peebstuff

Mad for Maddow

2012-02-02T17:45:00.002-05:00

When I was but a tot I had three heroes: Superman (the comic book version); Tarzan, (as personified by Johnny Weissmuller); and Roy Rogers (not the man himself, but the Roy Rogers portrayed by Roy Rogers in the movies…there is a difference, ya know). My early teens brought Bob Mathias into focus since he was from my home town and won two gold medals in the decathlon in two successive Olympics (my awe turned to shock when he went into politics later in life and became a conservative Republican congressman). Then one has to jump a decade or two when John F. Kennedy captured my attention but, of course, that lasted only 1,000 days and my heart remains broken to this day. From then (although not articulated) I figured hero-worshipping was a path safely left untrodden and have shied away from admitting to anything beyond “admiration” for any one individual, living, dead or fictional.

A mere slip of a girl, Rachel Maddow, has now captured my attention and my heart. She is articulate and educated (including a Rhodes Scholar PHD in Political Science from Oxford) and a very brave “out” lesbian who tells it like she sees it. She’s the heart-and-conscience of MSNBC News and she consistently brings home the bacon, closely aligned of course, within my own political frying pan. On top of her political acumen and wizardry in analyzing it, she seems totally human and sometimes she can get enthusiastically shrill and also sometimes painfully corny (a comedian she is not) but the woman, I’m proud to say, has made my short list. I hope she hangs up there on my pedestal as long as possible and keeps her avowal to never, ever, run for elected office.

So that’s it: Superman, Tarzan, Roy Rogers, Bob Mathias, John F. Kennedy, Rachel Maddow. Hmm…so that means, I guess, that two of my heroes are still living; being, of course, Rachel and Superman. I wonder if she would be embarrassed to know this. Being on my list, I mean, not that Superman is still living.

Yule Fuel

2012-01-31T14:29:00.004-05:00

This year’s Christmas ornament project was much less severe than my crazed fanaticism in 2010 (wherein I went nuts and painted upward of 50 ornaments…holy cow!). These three are representative of the nine that were the extent of the creative effort this year, obviously influenced by my still not-so-latent obsession with the superhero of my childhood. Also, trust me, it's harder than it looks to paint the logo on a curved, glass surface.

Sweet Pin

2012-01-26T16:56:00.002-05:00

I was trying to find a way to brag about bowling in my 2011 fall league without sounding too arrogant and this photo opportunity presented itself whilst wandering in Times Square so I guess it was meant to be. Yeah, I done good personally and PeebSteam (I know it’s sort of a self-aggrandizing name but, hey, my mates went for it) finished in first place. Of course the glory was fleeting and we are back to reality with Mojo3 (new teammates and new team name) in the winter league. The struggle continues but I anticipate further greatness. The glass is half full.

Sweet Pyn

2012-01-20T01:03:00.002-05:00

A very sweet and, dare I say, beautiful children’s book stumbled into my lap this holiday season because I miraculously made the acquaintance of its author, Olivier Dunrea. I’m not saying Ollie isn’t sweet but, hey, who knew such a book was hidden in the heart of this shy, middle-aged bear’s gruff exterior. Now here’s a book that deserves a Caldecott award if ever I’ve seen one. It will be a Christmas crime if it doesn’t happen.

Goosed by The Times

2012-01-19T17:25:00.002-05:00

On January 2, 2012 The New York Times daily newsstand price increased by 50 cents to $2.50. I was outraged. If you know me you know I swear by The New York Times; its content I mean, not its new price. I know, I know, an extra 50 cents a day doesn’t sound like much but, hey, it’s one of those straw/camel things.

So I’m trying a new tactic. I will buy the Wednesday, Friday and Sunday issues and forego the rest. So far it has worked out because I don’t miss the Saturday issue at all (it’s very skimpy) even though the crossword on that day is difficult enough to be interesting. The Monday issue is the second lowest in content and the crossword is relatively easy and, usually anyway, I still have quite a bit of the Sunday issue left over to go with my coffee on Mondays and even, sometimes, on Tuesday.

I have avoided subscribing to it for two reasons. First, I don’t always want it (especially when I’m off gallivanting to distant climes) and secondly, I don’t want to be put on yet another “target” list for advertisers who pay the Times for my name, rank and serial number. Being a Times reader seems to make certain corporations salivate over my perceived income, interests, tastes and proclivities.

Thursdays (today) are proving difficult but, so far, I’ve decided I can pick up a good book for reading material and Fridays can be looked forward to for its double whammy on the “Arts.” As the Thursday hours fly by I am less and less tempted to rush to the corner for my Times fix. Like any other withdrawal from an addiction it will probably take a while to settle down. I guess reading the Times is one of those habits you didn’t even know you had until you’re goosed into realizing it by outside forces. I consider myself goosed.

Hot Stuff

2012-01-07T02:25:00.003-05:00

December 27th and it was a cold, very wet evening in Greenwich Village. We chose to have an early dinner at The Cowgirl Hall of Fame restaurant and, upon being seated, a special drink menu was proffered with several hot drinks, including hot buttered rum. Mine was really good and it warmed the cockles of my heart (whatever those are) prior to a personal-throwback meal of tuna casserole and salad. Cowgirl’s is funky that way…serving various Southern specialties and a lot of different comfort food, including an excellent mac & cheese. But this is about the rum and the drink. And it’s warmth.

My checkered past has included, at one time, what was almost a fetish for hot buttered rum. I was living in San Francisco at the time and it was made simple by a batter sold by Trader Vic’s in small tubs. All you had to do was add the rum and hot water and you had an excellent cold-weather libation. Of course you had to garnish the drink with a cinnamon stick which, by the way, was not included in the drink at Cowgirls.

Although I can’t seem to find the batter for sale anywhere, even though I Goggled my fingers raw, it’s fairly easy to make at home and after checking my spice rack I found I already had all the ingredients necessary, including dark brown sugar, which is essential to good hot buttered rum. My local supermarket provided the cinnamon sticks so I’m now home free with the proper visual.

I’m just waiting for the next cold snap and maybe, say, a Super Bowl and/or a Republican caucus for motivation. The water’s hot, the rum is ready and I’m at your service. Long johns optional.

Dearth Takes a Holiday

2012-01-03T16:11:00.002-05:00

This year I kept track of how many Holiday Cards I sent (48). And I just counted the number received (25). I am not counting the cards I got on-line (including the one shown here) because, frankly, I consider them one step above Spam which, to me, is not much of a difference in altitude. The most annoying were the cards sent to someone’s entire on-line library (which obviously included me) with one click of a “send” button without even attempting to hide the mailing list. Not much personal contact there I’d say and therefore, to me, just this side of an insult. If the sender can’t even take the time to “bcc” everybody, doesn’t that somewhat water down the sincerity of the sentiment?

I know one should be able to rise above the need to receive as well as give but, hey, even with the ubiquity of e-mail and other personal communication devices, in my world at least, a line needs to be drawn. I’ll admit I’m of the old school (a really old school it seems)…but I didn’t start to realize the depth of the schism until about five years ago when a friend confessed to me that he would rather not get cards because of the “pressure” involved in feeling there had to be a response. Of course his name immediately dropped off my snail-mail list. Goodness knows I don’t want to apply any guilt or pressure. Except maybe by writing about it on this here peebsblog.

An interesting side note: Last year I struck up an acquaintance with a young entrepreneur who designs and markets, among other things, t-shirts and greeting cards. I like his imaginative work and have purchased some shirts and a 20-pack of holiday cards (which I sent out). Because of this we have developed some friendly chat on-line and we might even segue into being in-person friends in the future. However, he didn’t send out cards himself this season, even though it seems to me it would have been a good marketing decision if not a personal one. So he is part of the problem even though he would like to be part of the solution with his clever designs.

According to every source, the Internet is killing the USPS. I am one small individual and if, by my own statistics, almost half of my correspondents are not, well, respondents I shouldn’t be surprised. Except, HEY, how come I still get so much junk mail? Somebody has to be making a fortune on that, why isn’t the P.O.?

Hugo Cabret

2011-12-14T00:54:00.003-05:00

When the book The Invention of Hugo Cabret first arrived in bookstores I must confess I read half of it standing in an aisle at Barnes & Noble. Maybe not the best of circumstances but it’s the kind of book that’s an easy read and, well, it just happened. At the time I thought it was good and I liked the story line, but I was kind of disappointed in its merely ordinary writing (I wanted it to be more lyrical and seductive) and, even more, I was not all that impressed by the illustrative drawings. They are also good but, again, ordinary, and I remember thinking at the time I wished this same imaginative subject had been tackled by a better writer and a better artist. The fact it subsequently won The Caldecott Medal (for illustrated children’s literature) didn’t change my mind. I can be pretty awful in that way sometimes.

