all he's known. We first brought him when he was tiny. When he had parents that brought him. Later, his dad made sure to get him there. The general routine, which grew out of my sister going with her kids, became our tradition.

Later tonight, we will meet at Post Corner Pizza in Darien. This part was my idea, since we needed a spot to grab dinner. There will be pizza, salad, laughter, figuring out how to pay the bill, and we will all leave stuffed. From there, we'll make the drive to Norwalk to visit the display. Oh sure, some years the visit might have been shorter than others due to cold weather, snow, etc. Yet we went - without fail.

The night will finish just as a night of viewing Christmas lights should: at Stew Leonard's in Norwalk for ice cream (after walking around the store, of course). I have to have to cup of coffee to sip as we stroll and look for any taste samples (cookies, donuts, etc).

I noticed, as we made the plans for tonight, most of Laura's kids are going (all grown and out of high school now). They might not have pushed to go in another year, but we all know tonight will be special. I know Michael would love to bring his girlfriend and baby to see it, but he'll be thinking of us in Arizona. Mom is going, and that is a blessing. My niece Stephanie is joining us also, as always.

And Sean.

I suggested ways we could carry the torch next year to him, but he was succinct: "It just won't be the same."

He's quite right there. It won't. We can find other light displays (of course, the Guinness record-breaking drive-around ERDAJT in LaGrangeville, NY is phenomenal) but something will be missing.

Yet it's of course more than that, and any parent should agree. This is the end. Sean is 12, and different days are approaching. That wonder, that innocence, that willingness to hang with his "old man" and the family will likely be gone. There is a sadness that will hang over tonight.

I hope to run into other friends tonight, so that they can see this before it goes away. I hope we find other things to do but we all know that there will always be that nostalgia when we think about Rick and Joan's house in Norwalk.

Things don't come easy for families. Some members have no interest in going. Yet it was always nice to have something - this thing - that most of us agreed on.

Thanks to the Setti's for this wonderful tradition. We won't try to change your mind, but you'll forgive us if there is a long look, and maybe a tear, as we say good bye.

Don't Forget the Smiley Face!

Yesterday, I made an attempt to post something. Anything.

A friend, one of my closest confidants on the planet (among several in the close circle of Robland, a small enclave of Friendlyville*), reached out to me and patted me on the back for just getting back on the horse, so to speak.

* Friendlyville was the dirt under my parent's deck. Several of my neighbors and I created a whole town down there with rocks and plastic shovels and Tonka trucks. The good old days of filthy pants, a wiffle ball game, lots of sweat, and a cold drink. Magical.

My friend knows me as well as anyone, and I can't argue the truth: that by posting something, I'd begin to conquer whatever gremlin had crawled inside of me. Well clearly something is working because I'm here again. Still gremlins to beat though.

I need to get to the point.

In our modern-day world of tweets, blogs, Facebook (evil and otherwise), Snapchat, Instagram, and so on, we get so many characters. We write, and context is lost before the vultures circle. Or we have our moment that gets filmed or reported and, again, you don't know the whole story.

Think of the Doughnut Inn story from July, in which a four-year-old child was "banned" from the store. Ah, that was one side. Not so fast.

My great friend Kait Shea hammered the story home. Interestingly, the fury died on the vine after. Incidentally, the comments on Kait's story are, well, read for yourself. Typical. Yet a little research would have indicated there was more than met the eye. We have countless other examples, and if you don't think the recent situations in Ferguson and Staten Island aren't examples, then you're not paying attention.

But let's just rush to judgement - the same thing we've cursed about for hundreds of years. Tony Stewart thanks you.

Oh by the way, Doughnut Inn is still blissfully open on Connecticut route 25 in Monroe. I drive past it all the time. The coffee's great.

Earlier today, over on Gawker, I read a fascinating story by Sam Biddle on the Justine Sacco tweet of a year ago. Oh, you don't remember it? You will.

It appears that Ms. Sacco wasn't a racist monster. She tweeted something - a parody, basically, sans emoticon - and had her career (and her life) were nearly destroyed.

This is the firestorm we live in, from Mr. Imus and "hoes" (Don't. Get. Me. Started.) to anything and everything in between, we are always just a minor flub away from personal disaster.

