Remembering that first motorcycle ride of a NYC spring

By Tony Mangia

After almost 40 years of living in New York City, I permanently — and stubbornly — moved out of Manhattan to Florida. One of the reasons I made the switch from concrete sidewalks to sandy beaches — besides the fortuity to work out of what was my second home — was the weather and opportunity to ride my motorcycle almost any time I wanted. It’s been three years since I traded that one-bedroom apartment under the shadow of the Empire State building for a three-bedroom house with a pool, boat dock and garage on the Gulf Coast of the Sunshine State.

Oh yeah, did I mention I now have a garage?

I never knew having my own personal space to park my 1976 Harley-Davidson Super Glide would yield so many benefits after years of parking it on the 32nd Street sidewalk (technically illegal, but I was young, broke and the city was the Wild West back then) outside my building before being able to afford storing it in various indoor garages around the neighborhood.

Finally, for the next couple of decades I knew my garage-parked bike would be relatively safe (I did have my car stolen right out of a Sixth Avenue parking garage once), a little expensive ($250 a month), but wouldn’t have to worry about parking tickets, tow trucks or that ubiquitous homeless guy who occasionally “decorated” it with trinkets he culled from the garbage. The problems with the garage were that the bike was usually stashed in a dank corner swaddled under a perpetually dirty motorcycle cover (You wouldn’t believe how much exhaust soot the cars make and that the parking attendants must breath in) and it was jammed behind a couple of cars (I had to tip the attendant to move them while I unlocked the half dozen or so locks I secured it with). The act of retrieving my motorcycle became a task that actually made getting the bike out on the street a tiresome and sometimes time-consuming chore. It was easier to jump on the subway or grab a cab. Leisurely putts became a rarity.

The luxury of having my own garage now goes past just parking the bike. It means I can work on that leaky AMF (One rebuilt engine and two paint jobs later) in comfortable surroundings, leave parts scattered where they fall — all with with the convenience of an array of tools at my side. It is sure a big difference from when I would slip my bike between two parked cars on the street, kick some garbage out of the way and hope it didn’t rain before I finished changing the oil or whatnot. 

But a Manhattan parking garage did provide my Harley with secure storage over the winter months.

From November until March, I would occasionally stop in the garage, reach under the gunk-coated cover and start the old warhorse for a quick battery charge thinking about a joyous warm day when I could take it out for the ceremonial first ride of spring. Honestly, I mostly neglected the bike during the winter storage more than I should have. Out of sight, out of mind.

In Florida I have the luxury of being able to ride the bike almost any day I want. It’s sitting right there at my house. I’ve become spoiled by the warm weather and easy access to my bike 365 days a year. And in shorts and a tank top no less! No more soiled cover, no more airborne grime, no more drained batteries, no more waiting for the temperature to rise above 55-degrees (My personal comfort level) and no more 250 bucks for a three-foot by six-foot corner space every month. Florida is Nirvana for motorcyclists — and cheaper too. 

Now after three years in southwest Florida, I came to the conclusion that I have been been taking my motorcycle for granted and find myself reminiscing about that first day of spring ride ritual.

Looking back, after six months being cooped up during a New York City winter, the snow and cold, that first spin on your scooter every spring was like the last day of school and Christmas rolled onto two wheels. The act of gearing up — my 30 year-old leather jacket that has who knows how many miles and the scuffed patches from a few spills to prove it — and hoping that you have enough juice in the battery, the jets didn’t clog and the fuel didn’t evaporate (gas stations are rare birds in Manhattan) are now distant flashbacks.

The anxiety of those annual first city starts still linger though. Every year, while stepping around that puddle of oil under the bike before wiping off the accumulated dust and filth, there came the pressing of the start button followed by its first wheezing cough through the air filter, the popping burps from the exhausts and the prayers you don’t have to hump it up the parking lot ramp, then down to push-start it. Funny how those nuisances are fond remembrances now. 

Back on those first days, with any luck, the points and timing were okay, the gas was potent, tire pressure okay and there was enough oil left in it to take her out for that first annual spin.  

The sensation of riding my motorcycle into bright sunlight outside the darkened garage exit was a glorious feeling. Cruising down Fifth Avenue, the 1200cc vibrating underneath, a slight wind in your face with Mother Nature somehow finding a way to send a chill down your neck. The smell of Sabrett’s hot dog carts filled your other senses. The staleness of winter being exorcised from your bike through temporary plumes of black exhaust  and an occasional sputter. At the same time, your own pent-up soul being cleansed with a healthy blush on your cheeks and a smile on your face.

