Minor Brain Farts

I have caved in to the current West Nile virus scare and have emptied my birdbath for now. Although I changed the water every day and there is no way in hell it could breed any sort of mosquito larva, the folks-in-charge have levied a very steep fine if you get caught with standing water on or about your premises. I guess I can stand the affront for a while if the birds can.

Something called “Downy Mildew” has devastated the impatiens crop this year. Not only my own but the entire northeast coast. Impatiens have always been a summer-long and reliable source of color in my planters on the front porch. The nursery I go to claims the plants were healthy when I bought them and when asked what to do they said, “Buy alternatives.” Upon reading up on Downy Mildew I find it seems to be incurable and that even the dirt in which it grows needs to be discarded. Next year an alternative will indeed be chosen.

Even though we’ve been naturally watered and sunnily blessed, my backyard is now going into an early early-autumn decline. And, bless their noisy hides; the cicadas are out in full force this year. Waves of sound drown out the neighborhood intermittently and, personally, remind me of the fears of the unknown and unseen in the parched summers of my childhood.

My childhood was also invoked by my decision to buy Log Cabin syrup this week at the supermarket. Instead of buying the pure Vermont maple syrup I usually do, I went for a new jug of Log Cabin which, I think, pretty much duplicates the taste I remember from way back yonder. That is; thick, dark and yucky. Now that I think of it, even in those days I’m sure I was more enamored with the tin it came in than the flavor. How could a kid resist the allure of a tin of syrup shaped and printed like a log cabin? You can “Buy Now” one of those original tins on eBay for $225 or, if you want to risk it, even more if the bidding goes haywire.

Partners in Crime

For 18 years I’ve been a patron of a bookstore in the West Village called Partners & Crime. Through the years I’ve been fairly supportive (admittedly, not always) by buying retail and feeling good about myself for being loyal and helping to keep a small, independent bookstore thriving. Also their gift certificates were always a good fallback option and recipients appreciated the gesture. About three weeks ago P&C announced their demise and the closing date has been set for September 20. When I heard this news I felt bad.

Last week I took a final visit to the store and, frankly, I no longer feel all that sorry they are closing. I thought my visit would be sad and nostalgic but it turns out it was a lesson in business reality. They advertised this great big sale, which I suppose got a lot of people into the store, but the reality is that there are no bargains. They have the usual $1 tables they always had but everything else was cover price; retail…no discounts. There were two double shelves that were labeled $5 and $10 and, of course, every customer was drawn to those displays. I picked those over pretty carefully and chose two from the $5 shelves but when I looked closer at these two books, and then all of the others; conspicuously on the front and/or back covers was stated things like “Advance Readers’ Edition—Not for Sale” or “This is an uncorrected proof, it should not be quoted without comparison with the finished book.” In other words Partners & Crime was selling off the books they got for free…therefore reaping a 100% profit (or something…what’s the profit margin over zero?).

I overheard a customer telling the clerk he thought all the books that were being sold at the cover price should be at least half that amount and he got a very testy, “Well, we still have to pay the rent!” response. Also I heard him tell a woman, who had inquired about it, that, yes, their website will continue in business. A couple of well-placed crocodile tears seem appropriate but, really, anything more would be just a crock. See you on Amazon.

Answer the phone!

There is a mockingbird that hangs around my backyard. Actually it hangs around the seven or eight backyards that are co-joined, but fenced, on my residential block in the back of the houses. It sings its ass off sometimes…beautiful but on and on and on (dare I say ad nauseam?). I see it all the time flitting about, sitting on the fences (and my birdbath) and doing its mockingbird thing, meaning it is always presenting, which is the term used for this particular avian behavior. In a way it looks like a feathery dance with wing flexing and tail bobbing. I just assumed it was a mating ritual but Google informs me that this behavior is unexplained since mockingbirds present 24 hours a day. Sort of like bird Tourette’s I guess.

But our mockingbird doesn’t sing when it’s out and about like that, it only bursts into prolonged song while hidden within the shelter of a tree or bush. I have heard that mockingbirds sometimes pick up the sound of a baby crying or a kitten mewing and incorporates it into its repertoire of bird calls. This one also has something unique and I swear it’s true. Unless my ears are deceiving me this bird has a cellphone ring within its stream of melody. It’s three short rings and then an abrupt fourth ring like the phone has been answered. The sound is a tiny bit metallic, tinny in a way, but very birdsong-like too. The first time I heard this phenomenon I just thought it was a cellphone but now I’m beginning to realize it is currently being repeated each time during the string of song imitation. Another natural miracle duly noted.