We all experience it to a degree. We all know these constant misunderstandings - small or not. I truly believe that. Personally, it happens a lot with me. Whether it's a tweet, text, ichat, or blog post, more often than not I have the tongue firmly planted in cheek, demonstrating my love of the fantastical.

An example: I've told you about my friend Susan Shultz's novella The Blacksmith. It is brilliant, and is just the beginning for her. I've already seen a few lines from the next novella. Wow. (Oh, and The Blacksmith is still just $.99 from Full Fathom Five Digital. So do your friend a favor and buy buy buy!)

Anyway, my silly mood went off the rails earlier this week, and I concocted a Broadway musical version of the novella. Susan would rather have her lead character make a souffle of her than ever see that happen, but even she admitted that it was rather funny. The whole conversation went via ichat, which is our standard around HAN.

Conversely, if we somehow misread the whole thing (again, it happens all the time), it could have gotten weird, but laughter prevailed and all was well. But one things gets out of context, or one sentence - one word - dripping in too much snark? It can be game on. For anyone.

It's sad that we live in a time where an emoticon - a smiley face or whatever - is the key. I had somebody say that to me several years ago, when they were becoming "the standard."

Sigh. Yet it's true. Now would have helped Justine Sacco? Probably not, and I suppose that brings us back to the old thing about thinking twice (at least) before pressing "send."

I'm also often wonderfully misread in person. Don't ask me how. I've perfected it and it's my recipe.

So do we come back around to if we are too sensitive? (We are) Do we need to just take a step back? (We do, and we won't)

We all know we're too overworked, overtaxed, overstressed, and so on. The kids need to be bathed, fed, and put to sleep. The bills need to be paid. The plumbing needs to be fixed. Plus we all need an hour to watch Real Housewives of Ridgefield.**


A smiley face. That's what it's come to.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Awesome. Just. Awesome.

It's December 19.

In a year in which I have published a whopping 73 (74 with this) posts, I have put just TWO up in December.


Like, Derek Jeter. Bobby Murcer (1979-1983). John Football. Moses Malone. Mike Gallego.



And now I've done three. Granted, that's Babe Ruth, but still.

By the way, I'm going to miss that guy in the picture. You might be all sick of him, and so be it.

I'm Trying

Sorry, folks. I know there are three or four of you (and I owe you each a beverage or grape drink* for it) who regularly read the idiocy I post here.

* Those who enjoy grape drink know who they are, specifically when they got it in the Jeffseon Valley Mall.

Lately, I haven't felt it. Not because I have wanted to.

Just because, well, I don't know.

I've tried. Goodness knows, I've tried. I've written at least four posts in the past few weeks before deleting each of them. I've tried to find some anger with the NFL (still legit, as I think the product has suffered and I've lost some interest), and other things rattling around in my noggin.

Yet I felt like each post was rudderless. Just lost.

I felt it back when I wrote after Thanksgiving night. I thought I had made a cogent post regarding shopping that night, while not defending the actual action. I'm not really in favor of it, to be honest, but it was nice to spend that time with my sister..

After I hit publish, I thought about deleting it. Somewhere in the process from brain to fingertips, it just didn't fly.

Each post since then has suffered from the same thing.

Have I lost my fastball? Hell, did I ever HAVE a fastball? Am I a bigger wreck than even I thought?

Maybe. Honestly, I'm not quite sure.

I want better here. I want to keep writing. I think about it for a few minutes every day but normally those thoughts occur away from the keyboard.

I have topics but I can't seem to get them quite clear. Thus I frequently add to the reasons that I think I suck at life.

I've been told I'm bogged down. I have too much stress and too much on my mind. I can't argue. I try, but I can't.

Worst is that I feel like I'm hurting people I care about via my posts, and I have no interest in doing so. Lots of things are written here with tongue firmly planted in cheek, in the hopes of recognizing there is a lot of parody and sarcasm on this blog.

Daily conversations product topics and, yet, I feel like damage can be done if I bring them here.

Yet when you lose faith in your writing, what's next?

I feel like I have nothing to say. Nothing even remotely interesting. Even if I did, what scares me the most is that I can't articulate it.

Anyway, I'm babbling. All in the name of getting another scintillating post up. I'll shut up now.,

Carry on.