And then I read that President Obama took his daughters to a small bookstore near the White House (on Small Business Saturday) and bought a copy. Well, damn, says I to myself…maybe I should at least give it a fairer chance at entering my consciousness; but this time I didn’t shag it from B&N and actually bought it. My opinion remains unchanged.

So now it’s been made into a “major motion picture” and, although I liked it, I feel the same way! That is, I think it was directed by the wrong person (Martin Scorsese). Hugo needed someone more in tune with the whimsy of a book a little short on whimsy itself; someone whose vision could encompass the implied “magic” of the story. Someone not glued to the floor by our memory of Taxi Driver and/or Raging Bull. I can’t describe exactly how I feel about it other than saying it left me uneasy and unfulfilled. Again, like the book, I wanted at least some magic and what I’ve taken away from the screening is the memory of a lot of characters running through throngs at the Paris train station. I’m not sure why I should be surprised. I was less than enamored of the book, why did I think I would be charmed by the movie based on it?

And too (I’ve bitched about this before), I’m of the fuddyduddy generation that is mired in the past with fond memories of some wonderful 2-D movies. I guess 3-D is the future but those damn (required) glasses are an abomination. And the smallish bag of M&M Peanut cost $4.75!

Santa Claus is Coming!

2011-12-10T22:28:00.003-05:00

Today, by a happy accident of timing, I was in a car traversing the Brooklyn Bridge at about 11:30 a.m. (on my way to a seasonal brunch with some buds). On the walkway above us were literally thousands of people dressed as Santa Claus, or approximations thereof. They were pouring into downtown Manhattan like lemmings, joining what looked like an already-achieved maximum density of Polar (North) related raiment.

What I was witnessing was “SantaCon 2011” which is this years’ version of an annual event that takes place on the second Saturday of December. Although it started as more of a “flash mob” several years ago SantaCon, like other big-city good-ideas (the Halloween parade, etc.) has probably gotten out of hand and now the word “mob” is, well, what it is.

To put a good face on it, participants are asked to bring canned goods to a couple of specific drop-off points after which everybody is just free to wander where their red-noses lead them. It’s all very jolly. To my eye most of the participants seem to be within the 20-30 age bracket and are, thus, not quite the decorous holiday cheer leaders one would hope for. SantaCon is, unabashedly, booze-fueled and as the red-and-white suited crowds surge northward up into the boulevards of lower Manhattan the pit stops become many and crowded.

It was cool to see all of the innovative, less traditional, Santa-ish costumes but it behooved curmudgeons of my ilk to just get out of the way and smile indulgently at what the young whippersnappers come up with next. To try to put this into perspective, it’s not like one has all that much time to take in any one costume; the mob was massive and moving like a red and white tsunami from south to north. According to the website “SantaCon is a non-denominational, non-commercial, non-political and non-sensical Santa Claus convention that occurs once a year for absolutely no reason.”

I suppose there are rules about not throwing up in the gutters but I didn’t bother researching that.

A cookie with charisma

2011-12-07T00:36:00.004-05:00

Black and White cookies are a phenomenon of the Northeast and can usually be bought in most bakeries and/or deli’s (although I have noticed some more-commercial, wrapped versions are now hitting the market). They are just plain old cookies made with flour and sugar and eggs, using buttermilk (instead of whole) which is pretty much a recipe for a basic cake. The frosting is confectioners’ sugar with vanilla and, for the black half, adding cocoa powder. Maybe because they are so simple is why they are so good. Also, having to make a decision about having to choose which side of the cookie to eat first is an added positive feature (somewhat like eating Oreos). They taste good; they are visually pleasing and they are interactive. What can you say besides yuuuuuummmmm?

BigMac FAQS

2011-12-06T15:35:00.003-05:00

Four or five days ago (December 1st actually) there was a full-page ad in The New York Times espousing how proud McDonald’s is of their new Happy Meals. Less sodium. Fewer calories (accomplished by serving fewer fries). Reduction of trans fat (to zero). Like that--you see, very self-congratulatory.

In spite of this the Happy Meal still does not meet specific nutritional standards in some states and, as a result, they are not allowed to give away free toys.

In the exact same issue of The Times there is an article informing us that McDonald’s has pounced on that word “free” and, to get around the ban, they are charging an extra ten cents for their Happy Meals that includes a toy. (No, the toys cannot be bought without buying the HM’s.)

Those people at McDonald’s must be so pleased with themselves; smirking all the way to the bank. And, no doubt, proudly giving the finger to the rest of us because we are too stupid to understand the bait-and-switch.

In the meantime I tried to find out how much a full-page color ad costs in The NYT. Not being able to break through the “contact-your-account-manager" barrier I was only able to come-up with the half-page rate of $30,100. So a full page ad I surmise must be anywhere in the realm of $50,000 - $100,000. Can anybody help me out here?

Greetings from Charlie

2011-12-05T19:43:00.005-05:00

I actually got a real live snail-mail Christmas card today. It shows a photograph of a cat sitting under mistletoe looking up at a very big dog towering over it. Said dog has a mighty speculative expression on his mug. The outcome of this juxtaposition is also speculative; going from kissy-snuggly all the way to interspecies violence. Inside it says “Peace on earth and in every heart. Merry Christmas” and is signed by my friend Charlie who lives in Palm Springs, CA.

Scrawled (yes, handwritten) in and around the sentiment* is the following:

Dear John,

Let’s deconstruct “Merry Christmas” to better understand this ubiquitous, blithe mouthing that falls so easily from the tongues of our Xmas brethren, even as the pepper spray lingers over their shopping victims. (“Merry Christmas” is used below only as social camouflage for the pagan themes & Manichean dualities contained in this card = Light & Dark, Good & Evil, Dog & Cat.)

“Christ,” the iconic Man/God, has been marginalized over the years and, in lip service only, is central to the modern Season. This waning is evident when “mas” is appended to His name. “Mas,” means “more” in Spanish, “conspicuous greed” in Latin, and “appalling materialism” in Greek. Hence, our modern Holiday customs have linguistic underpinnings.

As for “Merry,” its meaning is of medieval origin and it can be understood in its straight-forward sense. However, its effect in the social context is urgent & commanding. It leaves no room for alternative moods or feelings, thereby trapping innocents in an emotional strait-jacket of cheer while crushing nuanced & healthy expressions of the soul. It particularly mocks those with Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Such as me.

Peace & Love,

Charlie

[*with permission--please note the acronym for Seasonal Affective Disorder is SAD]

What If?

2011-11-30T02:09:00.011-05:00

I think we’ve all played the “what if?” game with the lottery: New car; new house; charitable giving, etc. Certainly a sudden influx of unlimited funds would open a lot of windows looking out on a lot of dreams.

But another “what if?” has entered my consciousness recently through a television commercial that, every time I see it makes me think not what if, but “who would I?” If I won the contest to take ten people to the Super Bowl, who would I take? This might be harder than “what if” I won a million dollars. In that case, one thing I would not do would be to take ten people to the Super Bowl.

First of all I don’t think I know ten people who would want to go! Maybe three or four would do it just to do it even though they really have zero interest in football. And if the Super Bowl was being held in, say, San Francisco (or Paris) I would have no end of takers just because it would be geographically attractive but, sorry, this year’s Super Bowl is in Indianapolis. I’m sure it’s a very nice city and has several nice restaurants and our hotel room(s) would be, well, nice but even as hyped as the Super Bowl is, it’s just another football game for a lot of people and not even on the radar as anything special for some of my friends and/or family.

The Super Bowl is not actually on my own bucket list but I would probably go if I won a ticket, or ten, even to Indiana. I do watch a lot of football and I have some favorite teams I’d like to see in the flesh or, at least, in their shiny, tight uniforms (am I revealing too much with that statement?). Anyway, through no effort on my part, I’m entered in this contest so if anybody would consider going please make yourself known to me. When the arboretum calls I don’t want to be caught with my plants down.

Now if I could take ten people to see The Book of Mormon on Broadway I would have another problem altogether. So how do I enter that contest?

King of the Birthdays

2011-11-21T13:39:00.002-05:00

This is Tom Bullock, Sr. He turned 99 on November 18th. He makes my recently celebrated 75th, as jolly as it was, feel like chopped liver. Happy Birthday, Tom, next year I’m coming to your party!

Yucca Truckin’

2011-11-20T02:04:00.003-05:00

This is a little report on a great day at the end of October in (and out of) a truck in Yucca Valley and the Joshua Tree National Park outside of Palm Springs, Calif. After a very early, very civilized, breakfast we hit the first dirt road within ten minutes of departing the breakfast host’s cozy desert-style home on the outskirts of Cathedral City.