For me, it was always over to the FDR to rev this baby out of her doldrums. Cruising along the East River, dodging potholes and taxis was dangerous, but also a delightful, welcome adventure. Then it was up to 96th Street and over to Park Avenue southward for my favorite secret shortcut through a tunnel slicing through the Pan Am Building (What real New Yorkers still call the renamed MetLife Building) and around Grand Central Station on an elevated roadway looking down at Vanderbilt Place before tooling up 42nd Street. It was a thrill gliding past Times Square over to the West Side Highway up to the the George Washington Bridge into Jersey for a fresh tank of gas for that thirsty beast. 

In the coming weeks, it would be a wash, an oil change and tune up done on the crowded street. The leather jacket would go back in the closet and, considering the weather, more rides out of the city.

Today in Florida, like almost any day, I opened my garage door, hopped on the seat and rode that motorcycle to the local store for some groceries — hassle-free. No stuck padlocks, no ashy covers and no attendant with his hand out. 

In exchange, there are no more first rides of spring anymore.

Like that incurable drip of oil from my motorcycle and the eternal pool it leaves on my garage floor, the recollections of those anticipated first rides in New York City have stayed with me — even with the city inconveniences.

Arcadia Rodeo Championships In Motion (Photography)

Photos By Tony Mangia

The 92nd annual Arcadia All-Florida Championships were held during a four-day event this weekend and didn't disappoint. Riders, ropers, bull riders and a couple of thousand rodeo fans filled the new Mosaic Arena with saddles, ropes, stirrups and boots not to mention a pretty good pulled pork BBQ sandwich aroma.

I tried to capture the events (Steer wrestling, team roping, saddle bronc riding, tie-down roping and bull riding) in photographs showing the speed, precision and drama of the split second action between the animals and cowboys.

The cowgirls competing in the barrel racing event were just as spectacular.

Working MLB Spring Training Security In Times Of Coronavirus

Story and photos by Tony Mangia

I have been working security detail during spring training for a Major League Baseball team in Florida —usually about five or six weeks every winter—over the past three years. It’s temporary position that allows a person like myself to have a part-time job, chat with people and earn a little extra income on the side — all while in a sunny, outdoor baseball setting. Along with about 50 other men and women — many retired with law enforcement, military and even some jail guard experience — we are the front line of protection at each minor league stadium at every game during the months of February and March before the regular season starts.

The security team incorporates three different steps at the ticket holder entrances to make sure the players and patrons are safe on the practice fields, locker rooms and while sitting in the stands or enjoying the concourses filled concession stands and facilities, respectively. 

Game day entrants must first pass through a physical inspection where our guests are asked to empty their pockets into a small bin while their bags are hand-checked for for banned items like alcohol, knives, mace, explosives and firearms (Well, it is Florida and many individuals have legal conceal and carry permits) along with have-to-be-checked in items like beach chairs and umbrellas. Next, patrons pass through a metal-detecting magnetometer — which we call The Mag — and if you set that baby off, you have the pleasure of being wanded by our third line of protection with an hand-held metal detector.

Pretty much standard procedure at any stadium or public gathering these days and the results prove that security details like ours are universally successful as both a result and a deterrent. 

Every year Floridians like to sneer that we have to withstand the influx of snowbirds who bring down their colds and flus from up north. But this year there is a new threat coming from wherever which could possibly appear at our gates and stealthily affect the well being of everyone inside. It is called COVID-19 —  otherwise going by the less scientific name of coronavirus.

While it’s easy to find an errant knife or bourbon-filled flask within our three-step physical and technological screenings at the stadium entrances, the invisible menace of this viral infection is impossible to detect at any gate without specialized medical testing kits.

Now, with the heavy national media coverage of the coronavirus hitting close to home —  a couple of deaths in Florida attributed to the serious respiratory illness — MLB’s spring-training sports venues like where I work are taking steps to limit the possibility of contracting the virus.  While discussions about contamination have been a summarily hot topic while working at the security gates, there’s still way more friendly chatter because we try to make the extra wait in line as pleasant and innocuous as possible for the patrons as well as me and my fellow workers.

So when someone in line coughs and then tells you they just got off a cruise, you wince with concern before pulling that bottle of hand sanitizer from your pocket after they pass. And there are lots of cruise ships docking in Florida.

Florida is also filled with the most susceptible victims of the airborne Coronavirus  — which has killed over 4,000 people worldwide — namely senior citizens and retirees. Some of my co-workers might go by that label as well and a good portion of our game patrons are of advanced age with health concerns. Although, at least outwardly, most of them seem more concerned with the dip of the stock market than a rise in coronavirus. 

But our stadium team’s concerns and safety of the fans aren’t taken lightly.  At every game we screen through all-sized bags filled with crumpled tissues, hairbrushes, diapers, used sippy cups and other personal items which have touched who-knows-what before they got to the stadium. Even without the threat of coronavirus, the task of a security person can be slightly intrusive and let’s say a little yucky.