Tuesday, December 09, 2014

Dec. 10

Laughing. That's best way to think of him. My dad is 56 in this picture, with granddaughters Laura, Kristy, and Stephanie in front of him. A 17-year-old future blogger is at far left. Christmas Eve, 1985.
December 10, 2014 would have been my father's 85th birthday. Thinking of him as 85 years old is as strange to me as it was at 80, 75, 70, etc.

To me, to anyone, he'll always be 59. That's what life does to you. You're thought of as we knew you.

But I wonder. I wonder what the past 25 plus years would have been like. How do things change? That's how strong the impact of his loss has been felt. Lives were change forever.

I know. I've no doubt discussed this all here before. I wonder what he would have thought of the grandkids he never met. What would he have thought of career choices, spouses, splits, triumphs, and tragedies?

How would he have reacted to the '96 Yankees? Would it have been a father-son bonding moment or no big deal?

What would he have thought of my radio work?

Would he have an iPad? Would I have loaded it with countless music? Would he have an email address or care about social media?

Would there have been a retirement?

Would modern technology have given him comfort, instead of the constant physical pain he lived in?

It reminds me of a story. A story of, arguably, the saddest night of my life, until he passed away in 1989.

I was probably eight or nine. We're talking, roughly, 1977. The pain in his legs was miserable one night, and though he was usually the soundest sleeper not named "Sean Adams," he couldn't sleep on this night.

I'd heard him snore before. I'd heard him moan in pain, but generally sleep through it. This night was different.

I heard him in the living room with my mother. The pain, by my young ears, seemed unbearable. He moaned. He groaned.

He sobbed.

My mother was consoling. Comforting. But on this night, there was nothing but despair from the old man.

I couldn't sleep. I don't remember anything of my siblings, who may or may not have been home, as they were both deeper into their later teens.

I came out of my room at one point, only to be shooed back into it. While the pain was very apparent, it was still easier with me out of sight.

What sticks out at me - what really has stayed with me all these years - was him talking about not being able to take me to ballgames.

I went to two Yankees games with my dad. We went as a family in 1972 and 1973. They beat the Orioles in '72, and the Royals the next year. A guy named Murcer had a double off of Jim Palmer in that first game.

The hook of baseball struck and it's never left.

Indeed, my dad would get me to games and other events whenever possible. So I went to Yankee Stadium with relatives. Friends. Other fathers.

This is not some sob story. I loved whatever time I had with him, and never resented any of that stuff.  I just wanted to make his pain go away. He made sure my mom and his kids came first. Physically, he simply could not be comfortable at a game. You can say maybe he should have swallowed his pride for a wheelchair or whatever, but I'm not going to question that.

It was a different time. A different world. A different life. And I won't let the passage of time make things appear 20/20.

There's an awful picture of us, taken on the day of my graduation from high school. Long story short: he didn't go. The pain of knowing he's not going is apparent in his face.

I smiled. I knew he was proud of me, and he was my dad. Sure, I was sad he didn't go, but I understood. I can still recall calling the house before the ceremony began to see if he was coming.

I think about him every day. Every. Day. I probably mention him more than I should, and have often apologized in case you're sick of reading about him.

His impact on my life can't be measured. I want to believe we go somewhere special when we die. I'd like to think, maybe, he's watching Patton, or listening to The Drum Battle (he always said Gene Krupa was better than Buddy Rich).

Most importantly. He's in my heart, and by telling you about him, I often hope you'll love him just a little.

Happy 85th, Pop.


December 10th holds another significance this year. My friend Susan Shultz, editor of the Darien Times, wife, mother of Lucy and Annabelle, is the author of The Blacksmith: Tales From the Graveyard, Novella 1.

I expect you to say, "Rob. She's your friend. You're just supporting her." There is truth in that. I read it because my friend asked me to.

I was blown away. It's deep. Complex. Even, shall we say, mature.

So go visit the website, via her publisher, Full Fathom Five, and support a very talented person.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Thanksgiving Shopping

Many complain about stores being open on Thanksgiving, and I get it. Largely, I agree.


We all know the drill. A place like, say, Kohl's opens. A line forms before the store does. So, in a simple-minded way (I know no other style) doesn't it figure that, if nobody shows, then the store won't open? The company will eventually get the hint and stop?