There are actually designated areas in Yucca Valley where you can 4-wheel it through the brambly mesquite, Joshua trees, shell-casings and bullet-riddled hulks of abandoned vehicles. It’s beautiful in its own rough way and “truckin’” it feeds into the macho posturing of every all-American male. There are also promontories and peaks that can be reached by “gunning” it up steep trails where distant vistas and valleys are spread out as far as the eye can see. On a clear day in the desert the view can be a hundred miles and the colors are subtle and magnificent.

We stopped for pee breaks and a tailgate lunch but mostly it was roaring and bouncing along heart-stopping narrow-cliff climbs (and descents), along with the rough beauty of the California desert. I must confess at one point I got out of the truck (I wasn’t the only one) and walked a few hundred yards ahead to rejoin my designated ride after it negotiated a very steep and unsafe-looking arroyo.

Our fearless leader had a global positioning device (and all of the drivers had walkie-talkies) that kept us on the right track (mostly) when the wrong fork was a possibility. It was obvious that without these modern devices an unwary vehicle could be in a pickle very quickly. After a morning of fearless(?) trekking in Yucca Valley we entered the civilized confines of the Joshua Tree National Park by a weird back-country entrance and were obviously back with the more civilized wanderers, passing designated nature walks, birding opportunities and a couple of benign-seeming official ranger vehicles. We were definitely a motley crew that needed monitoring. At least until the selected cheeses/crackers, freshly-cut fruit salad and fresh-baked brownies hit the tailgates. Ain’t nothin’ like a semi-gourmand picnic to enhance the experience of a bunch of rough-ridin’ cowhands.

It was a great ride, a nice rough-house day and it ended back in Cathedral City where we washed off the grime and dust in a wonderful shaded pool, only corrupted by a little indecent exposure from various participants. When somebody says “clothing optional” you can easily guess my choice. My thanks to all the guys; for the trucks, the gas, the lunch, the pee breaks and the salt-of-the-earth camaraderie; and, of course, the exposure.

The Last Super

2011-11-17T16:45:00.002-05:00

Anybody who truly has my back more than superficially knows that I’ve had a crush on Superman since, well, practically the day the folks at DC Comics invented him. Consequently, through the years, I’ve tried desperately not to collect Superman paraphernalia, and have mostly succeeded. But recently I indulged my own base instincts and bid on a man-of-fragile-glass Christmas ornament on e-Bay. I’m not all that sure how I stumbled across these rarities but I think it had to do with my interest in Christopher Radko ornaments in general and then, specifically, the one he designed for release in 1996 depicting this particular paragon of adolescent superficiality.

Actually, I find Radko ornaments in general kind of bizarre, if not downright ugly. Their very unalloyed unattractiveness is sometimes what actually draws my interest along with, of course, the incipient glitter inherent in the medium. The Radko ornaments are no exception. We are all attracted to glitz, right? It’s just too bad most of us are incapable to discerning the difference between innocent glitz and tasteless bling.

Anyway, after a couple of weeks of making unsuccessful bids on Radko’s Superman I changed my strategy and posted a maximum bid and stuck with it. Over and over I was notified that I had been outbid and I would immediately go on-line, seek out the next offering, post my maximum and wait it out. Persistence finally paid off and I’m now the owner of a semi-rare Christopher Radko ornament in the shape of Superman. His body is muscularly distorted and his visage is fey and effete and almost feminine but, hey, who am I to complain about those little details? I own it; I’m now living with it and I’m proud of it (I think).

Okay CoCo Key

2011-11-17T16:38:00.002-05:00

Water parks are a helluva lot of fun for a wide range of reasons. Just the joy of being unashamedly soaked to the skin has been true since the days of jumping through lawn sprinklers as a child. And it certainly carries over into adulthood when, as a supposed grown-up, you deliberately go on a “flume” ride; the rollercoaster-like divertissement featured at most modern playlands. If you go on a water ride and you don’t get wet, where’s the fun in it and why even bother?

Water parks have age limits as to just how old and/or big a child can be to take the plunge on certain slides, and for good reason. Some of those suckers take a drop from as high as seven or eight stories, and around some of the curves the G-force can be brain altering. It’s just like a roller coaster except you’re not strapped in and you’re not wearing much.

Okay here’s the deal. Along with a minimum age I’m now firmly convinced, from first-hand experience, there should be a maximum; my suggestion being about 55 or so. Also, there should definitely always be a weight limit; for any age.

The facts: a 75-year-old mound of 225 lbs. of blubber should be barred from participating. And I have the bruises to prove it.

Great Expectations

2011-10-23T01:27:00.004-04:00

Inspired by several current special events I constructed this haiku:

Anticipation;
Nostalgia for something that
Hasn’t happened yet.

When thinking about a long anticipated event one can get caught up in the possibilities without regard to reality. Everything seems to be in place to make it memorable and an experience to treasure in the future. But so much can go wrong that it’s sometimes necessary to put the brakes on anticipation and lower ones expectations a tad, just to protect oneself against unforeseen disappointments. Even some minor glitch can get blown out of proportion just because the “ideal” parade suffers a drizzle. But the mere fact of a travel snag or a weather blip doesn’t mean you have to leave the cake out in the rain. You really can make lemonade from the most mundane ingredients if you lower your expectations in advance.

It’s a warning always to be aware of. I had a glorious day at the beach ruined by the worst traffic jam of my life on the trip home (a sunburned butt didn’t help). I had the once-in-a-lifetime thrill of cruising through the Panama Canal almost smothered by a travel glitch; not of my own making but caused by some “executive” decision to delay my flight out of Acapulco and causing me to miss my connection and suffer a horrible overnight stay in a fleabag hotel in Chicago in the dead of winter. My Panama cruise will be forever made murky by the subsequent horror. I have other examples but those should suffice.

Expectations can end up being so cruel. But, damn it, anticipation can be fun. And sometimes the glitch makes the pudding. Getting trapped for an hour on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World was horrible. But the telling of it is a hoot. Which goes to prove that nostalgia can be fickle and wears a Janus mask sometimes.

Glass Welfare

2011-10-17T17:51:00.002-04:00

I think I’ve mentioned on here before that when I’m consulted by guests, friends, acquaintances and other passers-through as to what-to-do when visiting NYC, I give advice mostly based on what I know about this traveling flotsam. One thing is consistent however. I tell them to hit the elegant high-end stores along Fifth Avenue from about 44th St. all the way up to 60th. And I don’t mean just to window shop either, I mean these stores are retail establishments and, therefore, open to all; even the tank top and flip flop crowd. It’s sort of a 15-block retail museum of the first rank and you don’t have to buy a thing! Breakfast at Tiffany’s is not a joke; even though they might frown on you dropping crumbs on their pristine floors from your glazed chocolate pastry from Dunkin’ Donuts.

Anyway, the reason I’m reiterating this advice is that one of my prime suggestions has always been the Steuben Glass flagship store smack in the middle of this miracle mile of retail overindulgence. It’s glassware to die for and, along with domestic usage, some of the glass sculpture is astonishing. I think you know where I’m going with this.

Three years ago some executive(s) at an outfit called Schottenstein Stores Corporation, which operates retail chains (including Value City Furniture and the DWS shoe stores), bought Steuben from Corning Glass Works just as the economy started sliding into the dumper. Steuben was pretty much a vanity business for Corning since its founding in 1903 (yes, 1903!) and only kept it open for prestige, not profit, and through the years sought their fortune elsewhere in manufacturing technically-inclined glass-based products and brought themselves into the modern age by making stuff for high-tech applications, like computer monitors and LCD televisions. The offer from Schottenstein must have sent smirk-modes onto the faces of the inhabitants of the corner offices at Corning, big time. Anyway, the sale was completed, three years go by and Mr. and Mrs. Schottenstein have egg on their faces and Steuben will be no more by the end of the year. The going-out-of-business sale is in full swing as we speak and you can buy a 2” x 3” glass hand warmer in the shape of a cat for $200, instead of $300. What a bargain!

I must jump in here and confess that I do own a Steuben paperweight in the shape of a seashell (yeah, I know, what else?). I bought it for myself in about 1985 when I was feeling flush and, I must say, I’ve never regretted it. It’s really beautiful and one of my favorite tchotchkes and it will always remain in the rotation on my shelves. However, I’ve looked through the sale items and have decided the prices continue to be out of my league; so I will value my one small piece of Steuben and love it twice as much.

Twin Towers

2011-09-10T20:40:00.003-04:00

The "Towers of Light" are again dazzling our hearts. I can see them from my bedroom window, only my angle is such that the lights blend as one. For ten years they have blazed into the NYC sky on the anniversary of 9/11. It's about the best tribute of an event I have ever seen and for ten years I've marveled at the idea and the, well, simple and basic ingenuity of it. Since ground zero has now opened to the public and the new World Trade Center building is now above 80 stories and will be reaching its apex soon (1776 feet to the tippy-top) and will supposedly be open for business in 2013, this will be the last year for this "Tribute in Light." The lights will be turned off forever at 11:00 p.m. tonight And I will miss them forever.