So with three entrance gates containing 10 security checks welcoming an average of about 4,000 people for each of 16 exhibition games, I figure I will physically come in contact with at least 6,400 unfamiliar individuals at the gate this month not to mention touching their personal nicknacks and the various face-to-face chit-chats and numerous hand-to-hand fist-bumps  — which have replaced the more exposed high-five — fans expect me to respond to. 

That’s a lot of person-to-person interaction.

Our management has taken exceptional steps to help prevent the contamination of public facilities by coronavirus including providing more hand sanitizer dispensers around the stadium. The cleaning crews spray down bathrooms, disinfect the doors, handles, railings and even the stadium seats are wiped down before each game. It also minimizes the spread of the common flu too. 

As for the gate watchers, we have rubber gloves, disinfectant wipes and use sticks to probe through bags while looking for contraband. We even joke that the magnetic rays of the Mags might help kill off the virus. They don’t.

The lighthearted puns help hide a subliminal concern among me and my co-workers and, although nobody has quit and I have yet to see a face mask on a patron or a worker, you don’t have to be germaphobe to use common sense and take simple precautions like washing your hands more often and avoid touching your face. And the occasional “thank you” from an attendee makes us feel appreciated for doing the dirty work so the Grapefruit League games can thrive here in Florida during this unpredictable coronavirus scare.

While the new, extended foul line netting at stadiums makes it more difficult for fans to make contact with the players, that longtime ritual of getting up close with them in a more relaxed, small town atmosphere at spring training has been curtailed. MLB recently sent a memo to all 30 teams (15 which train and play in southern Florida) telling players avoid taking balls and pens from from fans because of coronavirus. Most players will still sign a few things — albeit wearing their batting gloves — but some teams have barred them from direct signings and distribute pre-signed items instead. 

MLB and local stadium crews are taking the coronavirus seriously, but the games are still fun and exciting while we do our best to make it a safe place to come out and enjoy a beer and a hot dog in-between the strikes and home runs.

Just say thanks to the event staff while you’re there.

UPDATE

MLB is delaying the start of the 2020 regular season by at least two weeks in response to the coronavirus pandemic, the league announced Thursday.

The league also said in a statement that spring training games have been suspended, starting at 4 p.m. ET Thursday.

Commissioner Rob Manfred and the league's owners held a conference call Thursday afternoon to formalize the plan.

"MLB will announce the effects on the schedule at an appropriate time and will remain flexible as events warrant, with the hope of resuming normal operations as soon as possible," MLB said in its statement.

The announcement came while some spring training games in Florida were still in progress. MLB followed the NBA, NHL, MLS and college basketball tournaments in altering schedules because of the pandemic.

MLB had been scheduled to open its season March 26, with all 30 teams in action. Manfred left open whether each team still would play 162 games.

Kansas-Kansas State Basketball Brawl Had A Lot Of Extras Action

By Tony Mangia

A frightening basketball brawl broke out near the end of No. 3 Kansas'  81-59 victory vs. Kansas State at Phog Allen Fieldhouse on Tuesday night. In what looked like some wild-west fight scene out of a movie, dozens of players, coaches and a whole cast of extras, excuse me, background actors, got caught up in the crazy melee on the court and in the stands.

All that was missing were cowboy hats and swinging saloon doors.

The fracas started after Kansas' Silvio De Sousa swatted DaJuan Gordon on a breakaway as time expired. After the play, De Sousa stood over Gordon and when Kansas State's Cartier Diarra approached De Sousa, the rumble was on. 

Besides the principal players, the action includes a curious mix of casting call fill-ins unsuspectingly making the scene seem like an almost surreal, stage-blocked film shot. 

Props department, make sure a metal stool is positioned so that De Sousa can grab it and cock it back above his head and start the scene.

Rolling ... background ... action!

An all-out brawl just happened. pic.twitter.com/73MBmr0RNf

— Riley Gates (@Riley_Gates) January 22, 2020

First, and out of nowhere, there was some dude in white skinny jeans getting involved and setting off a mad rush by players from both teams towards K-State's side of the court. The fight spilled into the stands and disabled section as players from both benches tussled and punches were thrown. 

Benches emptied at the end of the Kansas State-Kansas game. pic.twitter.com/zWv46h3RJC

— ESPN (@espn) January 22, 2020

Then, after Skinny Jeans Guy, a whole cast of odd background characters gets caught in the frenzy.

Terrified Girl was the first.

Cue the Male Cheerleader actually holding back A Stunned Cop.

And Guy in Yellow Security Shirt got some prime face time.

Finally, if that wasn't enough, Where's Waldo was even spotted in the scene.

De Sousa was given an unsporting technical foul and a future suspension seems inevitable. All players who left the bench were ejected and could face further penalties as well. 