After calling yesterday's off-the-charts Darien/New Canaan FCIAC Championship football game*, I moved onto my sister's place in Fairfield.

* Side note: I don't think I've ever called a longer turkey game. I didn't leave until well after 2:30, having arrived at Boyle Stadium just after 7:30.

The topic of Thanksgiving shopping came up, and I admit that I completely understand and agree with place like CVS, Walgreens, grocery stores, and a few other places being open. Do I think Target should be open? Not really, but then my sister piped up to see if I would go with her to Kohl's.

I'm a sport, and I like seeing the madness, so why not? I'm not going there with a goal, so I can be an observer, and I'm still getting family time.

We pulled into the lot just before six, and there was already a line out front. While we both agreed that it isn't cool to be open on Thanksgiving, well, there we were anyway.

I would be OK with stores being open on this night, if the staff working was OK with it. What I don't like - where I really object - is stores that mark Thanksgiving as a "blackout date," meaning to not work is a no-no or, even a fireable offense.

However, say you're in your mid-40s and you don't have much going on for you. Say you're single and with no children or family. Then what's the harm of working for some extra scratch?

In my case, I had my family to be with. Still, beyond that, I get it.

Yet let's go further. Say a person is struggling to make ends meet. They want to get their child something for Christmas and the store has something at a price that person can afford. How do you begrudge them?

Again, I don't think such places should be open on Thanksgiving or Christmas, but if the staff is OK, and the people come out (present company included), then so it goes. I'm just saying maybe we should think it all through before we condemn.

So we did the Kohl's thing. The story will be the story of the TV that at first required a coupon, then didn't, then suddenly did. A Kohl's employee screwed up. That's it. Period.

I saw tempers flare but, overall, I didn't see those images that come from, say, a Wal-Mart in Houston or something like that.

The cheesecake still tasted good later.

**A clarification: For the record, I don't think that these stores generally get volunteers. If anything, those people are the exception. The norm are people who are told to work "or else." That part, bluntly, sickens me. Thus I go back to me original statement of "I don't think such places should be open on Thanksgiving or Christmas." In fact, I listened to a woman in a Walgreen's recently who said she had a choice: Thanksgiving or Christmas. One or the other. So, again, I don't like it.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

The 46th Candle

Got an email earlier today, and was allowed to share it...

"Happy Birthday to one of the best human being on the planet. Look up friend in Webster's Dictionary and it says "See Rob Adams". So you look up Rob Adams - (yes there is a listing for Rob Adams in Webster's).

It says the following:

Rob Adams - (n) pronounced "Rob Adams"
- awesome human being
- a great friend
- a loving Dad
- superb broadcaster
- radio legend
- lover of Waffle House
- super fan of Huey Lewis & The News
- zealot of the open roads and it's signage
- prolific writer
- beer/craft beer aficionado

Enjoy your day my friend, the clouds might be dark now for both of us - but the sun will shine and it willshine brightly on us soon.

Love ya,

I'm humbled and touched by this, and the thoughts of each person that took the time to call, text, and post. I'm honored that I got to spend it at Michie Stadium for the Fordham/Army football game. I'm amazed to be around the brave men and women of the United States Military Academy.

Thanks, everyone, for thinking of me.

Tomorrow, I will sit behind the mic for the Bridgeport Sound Tigers when they visit the Albany Devils. Listen live here.

Saturday, November 08, 2014

Friends (the Modern Version)

I needed a picture, and a quote works. I guess.
It was a week of lost and recovered friends and relationships.

Yeah, not exactly Dickens, but it will do. You know - best of times, worst of times.

But seriously (Phil Collins, 1989) as I patrolled the social media world, I found myself thinking about it all.

I love my friends and I hate when any of them get hurt or there's a misunderstanding. What almost never happens is a definitive break. Friends lose touch a bit but they're never gone. At least, not in me eyes.

Thanks to the beast of social media, one can stay in touch.

Whether it's male or female, I love my friends.

Friends with the opposite sex can certainly be a tough line to walk. Oh I'm not saying it's impossible - in fact it's quite common (present company included). Yet it does take a certain level of understanding and, to be honest, it can be a fine line.

Indeed it can often lead to impacting personal relationships, boundaries, and perceived respect (or slights).

And misunderstandings.

I can clearly recall being at Kraft back in the day, and when I announced I was getting married, it was thought that I was marrying a coworker who I frequently had lunch with.