Me and the Bridge

I have been warned that writing about age and the ravages thereof can get pretty damned boring. But I will be brief and positive.

Last year, like the GG Bridge, I turned 75 and had a (mostly) great time in Palm Springs celebrating having reached that milestone. A couple of weeks ago John, the owner of the delicatessen around the corner from me, asked me how old I was. I told him the truth (as I am wont to do) and he and his lackeys marveled at how young I looked. Yeah, yeah, thinks I, but said thank you graciously.

Today, sitting out back on the porch, watering my swollen old ankles with (very) cold water from the hose, I thought, well, how old am I today? I’m still 75! I was 75 way back in October and, I’ll be darned, I still am! For some reason the span between 74 and 76 seems to be a good length of time and there is still quite a bit left of it. Maybe because the days have been long and lazy without very much excitement interrupting the flow, 75 just seems to just last and last. A lot of the squares in my engagement calendar are blank.

These thoughts were prompted by learning that my barber of many years has retired and, at 74, rather rickety--and definitely not one to be running with scissors or even waving them around my ears. So, despite my swollen humidity-wracked ankles I’m feeling pretty good about myself. 75 ain’t so bad.

Edward Milton Plunkett

I met Ed Plunkett, to the best of my memory, in 1978 or 9. He was an artist of the East Village ilk (although I think he lived on the Upper West Side) and cultivated an eccentric persona that wasn’t all that convincing. He was basically a nice guy and we served on various voluntary committees and pretty much were politically and artistically compatible. We were not friends really; we were just invited to the same parties and envelope stuffing’s and etc., and felt comfortable with each other. He would tell horrible old jokes and laugh uproariously at himself, which was probably the main reason I steered clear of him socially.

For about five years, starting in 1985, or so, I started getting envelopes of various sizes from him containing a mishmash of stuff: clippings from magazines; bits of theater reviews (not his), little original drawings-on-napkins (his), some tame pornography and just generally what seemed to me to be the detritus of his life that he was compiling in his eccentric way. He obviously never threw anything out and, frankly, it got kind of annoying because it was essentially just a bunch of crap. He even included bits and pieces of stuff I had written or drawn or contributed to various publications. Frankly, I was stumped by it and my annoyance grew until I eventually asked him to stop it. And he did.

Ed passed away on Dec. 31, 2011 at the ripe old age of 90 and I didn’t hear about it for about four months since he had moved away from New York and I lost touch with him and evidently his ill-health prevented communication with any mutual friends we might have had left. Hence the four-month delay in my finding out about his passing. He had moved back to Madison, WI and into the care of his close-knit family.

No one I know knew any basic details so I turned to Google and, sure enough, there was an obituary in a Madison paper with the name of a niece given as a contact. I wrote to her and she kindly sent me the full obituary and also a “salute” to Ed written by a family friend. It was the usual stuff you might expect except for one thing:

In the late 80’s and 90’s and maybe earlier, Ed had been part of a group of “artists” called “The New York School of Correspondence” whose “works-of-art” were these envelopes full of stuff. It was just a thing they did without fanfare or explanation. It was their art. This went on for years!

No, I can’t explain it. But, hey, without knowing it I was part of an eccentric East Village art movement or rather, to be blunt, its victim. Why did Ed choose me to be one of his recipients? Maybe he thought I was “with it” enough to understand. But I wasn’t and didn’t. But that train has left the station now so I’ll never know and I guess that’s part of the joke.

Further research has turned up a project commemorating “Mail Art Correspondence” honoring Ed and co-founder Ray Johnson that urges people to send envelopes to The Century Association in New York and they will mount an exhibition of these envelopes (they don’t say how) unopened. Having already been burned by Mr. Plunkett for at least five years I’m beginning to think this might be a hoax. If I actually do it will I look ridiculous? Or will I look ridiculous if I don’t? Hmm…I think I’d rather look foolish anonymously than become the laughingstock of a bunch of old East Village eccentrics, living or dead; tricked yet again by people smarter than me.

Rudbeckia

Okay, you know these flowers as black-eyed-susans or coneflowers. They are perennials that start coming back late in the fall. But, since everything seems to be rushing ahead (weather-wise) these days; here they are already, drawing focus in my backyard with their deep-yellow brilliance. Welcome back Rudbeckia, I hope you’re enjoying the heat and humility. And, of course, the water I lavish daily upon your conic heads.