The two schools will be featured together again Feb. 29 in Manhattan, Kansas.

And the extras ... well, they got their big screen breaks.

India’s Camel Culture Being Wiped Out By Advocacy Groups and Government Regulations

Article and Photos by Tony Mangia

It’s a cultural tradition dating back over 150 years with roots going back as far back as the 10th century when Muslim warriors made their way through the deserts of India on hump-backed beasts by way of the Middle East. Now the Pushkar Camel Fair is fighting for its life and basically the livelihood of thousands of families and their way of existing.

Every year, for the last century and a half, thousands of Raika camel dealers and their herds converge on the rural Indian city of Pushkar during an annual fair where they show, trade and sell the plump-lipped mammals with the fat-laden (not water) padding on their backs.

During the week long fest known as Pushkar Camel Mela, the holy city of Pushkar — located about 150 km southwest of the smoggy, congested streets of Jaipur in the Indian state of Rajasthan — turns into a colorful and chaotic mix of camel traders, Hindu pilgrims and curious tourists.  While the fair has lost some of its majesty and commercial importance in modern India, the festival still attracts thousands of Raika and their herds of dromedaries along with thousands more foreign sightseers and local merchants.

The scene is almost hallucinatory, as throngs of camels — many adorned with bells, colorful necklaces and decorative straps to make them more attractive to buyers — lounge around chewing their cud and bellowing at the sky.

                                          

It’s hard not to notice the circles of peaceful Raika in their bright turbans talking among the braying camels — many of which are hobbled by ropes binding a front leg bent at the knee joint so they don't stray. But, these days, instead of making deals, the conversations lean more towards how they they can make ends meet. Sunlight from a dazzling blue sky illuminate the brown, weathered faces of the beleaguered tribesmen, but their futures don’t seem as bright.

Animal rights groups, technological accessibility and government intervention are all playing a part in the disintegration of the camel trade in India and specifically in Pushkar by driving many of these prideful men out of their generational territories through legislation influenced by politically correct movements.

Advocates of camel welfare reform accuse the Raika of animal culture "abuses" such as making the camels walk long distances, being forced into "stressful" commercial exploitation like tourist rides, the insertion of nose pegs, camel racing and general neglect of their herds.

While their deep-down motives are well intentioned, one has to wonder if these do-gooders are overstepping their boundaries?

The one-time friendly confines of social media which introduced the fair to computer screens worldwide — as well as more prying eyes — is now sometimes besmirching the event with accusations of animal cruelty and environmental destruction or by luring future generations away from the deserts to the cities with the promise of a more modern life. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon. Farmers and breeders all over India, China and worldwide have watched their agrarian and herding heritages slowly vanish because of the same cyberspace catalysts.

The Raika camel husbandry community has always been more like a large family than a merchant's association, and that includes the revered camels — who can live up to 20 years. And throughout their lifetimes, caretakers must provide medicine, food and training for each animal. It's a costly and round-the-clock occupation.

India, as a country, has the fifth largest population of camels in the world (estimated at around 300,000) and, although the camels' numbers are increasing globally, in India, that figure — as well as the the Raika's plight — are falling drastically. This downward slide in camel population and commerce trickles down from the breeders to the traders all the way to the artisans who utilize the wool, skin, bones and even camel dung to make blankets, leather goods, furniture inlays and paper.

The state of Rajasthan is where nearly 80-percent of India's camel population is. Gujarat and Haryana are the only other states where camel breeding is allowed.

Recent laws imposed by the government — driven and publicized by environmentalists and animal rights movements — are changing the Raika way of life by restricting tribesmen from traditional herding grounds and resources. Some of the restrictions includes less access to national parkland and stiffer grazing laws — limiting their migratory patterns and making their journeys to Pushkar and other locales more arduous for the camel herds. 

And there are other obstacles the modern-day Raika must overcome to make ends meet — including revising some ancient traditions and spiritual beliefs.

Historically, there was a ban on the selling of female camels to buyers outside of the Raika tribe and tradition forbade the slaughter of camels for meat entirely. Even selling the wool and the processing of camel's milk (drinking it fresh is okay) was believed to bring about a sort of bad karma and frowned upon. The only income for the Raika was really through breeding and selling.

However dire the Raika's sinking outlook from the quicksand of their circumstances came some flimsy lifelines — namely, new radical and pragmatic attitudes by the herdsmen.

Bull (male) camels — which were the only ones sold at the fair until 2000, when cows (females) were finally permitted to be put on the selling block — are now allowed to be butchered for meat by the Raika tribe, but not in Rajasthan where the slaughter of camels is illegal. 