Stamps, approval of

2011-08-30T17:08:00.003-04:00

On Aug. 19 the United States Postal Service released stamps commemorating five Pixar animated features; and I say bully for them. They are, in alphabetical order: Cars, Ratatouille, Toy Story, Up and WALL-E. Unless the USPS gets on the stick immediately, and I mean NOW, and release the next five my disappointment, on a scale of one to ten, wouldn’t cover it. My three favorite Pixar’s are, in alphabetical order: Finding Nemo, Monster’s Inc. (“Kitty!”) and The Incredibles. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the five already honored but I still want to know just who those people are who sat around that table-of-decision(s) and made the choices.

Further to this, who decided what to depict on each one? This would, of course, be an artistic decision and therefore none of my business but as to the stamps themselves, is it totally a marketing decision? That is, the latest movies spread the lard at a higher level (even though, in my opinion, not all that fairly) to maximize profits?

Fear not, I have an insider on the hunt for answers. He/she had better provide some soon; the hell-to-pay meter is running.

A Song for Irene

2011-08-28T16:25:00.005-04:00

You rose from out a tropic sea,
Your rating at an apogee.
A dire 4 cast,
Diminished, passed;
But not the muse I thought you’d be.

mac & cheese & jeter & poetry

2011-08-19T23:14:00.003-04:00

Sitting on the couch thinking about macaroni and cheese (perhaps embellished with a couple of sliced Hebrew National hotdogs), watching the Yankee/Twins game and reading a slim book of poetry called Heroes and Householders by Steve Turtell between innings. Some of his poems are good and they make me jealous because I’ve never been sentimental enough or mad enough to write poetry. I’m good at limericks because the form pleases me; it’s restrictive and you have to count the syllables for it to work. Having your mind in the gutter helps too, for that’s what limericks are (or are supposed to be): smut in rhyme and as insulting as possible. Watching baseball is easy; poetry is hard. Good (or bad) stuff on the diamond is always replayed over and over so, even with bathroom breaks, you don’t miss a thing and, anyway, there’s always a nice recap in the morning paper.

Although these poems should probably be dipped into randomly I read them chronologically, first to last. “Great heroes and warriors perform their deeds” is the first line of the first poem (about a mundane, but very sharp, kitchen knife; “Lead me by the tongue to heaven” the last line of the last (it’s about pears, smut brain). In between there is a lot of deep thoughts about a lot of other stuff—some much too personal for my shallow persona. Sometimes I’m not sure I’m getting them and there are no replays to corroborate first impressions. In the meantime Derek Jeter cements his place in sports history and I am more than pleased to bear witness. Driven by forceful gusts of wind, heavy rain is testing the resiliency of the window glass. The Friday-difficult New York Times crossword is laughing at me with empty squared teeth. The water is on for the mac and cheese; perhaps a dash of pesto to jazz up the Kraft?

Mermen do exist

2011-08-09T19:46:00.002-04:00

This is a collage by Adam W. Woomer and is made up solely of layer after layer of glue and cut paper (no paint has been applied). I think it’s festive and pretty cool despite the semi-androgynous look caused by the flowing yellow hair, and I think there is more than a vestige of peebstuff lurking somewhere in there. My sister has mentioned in the past that she thinks I do have a certain merman-ish aspect and I’m not one to dispute that since I feel amazingly (stupidly?) unafraid and at home in the ocean and, over the last 50 years or so, have experienced some pretty rough seas without much to protect myself other than a wet suit, Scuba gear, a snorkel, a spear gun, an abalone knife, water skis (not all of these at once—mix and match), and/or just swimming beyond the surf line fetchingly draped in Speedos of various hues. I’m not the merman I used to be but I can still hold my breath for an uncommonly long time and still love being immersed in water, be it the dangerous salty sea or a freshwater pool lined decoratively with tile sunflowers. More a manatee than a dolphin these days but I can wallow with the best of them.

Gangrenous Football

2011-08-02T17:20:00.004-04:00

This is Rex Ryan. He is a bully and a blowhard. He is also the coach of the New York Jets; one of two New York teams that have the arrogance to play all of their home games in New Jersey but somehow think 23 miles away is close enough. But that’s not my bitch herein. This is: Now that all of the brouhaha over the negotiations between owners and players, millionaires all, is done with and the teams are gathering for pre-season conditioning and practice despite a few un-wrapped up individual player contracts, the media posturing has begun.

The Jets are the worst and seem to encourage braggadocio and hyperbole (two of my favorite words) and therefore set an example for our “impressionable” youth that bragging and bullying and carrying concealed weapons is admirable. More than any other sport, “manliness” seems to be the criteria in football and butting your thick skull into someone who is defenseless, although ostensibly abhorred, is actually looked upon with favor (as long as this is not said out loud in front of someone capable of getting it into print). The very fact that Rex Ryan has become a head coach proves the point. 1. Bully. 2. Arrogant. 3. Loud mouth 4. Hypocrite.

This buys into what is perceived as the mindset of the “normal” football fan. Even though I like the idea that the normal football fan is more appreciative of some of the spectacular talent in the NFL; those guys who play the game with brilliance without the need for physical “cheating” to get ahead, but I’m afraid I’m being a bit naïve about this. Even some of the more gentle souls I know just can’t seem to get enough of an occasional train wreck on a football field.

Anyway, as Rex Ryan and the NY Jets gear up again with media headlines following them around with public relations words like “laden with expectations” and “teeming with enthusiasm” and “brimming with confidence,” while the underbelly of “bullying,” “swaggering,” “boastful” and “arrogant” more truthfully illustrate the reality.

I have four words for the Jets: Tom Brady - Peyton Manning. The Jets are known as “Gang Green” which is, of course, a play on the word “gangrene” but I’ve never really understood the application (since I associate it with rotting flesh) but, whatever, I really am looking forward to how they deal with teams that really do have winning schmaltz but don’t require any shrieking or howling to prove it.

Tower Power

2011-07-27T23:08:00.002-04:00

This is pretty much what the new One World Trade Center looks like as we speak. I happened to be driving on the West Side Highway in lower Manhattan this week and was pleased to be confronted by an unblocked visual of it. I must confess to an unexpected emotional reaction; totally mixed. Pleased to see it rising and, conversely, horror remembered. For years all of the work has been underground and it was an agonizing wait for something concrete (literally) to make an appearance. It looks to me to be about 70 stories high right now and the structure seems to inch up almost daily. I suspect, but I’ve not read one word about this, they’ve covered some of the façade with glass just to create a pleasing visual to hold us over. The current estimate for completion is “the end of 2013” but I certainly wouldn’t count on that, especially when so many shameful delays toyed with our trust in the powers that be.

When finished, and the media tower on the top is in place, it will measure 1776 feet and, hopefully, provide us with the symbol we’ve been waiting for. It’s hard to be dispassionate about this building even though, frankly, it will become the tallest building in the world totally dedicated to office use, because it rises from some pretty horrible circumstances and will forever be connected with the destruction of the buildings that preceded it. It’s made of glass and steel and I just pray it provides hope instead of breaking our hearts every time we see it.

Puppet Love

2011-07-24T16:44:00.003-04:00

Rod and Ricky, the two gay puppets from the off-Broadway production of Avenue Q got married today, the first day same-sex marriage became legal in New York. My heartfelt congratulations!

Lucian Freud 1922 - 2011

2011-07-23T00:46:00.003-04:00

A few months ago I quizzed about 50 people regarding their choices for owning a work of art by any artist, living or dead. The total responses eventually reached 64 and I was fairly amazed by the vast variety of artists chosen; way beyond the old masters and/or impressionists that I assumed would be the favorites. Narrowing it down to just one artist was difficult for some folks but, on the other hand, several people just couldn’t come up with anybody; not being at all interested in art of any kind. It was a nice little study and proved intuitive, to me at least, about the basic psychology of my friends and acquaintances. I have mostly kept these conclusions to myself but I can almost always connect the artist dots to the people who chose them in my survey. Some people surprised me but most fit into the groove I had already dug for them.

My own choice was a common one, being Claude Monet, but I think if I had narrowed the category to modern, living artists it would have been Lucian Freud. Although I had been aware of his stuff for some time I still recall a definitive exhibit of his work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in about 1993 that knocked my socks off. From bucolic Monet to fleshy Freud is quite a leap I know but what can I say. His paintings had, and still have, an emotional impact on me and it’s with regret that I heard that he passed away this Wednesday. He was 88.
--------------------------------
Update July 23, 2011: There is a great (as in terrific) "Appraisal" of Freud by Michael Kimmelman in today's New York Times. Worth the Google.