No, but looking back, I could understand why. In this era, had I still worked with that person, there might be social media pictures, selfies, and so on. And the talk would intensify, no doubt.

Rumours (British spelling for Fleetwood Mac, 1977) can be a beast.

And the circle goes 'round. The dance continues.

I also found myself thinking about when and if to "friend" people on social media. Basically: when is it proper? I sometimes see "suggested friends" or meet people and the question comes into my brain.

For instance, I met some great people recently. Now, I wouldn't flinch and, honestly, I would be fine with it if they requested me, but I don't want to impose. Everybody has their own social media personality (and they all have a face that they hide away forever...Mr. Joel...).

Thus I don't. When in doubt, of course.

Yes, this is an inexact science, and really is part of a bigger, more socially complex conundrum in the dynamic of friendship. I have friends who are very careful about their social media relationships. As of this writing, I have 668 connections on Facebook (as of this writing), and I haven't exactly examined who they are. But I'm glad they're there.

I'm sad that I've lost friends, but I suppose there are reasons. I'm one who would rather talk them over and work it out.

In fact, I have passed on very few friend requests, and have only dropped a couple. Now I know I've been a dropped a few times also.

There are deeper things going on there, and I won't get into the minutiae. I know that a conversation was relayed online (we have mutual friends, after all), but I can say that we will agree to disagree.

I mean, aren't friends supposed to do that?

OK, so three music references in here? Ladies and gentlemen, Billy Joel!


It's that time of year where I'm looking for a shirt to layer with.
Enter my Stuckey's T-shirt.

Ah yes, Stuckey's. We will leave out the story that my mother has told approximately one billion times regarding a young writer/broadcaster and the Pecan/candy/snack/junk shop, and just step ahead to the above shirt, bought for a bargain at the location on US 13 in Virginia on the Delmarva Peninsula.

It reminds me of youth. It reminds me of my dad, of course. It reminds me of family trips, souvenirs, maps, french fries, an ice cold Coca Cola, and the simplicity of the road trip.

It's good nostalgia, and yet a sad reminder that most of those same roadside spots are gone, replaced by homogenous chains.

It's also a reminder of a young boy who, in his excitement, nearly made his father drive off an interstate at the site of "Stickey's."

Yes. Youth.

Thoughts from Sean

A conversation from earlier this evening, as Sean and I enjoyed dinner.*

* OK, first the meal. I am not a cook. Not. Even. Close. But I do know how to boil water, and make some spaghetti. The true shame is the use of some mass-produced jarred sauce. The meatballs, however, were made by my mother from the (should-be) world famous recipe of my beloved and saintly Aunt Fay. Just the best.

RA: So what do you think of Taylor Swift?

SA: I don't like her.

RA: Her music, or her?

SA: Both. I just don't like her.

Yes, the hater is indeed, gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

Wednesday, November 05, 2014


I need video of Fred's "cursing"
I've pondered my writing a bit lately. There's no doubt I've climbed back on the ol' horse.

Why here, when blogs appear to be so passe? Well, I guess because this is my outlet, and despite having free reign over at, it's just not proper for me to go there and write things like this.

It's been an up and down run lately. A friggin' roller coaster, and if you know me, you know I hate it. One minute there's good news and all is peachy-keen. Then next? It's like Fred Flinstone cursing. Or like this...

So I come here. It's a release. Yes, I sometimes say too much or tip my hand or have you all think I'm strolling the Tappan Zee Bridge considering how cold the water is, but it's largely based on a certain form of parody and exaggeration.

Tinged with sincerity.

I can't take being jerked around. Right now, I'm so f****** p***** (remember, I don't really curse here) about a broadcasting opportunity that I had been pushing for since I first heard about it. Not only did HAN Radio not even get a chance to make a bid, we didn't even get a response.

So they went to another outlet, with announcers who will flat-out...

Wait, Rob. You can't say that. You always have to take the high road. Yup. Have to. Don't let the bastards get you down.

Like I said, I'm here because it's a release. Right now, I should be posting 30 editions of Behind the News or Radio Arts and Leisure, but I'm here to help my blood pressure.

I'm redder than the traffic lights outside of Westchester County Center.

Where the Westchester Knicks play.