The Catch-22 dilemma facing the Rajasthan-based Raika is that the Rajasthan Camel Act of 2015 provides penalties for taking any camels out of state for slaughter, castration or the insertion of nose pegs. That legal decree, like a camel's leg tether, basically restricts the Raika's ability to supplement their income by slaughtering their camels for meat.

All states have banned the butchering of any cows (female camels) outright to help sustain the camel species.

The Rajasthan Camel Act's strict maxims now drives some herders to illegally sneak them into Gujarat and Haryana for slaughter. And, in addition to avoiding authorities, the Raika also face the possibility of dealing with interference from animal rights activists who reportedly try and rescue the camels.

It's seems ironic, and almost blasphemous to the Raika, that the herdsmen have been reduced to killing their sacred camels — an act once considered barbaric in their beliefs — to salvage their culture of camel breeding.

My Odd Sports Phobia Has Become A Cautious Political One

By Tony Mangia

I’ve lived a lot of the past few years of my life under the quirky maxim that when it comes to any sort of first time meeting where you put your finances, business dealings, networking or health into the hands and/or decision of another person, it is never wise to wear your team, city or school allegiance on your head, your back or your sleeve. It’s a peculiar ritual — or de-ritual depending on how you look at it — where I check my attire before encountering any contractors, work superiors, medical technicians, repairmen and even doctors hoping not to offend them with that affiliation.

Silly maybe...  and possibly bizarre, but what if your mild-mannered dentist — who, according to my rationale, unbeknownst to you, turns into a frenzied Rangers fan in the Blue Seats from October until April — just noticed your Islanders jacket hanging in the waiting room. Sorry, twenty-six years of frustration just turned that quick filling into an excruciating root canal. Now you know his pain too. I even check the diplomas at doctor’s offices just to make sure they aren’t Georgetown or Villanova grads in case I start yapping about my St. John’s teams. We aren’t very good right now, but we are still deeply-embedded rivals. 

I am not all consumed by this anxiety, but sometimes my half-serious idiosyncrasy does trickle down to even more casual encounters. I mean who knows if that deli counter worker making your sub isn’t a Knicks fan and they notice strutting in wearing a Nets game shirt emblazoned with Kevin Durant on the back. That could mean one less meatball on that hero sandwich — or worse, they add something less tasty. A psychological one-upsmanship on their part. How about getting a flu shot at CVS right next to your “Big Blue” Giants tattoo and noticing the pharmacist is wearing a Jets jersey under her smock possibly means that pinch of a needle just turned into a punch.

Okay, fit me with a straight jacket, but are these thoughts any worse than knocking on wood, avoiding walking under a ladder or crossing your fingers? 

Call it a silly phobia or even outright paranoia (I call it a sort of street smarts), but for quite a while now I’ve always speculated that wearing my New York Yankees cap could be seen as bragging to some parties and the difference between a reasonably-priced $400 brake job and the same one for $500, if the estimate comes from a mechanic who’s a die-hard Red Sox or Mets fan.

And while having the same rooting interest with this person could roll the other way as an advantage, I think many people these days are more hurtful to their opponents than helpful to those of their own allegiance.

Hell, while I always poured an honest shot into everybody's cocktails when I bartended, if you were wearing an Eli Manning jersey, well… let’s just say that bottle stayed crooked a little longer. 

This twisted notion of other people’s inner hatred of rival teams and cities might come from my own personal malice towards disliked opponents and their fandom, but my reprisals never go much  further than a good natured ribbing and moving on with my life. Cheer and let cheer, I say.

I don’t know if there is any evidence that my odd conspiracy affliction has ever been scientifically diagnosed (rivalitis? teamophobia?), but I can’t deny that at first glance of someone wearing an opponent’s jersey my initial reaction is about how much I despise that team and associate that person with it as well. It’s not a serious and savage hatred, but a loathing most sports fans can relate to — especially when your team isn’t doing well and theirs is. You sort of groan inside.

These days group bonding has become more than just about sports and has been taken to another level and a potentially dangerous one — political affiliation.

Except for that annoying Boston pal who always says “wicked Sawx,” I find that I can still hang out and joke about sports with friends who cheer for teams which I openly hope break records for mediocrity. I can’t say the same about political parties. And since I am a Trump supporter, in some circles during these times, I might as well have leprosy.

The division between the two political parties (Lefties and Trump really) has divided this country like we haven’t seen since the ‘60s… the 1860s. It’s Yankees/Red Sox, Jets/Patriots, Giants/Cowboys and Rangers/Islanders rolled into one.

Sure I’ve been razzed in just about any city, from every team when I wear anything Yankees, but never been physically threatened of harassed. The Bronx Bombers just might be the Donald Trump of sports — you either love them or hate them. And just like there are idiot Yankees fans, there are plenty of dopes on the Right, but the fervor and vitriol I see from the Left makes me almost want to hug Mookie Betts.

