Appointment in Coney

See this? That's the old Parachute Jump in Coney Island, NY. I actually had the horrifying pleasure of taking a spin on it in the fall of 1958. You sat on a flat wooden bench, barely buckled in, and it hauled you up to an impressive height (somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 feet) and dropped you. You were in free-fall for at least 50-feet before the parachute opened and slowed your descent. Nonetheless you descended VERY rapidly and bounced dramatically to a halt. Your heart, your lungs and your brains were left up there near the top.

It stopped running in about 1968 and over the years fell into disrepair. It probably should have been torn down as a safety hazard but somehow it survived and was declared a landmark in the mid-70's, but repairing it was impossible in those bad economic times, so there it stood amid the shambles that was Coney Island for another 30 years; a beautiful derelict on the beach.

Here's the good news; it's opening again; not as a terrifying ride but as, literally, a work-of-art. It will be jazzily lit every night in themed-to-the-season colors, starting with "vibrant reds and hot pinks" for the summer, starting next week, July 7, 2006 at 9:00 p.m. After that it will be dusk-to-midnight and, personally, I think it's all so cool I can hardly stand it.

Stately Mansions

You know that Oliver Wendell Holmes line about “more stately mansions?” It goes: “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul; As the swift seasons roll!” If you remember this poem from about 11th grade, or so, this is not about putting up some big old house on the hill; it’s about a seashell--the chambered nautilus to be exact. It’s a really cool poem if taken as an example of what was going on at that time in the verse world; really rather rococo and silly from this distance…but you must remember Mr. Holmes was a poet of his time and fiddling around fancily was what one did with ink and quill in those days. Stuff had to rhyme too…something I myself rather fancy: There once was a man from Bellaire…

The nautilus is debatably the most beautiful seashell in the world although, in my view, they are all beautiful. From the nautilus down to those little cowries you see made into necklaces. My apartment testifies to my appreciation of this beauty and perfection. I have a large nautilus photograph in my bathroom and a nautilus-incorporated window panel in my bedroom; I have a large conch shell carved out of a piece of hardwood burl; I have three tall, slender glass containers filled with small shells I’ve collected over the decades. I have a glass moon snail shell from Stueben and an art-glass shell I purchased in a small out-of-the-way shop in Weaverville, Calif. I have a glass lamp base filled with shells.

Seashells are hard to resist and easily gathered and almost all of us have succumbed to their siren call. No child on the beach can resist them. Do you know Sanibel Island, off the Gulf coast of Florida? I have, many times, done the “Sanibel Slump” while combing that beach and have even, in the rain, hunkered down in the shallows looking for these natural jewels. I have shells from Tahiti; Morocco, The Philippines and the Caribbean. I have never taken any illegally and I have never paid for one (other than the “art” mentioned above). I have a box of large shells in the basement; some of which I occasionally integrate into my general tchotchke arrangements on my display shelves.

I admit to being a freak for this type of nature. A seashell is a perfect work of art, you know, and should be revered as such.

Nail Pride

This is NOT a joke; honest! So it’s Gay Pride day in NYC and not for any particular celebratory reason thereof I decided to get a manicure at the little shop in my neighborhood. It’s run by an older Chinese lady and staffed by several Chinese girls (and one boy); obviously newly minted “visitors” to this country from lord knows where on the other side of the world. They are well-trained manicurists and, as usual in these establishments, chatter away to each other while they ply their trade…their expertise in the English language, however, is a cliché.

Did I mention what day this was in NYC?

Anyway, my manicurist was a newbie and, although I asked her name, I didn’t really understand the answer or whether or not she actually told me her name. My fault, I guess, I should have persevered: “John” (pointing at myself); maybe then we would have made a connection of some sort. Maybe not. Anyway, after an excellent manicure and subsequent creamy hand massage and a warm wet-towel scrub, she clasped my hands prayerfully together, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Want queer polish?”

What do you think I answered, delighted that she would notice? Why, yes, thank you…and I went merrily on my way, my nails shiny and sparkling, filled with Pride.

The Wizard of Ooze

Last Sunday I spent the afternoon, about five or six hours of it, working in my backyard. I weeded and whacked and planted some stuff; scrubbed up the birdbaths (2) and put more sand between the bricks of the, er, brickwork (an area shaped roughly like a Celtic cross, not quite centered in the general design). The entire yard is only 20’ x 20’ and the planting areas are a perfect size for a one-man-band of gardeners (that would be me).

The choices of plants and shrubbery are entirely my own (I don’t grow vegetables but have a very large pot of basil…my herb of choice…I do love pesto) and, admittedly, I’ve had to live with a couple of major mistakes because of misjudgments about what works and doesn’t in Zone 6 (the designated number for where I live) but, nonetheless, I’ve discovered that gardening is a labor of love with the psychic succor and solace that it can be if you let it.