Not My Game

2011-07-23T00:43:00.001-04:00

I tried hard last week, I really did, to learn to like the most popular team sport in the entire world. I loyally watched the US women’s team in two games, against France and Japan, in this year’s World Cup. I learned some of the rules from newspaper coverage and the rest, I think, by osmosis by just watching. It didn’t work for me. I feel left out. There is no remedy.

The Zen of the Bobblehead

2011-07-06T15:09:00.011-04:00

---------------------------------
Update August 2, 2011: This was a bit more Zen than I realized. During the building of my bobblehead I was in e-mail correspondence with its sculptor, Grace. I tried some friendly banter but she was strictly business. Now I understand. My bobblehead was delivered via FedEx and the return address is:

QMM Co. Ltd.
No. 236 IND, TUAN JIE VILLAGE
XinHja Huadu
GuangZhou, 510800
CHINA

No wonder Grace didn't understand "it's cool" or "horizontal hairline."

Mermaids…packed in water or oil?

2011-07-06T00:12:00.002-04:00

This question somehow surfaced at brunch the other day, which reminded me that one can engage in a serious discussion about the silliest damned things. To wit: how do mermaids and mermen procreate? Is intercourse involved, or does the female just lay a bunch of eggs and the male comes along and haphazardly bombs-away like jellyfish? Or, like our seagoing mammal friends the dolphins, whales and manatees, do they actually mate? Is the human half of mer-people mammal? Also, where are the genitalia?

The general consensus was that, yes, mer-people are mammals and their sexual organs are kept safely internal in a pouch-like configuration located anatomically in the same physical area as humans. Reproduction is accomplished in the usual way. Our discussion totally fell apart when the subject of recreational anal sex was broached. Although an intriguing topic, we voted to table this issue when the eggs benedict arrived.

When in the course of human events…

2011-07-05T17:01:00.003-04:00

“The New York Times Store, in collaboration with The Caren Archive, is proud to offer one of the most important documents in American history.” This sentence starts a full-page ad currently running in The Times and it is selling one of only six original copies of the Declaration of Independence. (I’ve always thought “original copy” was an oxymoron like “military intelligence” or “rap music” but then that’s another, more personal, subject). The asking price is $1.6 million.

The questions cascade: who the hell is The Caren Archive and how did they get this DoI in the first place? Although there is a purchaser-caveat in the body of the ad, “This genuine Declaration of Independence will be sold to the first qualified buyer;” who’s to say Al Qaeda couldn’t buy it through a legitimate go-between and then publically set a match to it in the ruins of that compound in Pakistan where he-whose-name-we-no-longer-invoke met his timely demise? Why isn’t this particular document in The Library of Congress, which doesn't have one? Where is the one copy that’s not accounted for (in the ad at least). Would I qualify as a buyer? Do you suppose I can offer $1.4 million in this flea market of important historical documents? Would it look good hanging next to the Hirschfeld etching (probably a forgery) of Charlie Chaplain I have hanging in the small bedroom? Would owning it get me laid?

Probably some of these answers can be obtained from our buds at Google but I don’t think I’ll bother. Still, it will be interesting to see who forks over this $1.6 million (or less) just for the cachet of the act of forking. Maybe some hedge-fund billionaire will take it out of petty cash and donate the document to The Library of Congress where it belongs. Doubt it.
------------------------------
Update August 3, 2011: Still for sale!

Master Class

2011-07-04T12:05:00.004-04:00

Sometime in 1995-1996 I saw the Broadway production of Terrence McNally’s Master Class, which starred Zoe Caldwell. I remember being blown away by both Caldwell and a then-unknown (by me at least) actress, Audra McDonald. They both won Tony awards for their performances.

A Broadway revival is opening this week but I was a little reluctant to see it because I didn’t want to fool with the very positive memory from 1995. But circumstance, and a little chicanery, brought me tickets for a preview performance on June 24th and I needn’t have worried. Tyne Daly is a worthy successor to Ms. Caldwell and brings her own singular pizazz to the role of Maria Callas teaching an operatic master class. The actress playing the role originated by Ms. McDonald was very good and sang beautifully (if you like that kind of singing…lol) but she doesn’t quite have that, well, that powerful and charismatic personality that engulfs an audience.

The show seemed a bit long to me, especially in the second act, and there were a couple of rough spots technically but, of course, the show was still in preview and that stuff has probably been overcome. Overall, this Master Class was as riveting as I remember it and held up its end of the bargain in comparison. Frances McDermond should thank her lucky stars that Tyne Daly was not yet eligible for a Tony Award nomination this year. It would have been a horse race otherwise with neither the favorite.

Geezer Computers

2011-07-03T15:41:00.002-04:00

There is a short essay by Mireille Silcoff in today’s NY Times Magazine that is phenomenally topical to my present situation. Its title is “The Memory Problem; Which will last longer, the old man or his old computer?” Although the grandfather in question is a tad my senior (he is 102), he has been plagued by the failure of his 1998 iMac and it was giving him that old-man disease; conniptions. My computer isn’t all that old (an HP desktop I bought in, I think, about 2005) but it is still on a downward slope and plagued with various viruses (probably) and conniption-causing corruptions.

Encouraged by a friend’s generous gift-card to Best Buy I took the plunge this week and bought the very latest version of the computer I had gotten so familiar with over the last semi-decade. The young man who waited on me at BB was actually very impressed by the fact I actually owned a working computer that old and, being an inveterate geezer, I had to explain to him that my generation fully expected all appliances, etc., to last at least 25 years with no malfunctions. It is to laugh; which is exactly what he did. His generation (it’s a stretch to think he might be 21) seems to think it’s normal (and okay!) when a piece of equipment, especially electronica, becomes obsolete within a couple of years (or months).

The point of this is that the granddaughter-author of the essay kept putting off buying grandpa a new computer because, hey, nobody expected him to outlive it. Even now, although she doesn’t say so, she can’t see the forest for the trees and paid a ton of money to get his old iMac fixed, rather than buying him an upgrade for half the price. So he continues to write his “vignettes” (his word--which I translate into “blogs”) and is humming happily ever after; entertaining himself and his extended family with a lot of lumpy prose. To quote from Ms. Silcoff’s essay, “This is a man’s lifeline. He was born in 1908. He is my hero.” Amen.

Jeter’s nitty gritty

2011-06-23T09:37:00.004-04:00

I’m a sports fan, okay? I spend a lot of couch potato time watching athletic stuff on the tube. I own various team caps, jerseys and an insulated cup or two with team logos emblazoned thereon. It’s what we sports fans do, ya know?

But currently something has me rattled. For those who don’t know this, and most of my friends don’t give a rat’s ass, the New York Yankee super star, Derek Jeter, is approaching a milestone number in his long career and that is he will reach 3,000 career hits very soon. As of this date he is only six hits short. Naturally the marketing mavens are gearing up to sell as much paraphernalia as possible to commemorate this event. Pins, magnets, pennants, mugs, bobbleheads, decals, cellphone skins, key chains, jewelry and, of course, all sorts of clothing and athletic equipment. This is no surprise to me and, although I don’t plan on buying (and I hope no one thinks of giving me) any of this junk, there is one item with which I am total flummoxed.

Major League Baseball (with Jeter’s approval) has signed a contract with an outfit called Steiner Sports to market some strategic dirt. Yes, dirt. Hopefully, Jeter will get his 3,000th hit at Yankee Stadium but that doesn’t seem to matter, because wherever he hits it Steiner Sports has permission to go to that particular field and dig up five gallons of dirt from the batter’s box and the territory where shortstops roam. This dirt will be poured into capsules and cups or whatever container is marketable, to be sold (by the tablespoon) to Jeter’s hyper-fans and/or emotional retards for, I’m sure, a maximum whatever-traffic-will-bear dollar amount.

To me this is marketing gone mad in a country (and world) that values celebrity so much they are willing to buy dirt. Not dirt from Jeter’s cleats or a shirt that he got soiled by sliding into second base. This is just dirt. Dirt. Don’t get me wrong, I like Derek Jeter and his athletic prowess is certainly to be admired and he has accomplished a lot in his 13 years (so far) as a professional baseball player. But do I worship the dirt on which he walks? I emphatically do not.

I just wish there was some sort of anti-marketing, anti-greed company that could be hired to urge people not to buy this dirt. That the time has come to draw a line in the…er, well, sand and refuse to fall for the…er, well, crap being shoveled our way.
------------------------------------
Update July 3, 2011: Right after I posted this Jeter stumbled in the dirt and pulled a hamstring or something which has stalled his progression to 3,000. Seems like kismet to me. Irony rules, sometimes, even in sports.
Update July 9, 2011: Jeter got a single in the first inning and a then, his 3,000th hit, a home run! Holy shit! I've admitted that I'm not a huge Yankee fan, but this brought a lump to my throat. I'm watching the rest of the game but don't think I'll stick around to watch them dig up that five gallons of dirt so they can make trinkets to maximize the profits.