I’m not going to pretend that the Right doesn't have its share of dirt bags, but the the nastiness and calculated underhandedness of the Left is what I want to address from my position as a Conservative.

Many of my so-called friends stopped returning my calls — if only for the offense of having a choice and voting for Trump. Previous BFFs now consider me an FU. It seems hysterical Liberals have to throw the F-word around a lot to get attention. One day having drinks together and now, within those same assemblages, I am about as welcome as AOC ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. I still don’t remember this sort of separation or exile during the Obama years. It was a rare time when Obama and politics came up at all in the company of people and I don’t remember any instances of assault or retribution against anyone wearing an Obama “Hope and Change” t-shirt  during his eight years as president if it did. And I surely never dumped a friend for voting for Obama.

Never mind the main-stream news media, you can’t even read a single Sports Illustrated article these days without the sportswriter somehow finding a way to slip in a subliminal or outright anti-Trump smack down. What really concerns me is how this misguided aggression by the left is affecting every day life of regular US citizens. This unbridled wrath from the Left leads me back to my original hang-up and how it now affects showing your political leanings in public.

It’s not so far fetched to think wearing anything “Trump” or even anything red could lead to an impromptu confrontation made even more dangerous because of today’s political climate at any time and in any locale. It’s in the news all the time. I’ve now begun to take my assumptions in a more serious light. Affiliating yourself with anything Trump puts a target on your back and has become dangerous in a public or private venue. 

Forget about Liberal lightweights who turn into anonymous mean girls on Twitter, I’m talking about how easily some crackpot Leftists get triggered by a word or go ballistic on MAGA hats in public. Normal pacifists, who never had a street fight in their lives, turn into wild-eyed lunatics at the mention of Trump. I’ve witnessed this phenomenon in person. They become the drunken Eagles fans of politics. Over the past couple of years, we’ve seen Lefties gang up on politicians inside restaurants and physically intimidate Trump supporters leaving some of his rallies. Presumed Trump supporters are also at risk. Fast food employees have not only refused service to law enforcement officers, but who knows how far a deranged Never Trumper will take it considering what some of these cowardly burger-slingers could add to the take-out before they say, “Here’s your order, sir” with a sinister grin.

Despite how much the Right likes to think that these Liberal kooks only come out of their mommy’s basement to wreak havoc in public every so often, the fact is they are in our midst, on our streets, in our businesses and workplaces everyday.

So why wouldn’t I question how far some lunatics will take it? 

Is it possible some people have flunked an interview, lost a job, were refused a bank loan or got left waiting on a hospital gurney a little longer just because the attendant doesn’t like President Trump and the person under their watch had the audacity to express a different political view with a hat, pin or flag within their sanctum walls? 

Who knows what is considered offensive and could set a Leftie off these days? At the drop of a sneaker, the Betsy Ross flag was made racist by Colin Kaepernick and his plantation owner Nike. The international hand sign for “OK” now mean white power when held at a certain angle and who knows what new words or symbols Liberals will decide is a conservative “dog whistle” when they wake up and hashtag it. You'd better watch your P’s and Q’s. Oops, isn’t Q some sort of radical right-wing conspiracy group?

I’m not an activist and a torn Clash t-shirt was probably the most political thing I ever wore in my life ... back in the 80s. I don’t wear a Trump shirt or hat out of choice, but don’t like the fact that it can provoke a scuffle which could escalate into a full out brawl or worse — a viral tweet — if I did. I don’t need the hassle of some loudmouth pipsqueak who I could probably slap down in a second getting in my face. Who needs the aggravation? Nowadays, I continually find myself muting Fox News when I call my credit card or cable company in fear a bitter representative would hear it in the background and put me on an even longer hold or do something computery in order to make my life a technological hell. When I see a MAGA 2020 sign on somebody’s lawn these days, I instinctively take a quick glance around to see if some cowardly dirt bag is sneaking up to stomp it, then wonder how long it will be before they do. 

The possibility of anti-Trump sabotage is not so far-fetched. Thank about it. If these so-called progressive miscreants — so bent out of shape about refusing to accept Trump’s victory in 2016, — are frenzied enough to spit on an unsuspecting Trump supporter exiting a rally or harass an elderly couple going to a conservative meeting in public, what’s stopping a rotten few from stealthily defiling a meal or sneakily creating havoc in the guise of a company representative just because you don a Trump 2020 campaign shirt?

You see it all the time on social media where anonymous trolls, who never stepped into any sort of fight ring in their lives suddenly grow bold behind the keyboard of a computer, then spinelessly defame or dox people who have opposing political views. The radical Left seems to find joy in disrupting other people's lives more out of spite than principle.