You can pack up your troubles with a flat of annuals and work up a highly satisfactory sweat just by pulling up, cleaning up and bagging up the remnants of last fall’s plantings. You get to wear your shabbiest clothing; you scrape your knuckles and knees, sometimes to a bloody mess, and you can get splendidly filthy. Being a fastidious gardener just doesn’t make it. If you don’t have tired sinews and potentially aching muscles for at least two days afterwards, you aren’t reaching your full potential. Having some rather odd-looking little insects in your hair and maybe even ants in your pants is almost de rigueur.

There is something just so good about wallowing around in wet dirt when you’re gardening, even when planting the most ordinary petunias and marigolds and having sweat trickling down the crack of your ass while pruning your forsythia. It’s almost sexual or, at least, a bit sensual (I, for one, think there’s a difference). Sunday was no exception because it had rained all day Saturday and my yard’s tendency to revert to jungle made it necessary to at least whack back the ivy-that-would-eat-Brooklyn if left alone. And, again, there’s all that delicious mud. The return to primal ooze that every man desires. The mud pies that every boy adores. And then, yes, sitting in your porch chair, itchy from a god-knows-what source, appreciating your own handiwork as the birds chitter back into their rightful domain.

Being a backyard gardener has other rewards and pleasures too, beyond the dirt and the sweat and the nice aching body parts. That would be, of course, the glory of a long hot shower with a cold beverage frosting in the fridge.

You know what? It just occurred to me, being a perverse sort of fellow, to question what gardeners do to get away from the stress of work. Maybe they could come to my office and groove on getting the payroll out. Ya think?

Branding Ironies

Here’s the soap I use in the shower: Safeguard antibacterial (beige). I’ve used Safeguard (beige) for decades! It’s what I use but do I know why? No. I guess one day in about 1923 I bought a bar of it and never looked back. I do like those glycerin soaps from The Body Shop because they smell good and have a nice slick texture and I use it on my hands and face (pre-shave) in the bathroom. I even buy that expensive liquid hand soap (Kaffir lime) from Wms. Sonoma for use at my kitchen sink. But in the shower? Safeguard beige all the way!

I never thought I was brand conscious particularly until an old friend recently mentioned he has always seen Safeguard around my various abodes over the years, even suggesting I should become the poster boy for it. I think I prefer “spokesperson” actually, but what the heck. Like everybody else I have my brand preferences but I always thought I was not locked into any one brand of anything, or at least I didn’t think so until that damned soap was called to my attention (unsolicited, I might add).

Further to grooming products I suppose I’m also locked into Colgate toothpaste but that’s my mother’s fault because that’s what I grew up with, but I haven’t minded using other brands when slumming elsewhere. I got the Listerine habit as an adult but was capable of switching to the mint flavors without undue angst.

Parental influence has a lot to do with one’s embrace of brands. I probably didn’t need to point that out; it’s a fairly obvious conclusion. Just trying to be thorough, sorry! My mother bought into Campbell’s but I weaned my way into other canned soups and now C-soup is banished from my larder.

Oh, wait; here are three favorites in the food category I just thought of. I can accept no substitute for Oreos or the basic Nabisco Fig Newton. And my peanut butter must be Skippy’s! Hopefully super-chunk but in a pinch I’ll gladly take the creamy on a Saltine. Jams and jellies of practically any kind are palatable to me, with or without p-butter, on a muffin. Speaking of which, I do prefer Thomas’ English Muffins because those nooks and crannies really are as advertised.

I don’t care if my cola is Coke or Pepsi or, for that matter, Royal Crown. I usually buy Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn but that’s because the name itself tickles my funny bone so it can’t be abandoned because of mere taste, or lack thereof. I’m not sure what popcorn might be better; but I’m certainly willing to make a switch from OR if you can lead me up that path.

I claim that See’s Chocolate is my favorite but I must confess that’s a sham because I pretty much stuff anything chocolate down my craw without regard to brand. Well, that’s not quite true; I do try to avoid Russell Stover…I am convinced RS is chocolate-flavored plastic.

Okay, now, TIME OUT, this is a legitimate recess; I am getting up out of the chair in front of my computer right now, here I go, and I’m going to make a quick perusal of my refrigerator, food cupboard and medicine cabinet. That’s MY butt you see retreating in the distance…

Hmmm…I guess I’m not as pure in spirit as I thought. Now I’m totally embarrassed. This is only a partial list and keep in mind I kept my nose out of the liquor locker.

Including the above mentioned Colgate, Listerine, Fig Newtons, Skippy, Thomas’, Orville Redenbacher and See's I have to add Hebrew National hot dogs; Bayer aspirin; Kleenex; Lysol; Contac; Pepcid; Bounty paper towels; Miracle Whip; Schultz plant food; Tide; Premium saltines; Gulden’s mustard; Tropicana orange and grapefruit juice; Ocean Spray cranberry juice and sauce; Kikkoman soy sauce; Rose’s lime juice and Heinz ketchup. And last, of course, Safeguard antibacterial (beige) bath soap!