A Dream Narrative in Five Chapters

2011-06-11T03:26:00.002-04:00

Chapter One

In October of 2010 a Pacific Gas & Electric pick-up truck was stolen near Lake St. in the Richmond District of San Francisco. When quizzed by police the workers (two men, both named Mike) blamed a man who asked them to move their truck because it was blocking his car. Mike #1 (who is African American) said it was “some old white dude in a yellow shirt.” Mike #2 said it was a “plaid shirt with a lot of yellow in it.” Neither of them actually saw this man steal their truck even though it happened right in front of their eyes. Three weeks later the Parks Department called PG&E to ask them to move a truck from the parking space that serves visitors to the Spire tree sculpture by Andy Goldsworthy in The Presidio. The man who made the call thought the truck had been there for “at least three weeks.” Mike #1, protected by his union, only received a reprimand for leaving his keys in the truck and still works for PG&E. Mike #2 got tired of being razzed by his co-workers and quit his job. Later he told a friend, in confidence, that when the supposed thief asked them to move their truck Mike #2 had said, “It’ll be another 20 minutes” and when the man started to object Mike #1 had yelled, “Get lost, old man.” The presumption that the man in the plaid yellow shirt stole the truck went from a possibility to a probability.

Chapter Two

When PG&E reported the theft the police assumed they could get the identity of the thief by researching the background of the car that had been hemmed in by the truck , but nothing was done for another three weeks during which time the car accumulated 15 parking tickets. When the car was finally impounded the “traffic monitor” for that area was chastised for not reporting the car as a possible abandonment or theft. Upon further investigation it was discovered that she had reported this car, in writing, eight times and her supervisor and the follow-up person were reprimanded for neglecting to enter the information into a data base. All three of these people have since left their jobs at the DMV.

Chapter Three

After the car was impounded it was discovered that it had been reported stolen three weeks prior to the truck theft incident. The woman who reported the theft lived three blocks away and she later admitted she might have just forgotten where she parked it. Since the car had New Jersey license plates and was insured in that state there were further delays in resolving the issue of ownership.

Chapter Four

While the car was in the impound lot the trunk was opened and a cardboard box was found containing a Barbra Streisand puppet dressed in her costume from the movie of Hello Dolly. When interviewed by police the car owner said the puppet had appeared on the table in the lobby of her building and, although everyone had admired it, no one questioned why it was there until a portable tape cassette player also appeared on the table and the song “The Way We Were” was played in a continuous loop, day and night (although at low volume). Several complaints were lodged with the building superintendent who did nothing about it except to turn off the tape cassette. The car owner finally took the puppet and put it in the trunk of her car.

Chapter Five

Someone at the impound department recognized that the puppet was a fairly extraordinary work of art (the face and hands were a fine grade of delicate bisque) and put a photo of it on the bulletin board in the office. A few days later a passerby recognized the work as being one of a noted group of “diva” puppets executed by a well-known local artist and, although not for sale, they had been displayed in a high-end jewelry store on 24th Street in the Castro District. The owner of the store said the collection was returned to the partner of the artist (who had passed away from AIDS-related causes several years ago) but neither the store owner nor the partner noticed the Streisand puppet was missing until the rest of them were put up for auction, individually, on E-Bay. The partner and the store owner are unsure when or where the puppet was misplaced or purloined and did not notify the authorities. Some weeks later, after due diligence by the SF Police Dept. and through photographic evidence, the partner was able to successfully facilitate its return to him.

Coda

The owner of the “stolen” vehicle was indicted on several misdemeanor charges including insurance fraud and possession of stolen property. The man in the yellow shirt has disappeared into local folklore. The puppet was auctioned off on E-Bay and the winning bid was $1,275.

Facebook stuff if I was on Facebook

2011-06-10T04:39:00.005-04:00

I bought a pair of leather gym shorts. They’re really hot. I mean hot as in sweaty.
I bought four new chair pads. Although I’m not crazy about them I think they’re cool enough and a nice cushion for the fanny.
I bought a rhododendron bush for the backyard. So far, it’s not doing very well because of the current heat wave. I’m probably over-watering it.

The last time I was in Palm Springs I stayed at a hotel next door to a little dump of a restaurant called John’s. I admired the t-shirts worn by the staff and my pal Bernardo bought one for me, XL. Perfect size; nicely named restaurant, good friend.

In front of my building ajacent to the stairs and the low wall bordering the sidewalk there's an expanse of cement that serves no earthly purpose other than easy maintenance. I regularly pull the weeds from the cracks. Through some sort of intuition I left this little piece of greenery and have been rewarded with a single petunia. Ain't nature wonderful?

Andy in Chrome

2011-06-05T18:28:00.003-04:00

There is a wonderful bronze statue of Mahatma Gandhi in Union Square that stands, rather incongruously I think, in a small, gated leafy glen. Larger than life and in full purposeful stride, the statue exudes strength and purpose; hardly the frail ascetic portrayals usually expected from photographic and artistic images. It’s been there since 1986 and I always visit him whenever I’m in the neighborhood.

If Gandhi came to life and continued his stroll north he would encounter a much more incongruous sight; that is, Rob Pruitt’s “The Andy Monument” in full glare. In the right light this sculpture is probably blinding. But in the “wrong” light (who’s to say what the correct lighting is for an outdoor work of art?) it’s more pewter than chrome. Anyway, it sits on a pedestrian traffic-island at West 17th St. and, as a monument to Andy Warhol it is fittingly impossible to ignore and blinds you to the actual quality of the sculpture itself (dubious at best). The figure is holding a shopping bag that says Medium Brown Bag on the side (a Bloomingdales marketing ploy back in the day) and what looks like a Polaroid camera hung on a strap around its neck (not sure about this). The official press release blatts: “The figure is based on a combination of digital scanning of a live model and hand sculpting, its surface finished in chrome [and is] mounted on a concrete pedestal. It depicts Warhol as a ghostly, silver presence: a potent cultural force as both artist and self-created myth. As Rob Pruitt observes, ‘Like so many other artists and performers and people who don’t fit in because they’re gay or otherwise different, Andy moved here to become who he was, to fulfill his dreams and make it big. He still represents that courage and that possibility. That’s why I came to New York, and that’s what my Andy Monument is about.’”

Warhol was a master of hype so why shouldn’t Pruitt give it the old college try? It got him a spot on a corner at Union Square. Good for him. Oh yeah, as usual with me these days, I gave the sculpture a bonk with my knuckles and it’s definitely hollow. Make of that what you will.

C'mon LeBron!

2011-06-04T01:23:00.008-04:00

I am not a racist. Honest. As they say (I am not immune to a good cliché), “some of my best friends” have been of an ilk not my own. However, I am a victim of my upbringing which included official propaganda of the “anti” sort that colors my emotional thinking to this day. For five years of my early childhood I was imprinted with unbridled hate for “Krauts” and “Japs.” Please excuse the epithets but, hey, they were the epithets of choice of my parents, teachers and the pure and good U.S.A. government at that time. They were our sworn enemies during World War II and despite current adult logic I still retain a residual cold heart for the citizens of these two countries. Not that I can’t have German and Japanese friends it’s just that, well, I guess I’m wrong; I really can’t have German or Japanese friends. My brain can forgive but my emotional core was scarred at a very young age and, being human, I can’t do anything about it. This rant is brought to you by the fact that:

I should be able to admire Dirk Nowitski, because he is possibly the best basketball player in the National (insert “World”) Basketball Association. But he is, all by himself, taking over the NBA Playoffs with his brilliant play and, damn his German hide, now beating up on LeBron James and the Miami Heat in the finals. So what do I turn to in my emotional reaction to his genius? That’s right, “that damned German” and “maybe we should put up a wall somewhere.”

So, c’mon, LeBron, c’mon c’mon; it’s for the red, white and blue this time and my embedded Third Reich righteousness is imperiled. If you win I’ll buy a replica of your jersey, I really will!

-------------------------------------
Update June 12, 2011: In unaccented English Dirk Nowitzki graciously accepted his MVP award tonight after the Dallas Mavs won the NBA finals. You really have to hand it to the guy; he was tremendous. So maybe I'll buy a LeBron jersey next year. I think he has it in him to turn up the heat.

License to Drive

2011-06-03T15:39:00.003-04:00

I put my new license plates on the old Elantra today. I hate ‘em. I want to know the name of the person who made the final decision on the design and colors. I like to think the citizens of New York have some sort of artistic “taste” but, alas, that was obviously not a criterion for the final choice. The new design fits the need for clarity but that’s about it.