They have taken their angry attacks and disruptions out of the political arenas — rallies, forums and town hall meetings — and taken it to public domain. Senator Mitch McConnell’s wife getting harassed at a restaurant or Vice-president Pence getting booed in the audience of a Broadway show. Just look at the outrage after Liberal darling Ellen DeGeneres had the gall to sit next to President George Bush in a private suite at an NFL game. Her own people cannibalized her.

But they are public figures and it’s frightening to think that someone could get beat up in a California bathroom just for wearing a MAGA hat (in Russian yet) like what recently happened to a man in a Hermosa Beach restaurant or a conservative  journalist being attacked by Antifa radicals in Portland before actually being portrayed as the criminal by left-leaning media. Even in good old tolerant and inclusive New York City there have been more a few cases of regular citizens going about their own business being publicly attacked for the triggering offense of wearing a MAGA hat or, like at a private party in Tennessee, being punched for just wearing a red one.

Just proving there are some serious cases of TDS out there and that the incidents aren't just isolated.

Take for instance a few disturbing and violent anti-Trump attacks which happened on three corners of the country in recent weeks.

In the first case in point, a video shows a peaceful group named "Students For Trump" at Arizona State University being confronted on campus by a wild-eyed man who yells obscenities and screams "slash their throats" in front of the table they were seated at before the creep slithered away.

Then, in New Hampshire, police arrested another joyless Never-Trumper for assaulting three people outside a polling station, but not before the 34-year-old bully slapped a 15-year-old boy across the face outside of a tent occupied by several Trump supporters.

Trump-hating man arrested in New Hampshire.

Last, but not least, another unbalanced Trump denier, according to police in Jacksonville, Florida, took his hatred to a higher level after he purposely rammed his van into a tent of pro-Trump volunteers who were registering voters in a Walmart parking lot. Luckily, no one was injured in the sinister act which could have spilled much blood.

After he was arrested, 27-year-old Gregory Timm tried to validate his four-wheeled assault by saying, "Someone had to do it." Timm is free on bail.

We’ve heard all of the perceived reasons the Left has so much hatred towards Trump. They have labeled him as racist, anti-LGBTQ and thuggish — using only the media’s slanted fake news stories and Twitter troll hashtags as evidence — as well as bombastic, childish and narcissistic (The last three of which I agree) and then tag anyone who supports this president in the same perceived way. I’ve noticed the recent violent tone in many of my old friends’ social media posts regarding Trump. One time acquaintances who I know never have, or couldn’t have, punched their way out of Elizabeth Warren’s paper teepee, now talk like the original Teflon Don, John Gotti, setting up a Mafia hit.

It isn’t hard to see where the disgruntled Left is getting its cowardly cues. Look no further than the sneaky Democrats in Congress and their partisan, closed door impeachment inquiry inquisitions… I mean “sessions” in the basement of the House.  Or the schools indoctrinating children by changing or erasing history to fit a Liberal agenda.

And then check out your institutes of higher learning. Wasn't it some anarchist college professor at NYU who organized his brainwashed lemmings into storming Grand Central Station with their confrontational anti-cop stance last month?

Call it precaution or paranoia if you’d like, but it’s not like I’m over-exaggerating the possibility of more troublesome scenarios. I grew up in and around the grittier streets New York City past and learned simple things to avoid confrontation early on — like never flash a wad of cash in public or make eye contact with that brooding loner on the subway. I didn’t walk down a darkened alley in a rough neighborhood just looking for trouble. I still follow those same rules now — even on safer NYC streets. The real threat nowadays to me isn’t homeless psychopaths or getting jumped, it’s getting mugged by Liberal mobs with iPhone cameras — the same annoying twerps who never threw down one-on-one in their entire lives now gang up on someone for having a different opinion. 

And just like I don’t go around robbing people, it doesn't mean I don't know how a hold up is done. Self-preservation is usually all about seeing a situation before it plays out. 

Nobody ever wants to say why didn’t I see that coming? 

Just ask the Democrats about 2016. Look what they've turned into.

NBA rears its true hypocritical head by kowtowing to China over Hong Kong

By Tony Mangia


The NBA is used to putting out troublesome posting brushfires set by careless players on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and just about any social media outlet these days, but who knew a single tweet by an respected team general manager would create an international firestorm that could reveal the league in its true hypocritical colors and bring its most prominent figures to the forefront — many groveling on their knees — trying to blow out the fire.

Last weekend, Houston Rockets General Manager Daryl Morey sent, then later deleted, what may be the most truthful — and at the same time divisive — tweet in NBA history. A few words supporting the pro-democracy protestors in Hong Kong which could potentially lead to an NBA corporate breakdown in the burgeoning China market and pull the rug out on its perceived Liberal political activism .