Interpretation of these choices is open for discussion. Talk amongst yourselves and get back to me. By the way, this is not a solicitation for a highly unusual gift basket.

Some Girl(s) -- Some Guy

Going to an off-Broadway play is an experience unto itself. Taking in a Broadway show is more of an “occasion” but its little brother has charms all its own. Usually in small theaters and, thus, no problems seeing or hearing with a resultant intimacy that allows for immersion in the play, rather than a big Broadway “event” that brings in other elements of size and shape (and sound). One of my best Broadway experiences this year was a play called “Well” that flopped miserably and left everybody puzzled as to why this should be. I’ll tell you why…it should have stuck with off-Broadway and I would bet nickels to donuts it would still be running. The big bucks of Broadway obviously beckoned the producers into this folly and all it got them was a huge loss of those same bucks.

AnyHOO, that’s not why we’re here today. We’re here because I saw Neil LaBute’s play “Some Girl(s)” off-Broadway at the Lucille Lortel
Theatre last night. It’s still in preview but that’s not a bad thing in this case because it’s certainly ready for opening night next weekend and I feel no obligation to wait to voice an opinion. I loved it and it changed my stupid idea forever about doubting the chops of television actors to be able to walk across a stage, live, convincingly. The play is a perfect vehicle for five of ‘em to engage and impress.

Eric McCormack (of Will & Grace) is terrific. The man has charisma to burn and he knows what he’s doing on stage and conveyed the complexities of his character nicely without falling, too much, into his “Will” persona…which must have been one helluva trick to pull off since he made Will his own for so long (8 seasons). He has been cast opposite four actresses known for their television personas even though they all have long lists of stage experience (according to their bios). Rhetorical question: why do we think actors forget how to act just because they start to make a good living on television?

In alphabetical order they are Fran Drescher, who showed no trace of The Nanny; Judy Reyes (Scrubs); Brooke Smith (Grey’s Anatomy); and Maura Tierney (ER). All of these actresses are excellent, well grounded in stage-craft and perfect foils (and vice versa) for Mr. McCormack. The play revolves around Mr. McCormack’s character Guy (when this play opened in London the character was just listed as "The Man;" but "Guy" now stands for all of us guys; so that works for me!), who is career-driven and on the verge of getting married. The four scenes (without intermission) , in various hotel rooms across the country, depict his meetings with the four women in his past life that he apparently unceremoniously dumped, that he has contacted for what turns out to be more complicated reasons than we first think. Through interactions with the four women we find out some dirty secrets about Guy’s motives in both the past and the present and his eventual come-uppance at their hands. Or do we?

Don’t you love that? “Or do we?” I mean, like the ending of a SciFi movie. Well, I never said I wasn’t cliché driven. Suffice it to say (there’s another one) Guy turns out to be not a very nice guy, which is not surprising if you know anything at all about Mr. LaBute’s plays.

One thing I need to kind of whine about is that there is a "product placement" in this show; that being Evian Water. There's a nice little credit in the program (Water provided by Evian) and it is conspicuously present in all four hotel rooms (Seattle, Chicago, Boston, L.A.) and is swigged down by various members of the cast. At least Mr. LaBute has the grace to only refer to it as "that French water" but, still... I know it's been happening in movies for at least a couple of decades but I was quite put-off (and out) by this blatant commercialism.

Anyway, now the question is, will egos win out and will Some Girl(s) try for Broadway? Oh, gawd, I hope not. I’m thinking about the production of "Grey Gardens" I saw off-Broadway not too long ago. It has closed but I read recently they are gearing up for a move to the Great White Whale, er, Way. Oh, gawd.

The Da Vinci Edoc

So, hey, I’m not immune to hype which is why I read The Da Vinci Code in the first place and why I also took in the movie this week. I usually see movies for the wrong reason anyway, mainly to avoid the rain and commute-traffic after work, and those showings at 6:00 p.m., or so, pretty much guarantee a good seat; especially after the first weekend of opening. Anyway, it was still raining when I left the theater but I did avoid traffic…unfortunately, what I didn’t avoid was The Da Vinci Code. At first it was interesting and complicated, which I liked, and trashes the Catholic religion nicely, which always tickles me, so I had high hopes. However, Tom Hanks pretty much walks through his role (albeit doing some very strenuous running now and then) and the female lead has nice eyes but not much behind them. There is zero chemistry between her and Mr. Hanks. Ian McKellan is fantastic and almost worth the price of the movie (senior rate). A friend of mine from Quincy, MA who usually goes by the name of Paul asked me for a critique using a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest accolade. Pegging a number is sure a simple way to write a review, huh? So forget everything I just said, okay? I give it a 4, but only because of Sir Ian.

Me & James

This is James Gandolfini. If I went to some sidewalk fair and someone had life sized photo cut-outs of movie stars and you could have your picture taken with the cut-out and it didn't cost more than $10 I would have my picture taken with James Gandolfini's cut-out and put it on my refrigerator under a moose magnet from Alaska.