The old design also fits that necessity but there was obviously some thought in making the license attractive, as well as functional. We need someone to blame for this atrocity or, at least, I do.

Dog Day Afternoon

2011-05-23T13:00:00.001-04:00

A little touristy advice: if you plan on visiting the amusement park in Coney Island, do your best to approach it from the beachfront entrance. Otherwise you will be totally discouraged at just how shabby, seedy and, yes, just plain dirty the fringes of this world-famous location prove to be. Circumventing this area can be accomplished by parking in the lot at the Aquarium and walking down to the boardwalk or, if you are going by subway, get off one stop before the end of the line and take the skywalk over the bustling avenue that fronts Astroland.

Once you are refreshed by the bracing sea air you can slope into the amusement park and take a look at the stomach churning new rides being offered this year for the first time. They are truly fun to watch but if you choose to actually participate make sure you go on an empty stomach because a couple of these rides will surely empty it for you. Of course the more doable rides are available (I still like the Wonder Wheel; and the Cyclone is a relatively benign roller coaster as compared to the ones at 6 Flags or elsewhere). There are also a variety of kiddie rides that are geared toward toddlers and, thus, also fun to observe.

Another observation: sometimes tradition just ain’t what it used to be. That would be the fare at the world-famous Nathan’s hotdog stand. It’s a given that when you go to Coney Island you have a dog at Nathan’s. In this case, if your palate is not challenged (was it ever?) you can at least say you did it. Frankly the dogs, along with the tradition of eating them, really aren’t what they used to be. It’s obvious that if you order a chili-cheese-dog you will be greeted with the same familiar tough-skinned tube-steak you expected but I’m afraid the chili comes from a five-gallon can and the cheese from a squeeze-bottle. Not the mustard; the cheese. And the mustard and ketchup now come in those little plastic packets that really, you know, suck. The french fries seem to be the same—that is, thick cut and exceptionally greasy (not a bad thing to my jaded tastes).

More advice: also return to your car or subway via the boardwalk. Even though it looks like a straight shot from Nathan’s and would be shorter and, yes, easier. But the new restrooms are positioned on the ocean side of the boardwalk and the ocean breezes might clear your head along with the vague physical unease caused by eating food you shouldn’t have. I can understand the possible stomach upset engendered by flying around in impossible positions on the rides. But having a fling at a stationary table at Nathan’s really shouldn’t but you in jeopardy in the same way.

Harry Trumps Harper

2011-05-21T01:28:00.003-04:00

I think I might have mentioned this before but, in light of recent events, it bears repeating. Stated as a question it’s simply this: what the hell do you give an elderly person who pretty much already has everything he or she could possibly want? Do you give ‘em tchotchkes they feel obligated to put on display? Tablecloths; napkins; or subscriptions to TV Guide? Gift baskets with fattening foodstuffs or fresh fruit that inevitably goes bad?

This is really a trick question because the recent event I’m talking about was the 94th birthday of a mother-figure I’ve treasured since 1971. So for 40 years I’ve been giving her all of the above plus other perishables or sometimes not-so-cheap tokens of my love and appreciation. This year a mind-boggling major change took place. I discovered that this woman, since the passing of her husband and the one-year obligatory grieving period, has taken up reading in a serious way. What a revelation. And what a gift-giving resource!

It also put me on the horns of a dilemma in that I have no idea what she might like. She’s been reading biographies a lot including, oddly enough, historically important baseball players and she went through the Dan Brown‘s pop-novel oeuvre (The Da Vinci Code, et al) in a flash.

One of the things this made me think about is what books do I hold in reverence that I should recommend to her? Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird was the first thing to leap to mind and I gave that to her for her birthday. What I didn’t count on is that she seems to be loving the Harry Potter books and is now already deep into #3 of the series. For an individual who hasn’t read a book in probably 70 years (insert exclamation point here) she is making up for a lot of lost time and, although she has set aside Mockingbird in favor of Hogwarts, it’s just damned wonderful to see her, daily, with her feet up and her nose in a book.

Show-Biz Notes

2011-05-20T20:03:00.003-04:00

Just a show-biz related word or two here about a couple of plays I’ve seen recently. I hadn’t planned on besmirching the blog-waves about them but the awards season is upon us and both plays have gotten some press because of it. Good People by David Lindsay-Abaire is a Tony nominee for Best Play and Frances McDormand as Best Actress and, although I think McDormand could win, the play might not. Frankly, the play is just this side of wonderful and I am sure it will be extensively remounted at regional theaters for years to come. One thought I’ve had is that I wonder if another, equally boffo, actress without any name recognition would have been nominated. I’d like to think so but it’s a futile speculation since McDormand does have the name recognition and she does deserve the nomination and I hope she wins.
------------------------------
Update June 12, 2011: Frances McDormand did indeed win the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Play and it was well deserved despite her getting the freak on in both her choice of what she wore and in her acceptance speech.

Peter and the Starcatcher (now closed after several extensions) was an off-Broadway success at New York Theatre Workshop and some poop on the street has seeped my way that it is being retooled for Broadway. This might be a mistake because it seemed, when I saw it, a perfect small musical that belongs in a small theater downtown. One never knows, or particularly understands, the urge to reach Broadway heights (at the cost of many $millions) with a stage production that might not belong in that rarified air but, again, my perception has proved wrong before, e.g., Avenue Q, which went on to win the Tony for Best Musical (but has since, sensibly, returned to off-Broadway). The directors of Starcatcher, Roger Rees and Alex Timbers, won a 2011 Obie and Christian Borle won a Lucille Lortel award as Best Actor. If the original excellent reviews and this new ready-made publicity is grounds for expanding the show into Big-Buckville, well who am I to say nay?

Couch Athletic Supporters

2011-05-19T15:13:00.005-04:00

This is a great time of year for sports couch potatoes. We are witnessing some thrilling professional basketball now with the season-ending playoffs in full sway. For some reason there seems to be more superstars than ever this year and their play is so spectacular they might as well be trained acrobats. We can also observe how the baseball season is shaking out with the cream not necessarily rising to the top as yet but there are glimmers of what might occur. Only about a fifth of the season is under our athletic supporters now and all of the teams still have their hopes and dreams so it’s pretty great to watch them struggle with the vagaries of what weather, health, stamina and luck can do.

There are as many as four games on television at the same time and I, for one, keep my right hand in the chips bag but my left thumb on the remote control as I switch between the venues. I must say this capability is pretty amazing and, really, there seems to be no reason, for about four/five hours straight on any given evening, to actually watch a commercial.

It’s also the time of year for high-end hockey and--whatever that other round-ball world-sport is--oh yeah, soccer--vying for our attention. Sorry, my jock doesn’t have room for more than two, er, sports.

Echo

2011-05-19T02:50:00.002-04:00

Having an errand to run on East 21st St. I took a little side trip over to Madison Square Park to take look at “Echo” which, The NY Times informed me, has been placed there by Jaume Plensa who, “Over the last decade has become one of the world’s most celebrated public artists, best known for wondrously monumental figurative sculptures that can be seen from Calgary to Dubai.” Well, excuse me!

In the age of Google I was able to bring myself up to speed about Mr. Plensa and, sure-enough, his stuff seems to have been placed all over the place. I just wish we could have gotten one of those instead of Echo. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Echo is kind of cool and certainly, at 44 feet, monumental. I don’t know if it was just the dreary, rainy day or just my mood (which was, I thought, pretty much one of benign congeniality—I had downed an excellent bagel and still had my latte clutched firmly in hand). I love public art of all kinds, especially when it’s quirky and amusing (or sexy) but Echo didn’t move me to much emotion of any kind. Maybe it doesn’t belong in a small park; perhaps the canyons of Park Avenue North would have served it better. I know not. I did go right up to it and gave it a good knock to see what it was made of but was unable to decide what the material is; probably some kind of resin amalgam. Back to Google.

Pears & Muffins

2011-05-19T02:37:00.003-04:00

Most catalogs I receive in the mail are unwelcome and they hit the recycle bin without even an interim stop on the kitchen counter. There just seems to be no way to stop their flow except by attrition and eventually, it says here, you will be removed from the mailing list. I’m pretty good about this and have noticed I don’t quite get the volume of tree-waste I used to. But then I read about an old friend whose catalog I always liked looking at (although rarely ordering from) just because the product is just so damned expensive.

This would be Harry & David, the folks that bring you those fruit-to-nuts gift baskets. And boxes. We mustn’t forget about the boxes because they are so sturdy and useful for presenting (or mailing) other stuff to various and sundry people with various and sundry occasions to be celebrated. Unfortunately Harry & David has filed for a “prearranged Chapter 11” bankruptcy and, among other things there I suppose, they have either stopped or cut-down on the production of their catalogs. I wouldn’t be all that alarmed by this because it was rare-to-never that I bought anything from them (their Royal Riviera pears are/were sensational) but, wouldn’t you know it, a couple/three years ago Harry & David swallowed Wolferman’s, whose catalog I did utilize to order some out-of-this-world (in my opinion) English muffins.