"Fight for freedom, stand with Hong Kong," said the deleted tweet, but not before the pissed off Chinese got wind of it.

Not only did the tweet cause angry Chinese bureaucrats and authorities to threaten pulling out of all business dealings with the NBA (The Chinese-state run network has already pulled broadcasts of both Nets vs. Lakers games this week), it is showing the so-called woke NBA as the hypocritical business-first conglomerate it really is. 

The Chinese market is estimated to be about 10% of the league's total current revenue and expected to reach 20% by the year 2030. The NBA has a $1.5 billion streaming deal with the Chinese media Tencent at this moment.

The beholden to China hypocrisy starts with such usually outspoken socially-conscious NBA figureheads as the commissioner Adam Silver, and trickles down to the league's  most successful head coaches Steve Kerr and Greg Popovich.  Sure Silver and the NBA promote social justice for causes like Black Lives Matters, cancels an All-Star Game in North Carolina because of a transgender bathroom controversy and allows its fraternity to rail at President Trump's policies, but when it comes to China — their authoritarian business partners in arms  — and foreign human rights violations they are quiet as sheep.

The never at a loss for words Kerr (his own father, an international studies academic, was assassinated by Muslim terrorists in Lebanon) when it comes to mashing Trump is suddenly Sergeant "I know nothing" Shultz about the violence in Hong Kong.  And Popovich, who never met an interviewer he gave more than five words to unless it was criticizing the President sits on the fence regarding such an outrage as the Hong Kong protests.

These three can't even hold a blank-strap to Trump when it comes to playing tough with China and its sinister business dealings.  It seems all those human rights offenses that have been documented by the media for years proves that the league only cares about money.

Silver defended Morey's right to send the "regrettable" tweet and claims he won't put profits over principles.

"The NBA will not put itself in a position of regulating what players, employees and team owners say or will not say," Silver said in a statement. "We simply could not operate that way."

Chinese sponsors and sporting goods manufacturers are already bailing on the NBA, not to mention the cancellation of special events .

Kerr was even more wishy-washy. 

"A lot of us don't know what to make of it," he said after the Chinese decided not to broadcast this week's games. "It's something I'm reading about, but I'm not going to comment."

Popovich, meanwhile, passed the buck back to Silver — with some sort of pathetically misdirected analogy.

"Adam is a very progressive leader," he said. "We all remember how he handled the situation with the Clippers. It made everyone proud and was the right thing to do. A couple of years ago, I was walking down the street in New York City during the gay pride parade. I turned around and here comes a float, and Adam is standing on a float with a big sign in support of LGBTQ. And I felt great again, just like I did with the Clipper deal."

How's that for a bold political stance.

It's sort of funny that the same coaches who to use their NBA platforms to discredit Trump — who has taken the strongest stand of any president against China's corrupt and unethical business and trade practices — at any chance they get turn to milquetoast when it comes to criticizing NBA's kowtowing to the Chinese Communist Party business power play. 

The NBA's answer to all this?  Bringing in the NBA's newest owner to the into the middle as peacemaker.

Joe Tsai, a Taiwan-born, American-educated businessman who only last month had his purchase of the Brooklyn Nets approved, is hoping to resolve the business aspect of the problem, if not the political.

"When the topic of any separatist movement comes up, Chinese people feel a strong sense of shame and anger because of this history of foreign occupation," Tsai said in a Facebook post explaining why Morey's tweet upset the Chinese.

You have to wonder where Tsai's loyalty lies, considering he owns online retailer Alibaba, China's most valuable company.

On Monday, Rockets star James Harden offered an awkward apology that was basically an early Valentine's card after the news of Morey's tweet hit Japan where the Rockets were practicing for a preseason game.

"We apologize. You know we love China," Harden gushed about Morey's pro-Hong Kong tweet. "For both of us individually, we go there once or twice a year. They show us the most important love."

Expect to see a few other heavyweights in the coming days to step on the scale — willingly or not.
It'll be interesting to know how far Yao Ming and LeBron James' power really extends .

And if you thought the protestors in Hong Kong were the only ones being silenced, think again. On Tuesday night, pair of fans attending at a preseason game at the Wells Fargo Center between the Philadelphia 76ers against a Chinese team the Guangzhou Loong Lions were escorted out of the stands in the second quarter after yelling "Free Hong Kong" and holding up a couple of small protest signs that said the same.

Silver banned the word "owner" from the NBA vernacular for having racially insensitive connotations, but regarding this China conundrum, the commissioner owns it.

Here are the controversial signs. I know, earth shattering right? Obvious why the NBA would have a problem with this. Thanks to @Christie_Ileto for sending me this photo: pic.twitter.com/Y1GydtGked

— Sam Wachs (@gogowachs) October 9, 2019