And, now, the Wolferman’s catalog has also stopped coming. I know, I know, I could probably go on-line as we speak and order a muffin supply but when a company files for bankruptcy who knows what effect that has on production (and reliable deliver)?

This sort of thing has happened a lot over the last two or three years as the economy tanked but, upon some cagey research, I learned that H&D (and thus Wolferman’s) was taken over by Wasserstein & Company and Highfields Capital Management in 2004. These companies (and other investors) subsequently sucked out all of the profits without reinvesting anything in the company. This is my opinion anyway and, whether it’s true or a wobbly version of the truth, it means my favorite muffins have bitten the sawdust floor. I guess there’s hope that Harry & David can pull out of these dark, dank, days but in the meantime all incentive to purchase, based mostly on receipt of the catalogs, is gone.

Oscar Worthy

2011-04-14T14:30:00.003-04:00

When I went out this morning to move my car (to comply with the off-street parking regulations) the Oscar Mayer "Weinermobile" was parked illegally in front of the apartment building across the street. It remained there long enough to cause the street sweeper to make a wide berth around it. Ten minutes later it was gone. Why it was parked there is a mystery; so far unsolved by me. It did not get a parking ticket.

Priscilla Blooms on Broadway

2011-03-14T02:21:00.005-04:00

I’ll get the bitchiness out of the way first. I have two caveats about the Broadway musical Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. One is just a personal bugaboo that frosts my personal gonads; and that is bringing audience members on stage to dance around clumsily and make idiots of themselves. This happens at the beginning of act two and totally brought me down from the cloud I was floating on throughout the rest period called intermission. Yeah, cloud. My theater companion said it best, “How could anyone not like this show?” It’s a corker…but details to follow. My second criticism is a matter of staging and I think could be corrected (opening night is March 20 so pay attention you guys!).

One of the transcendent moments of the movie (upon which this musical is based), for me at least, was the triumphant climb of Ayers Rock in the Australian outback by three drag queens in all their costumed and coifed glory (“a cock, in a frock, on a rock” is the rightfully oft-quoted line), high heeled pumps and all. Clunky symbolism, I’ll admit but, hey, it got to me in 1994. I was waiting for this moment on stage and, unfortunately, I didn’t immediately recognize it when it came. They’ve tried it solely with tricky lighting and it simply doesn’t work. Surely, kids, you can do better in a show that has everything else right, both as a dynamic work of Broadway art and modern theatrical technology, a combination that makes the show sing.

And sing it does! Frankly, Priscilla is just about the best thing I’ve seen in many a moon (which is, by the way, portrayed in the stage-sky by a slightly disguised disco ball). The musical score is not original, having been culled from a variety of pop songs whose melodies, I realize now, got stuck in our heads when they first came out over the last couple of decades. And, somehow, it all works! I had my most arch pooh-pooh comments all prepared but they got blown away by the sheer energy of the cast, the incredible costumes and the performances of the three leads (Will Swenson, Tony Sheldon, Nick Adams). Oh, there were moments of gay-bashing angst and attempts at heartstring pulling but the slam-bang pacing and high energy performances overcame all obstacles. If you don’t know the plot, “Priscilla” is the name of the bus in which our three stalwarts cross the Australian outback from Sidney to Alice Springs, and what a piece of stagecraft that full-sized (well, they make it seem full-sized) bus becomes.

Despite missing out on my Ayers Rock movie moment there were two instances of inner-hysteria I suffered from the stage show that the movie didn’t have. A lump-in-the-throat sentimental moment when the newly-met father and son sing “You Were Always on My Mind” and a falling-in-the-aisle production number when the three drag queens did what would be a half-hour casino show in ever-accelerating pace in a super-silly five minutes. And, of course, there were those damn dancing cupcakes as icing. But maybe I’ve said too much…

Not liking this show is not an option. If you don’t like it your barnacles need tending to; if not major surgery then at least some heavy moisturizing procedures.

In honor of attending Priscilla we had our pre-show dinner at the ersatz Australian restaurant Outback Steakhouse on West 23rd St. There’s nothing like putting a shrimp on the barbie and a having a finger-greasy blooming onion to carry out the evening’s theme. Unfortunately, we ran out of time so we had to forego having coffee and sharing the featured post-dinner special, a stack of waffles which formed the basis of a gigantic, sloppy strawberry shortcake; truly a queen of the dessert.
-------------------------------
Update March 21, 2011: The show opened to mixed reviews. What hard hearts some critics have.

I don't know much about art...and vice versa

2011-02-01T16:14:00.008-05:00

So here’s the question I asked 50 friends and acquaintances: if you could own an original work of art by any artist (living or dead), who would it be?

At first I was interested in numbers, that is, how many votes for Monet, how many for Da Vinci; etc. And then it dawned on me that one simple response, if answered honestly, can give some insight into a respondents persona which is, of course, influenced by a whole phalanx of things: upbringing (familial attention); education (or lack of it); an interest in art as a whole and what a persons values are; be they inwardly selfish, outwardly financial, or even whimsical.
Then assumptions can be made, perhaps wrong but also, perhaps, logically right. It’s a different take on “you are what you eat,” addressed as, “you are what’s in your art.”

I must say I was quite surprised with some of the choices. First of all, I knew going in that, if taken seriously, it’s a difficult question. Coming up with just one artist is hard because people like, and can appreciate, a lot of different kinds of (and schools of) art. If people choose an artist totally influenced by value, as opposed to what one wants to live with, it also gives some insight into that person’s priorities. I was hoping everyone would think about what they would hang in a prime location on their living room wall; not what they would put in a bank vault for future maximum resale; but I deliberately did not include that in the question, letting the respondent take that aspect of owning art into consideration. There is, of course, some overlap there. Even though you could live a long, cushy life by selling your Van Gogh; it would be nice to think he or she is the artist whose work you most wanted to live with on a daily basis.

There were quite a few obvious old master choices with Da Vinci and Michelangelo leading that pack, with a couple of Raphael’s and Caravaggio’s making an appearance. The lion’s share of the votes, however, went to the Impressionists, with Monet, Van Gogh, Renoir and Seurat in descending order. Next up was the more modern crowd with the usual suspects: Picasso, Turner, Chagall, and Matisse for instance, followed by the more contemporary schools with Dali, Botero, Kahlo, Rothko, DeKooning, Warhol, Lichtenstein, Mapplethorpe and Haring making the cut.

I loved the variety of choices and exalt, yes exalt, in the quality of the artists chosen, but my faith in humanity, and some of my friends, was shattered by other, I guess inevitable, choices. I can certainly not quibble with Innes and Wyeth and Rockwell but then there were votes for Steven Power, Christian Riese Lassen, Frank Frazetta and Thomas Kinkade. If you don’t know their work it only takes a little time on Google to refresh your memory and realize you actually do know it. I vowed at the start I would not question (or judge) anyone’s choice but it was difficult to not say to these people, in a kindly, avuncular tone, “Wouldn’t you prefer a nice mid-sized Vermeer hanging over your mantel instead?”

But I quibble; at least they cared enough to have an answer. Too many people had no answer at all: “I guess I’m not really into art. I don’t have anything at all on my walls” and, “I guess I should have paid more attention in art appreciation class,” and the time honored answer, “Is this a trick question?” However, even these comments have value and one can draw conclusions from them (including a couple of wise-ass suggestions) as well as those who had an unequivocal answer. To be totally up-front, although I have quite a bit of art on my walls, I have a mirror in a “Chippendale-style” frame hanging over my own mantel. What does that tell you?

Mademoiselle de Holy Cow!

2011-01-21T00:40:00.002-05:00

Although Christmas dinner at cousin Paula’s was, as usual, sumptuous and gourmand driven (and, of course, with an overdose of coma-inducing satiation) there was a moment of ecstasy after dessert while coffee was being served. Paula’s daughter passed around a box of chocolates that she had found and ordered on-line from some exotic source. They are French, from an outfit named Mademoiselle de Margaux. They are luscious dark-chocolate covered seedless grapes (seemingly fresh) with a soupcon of delicious rum enclosed within the chocolate. They have a faux plastic stem as a finger-hold and they are a one-bite sensation. They were a table-wide oooo and mmmm sensation. When I got home I Googled for info and found several distributors. They ain’t cheap (I would judge about $1.50 a bite) but, goodness gracious, they embody both the goodness and graciousness of a superb holiday treat. Godiva should probably eat its little gold-covered heart out.

de Young & de Restless

2011-01-21T00:10:00.005-05:00

There is really nothing like seeing a famous painting in the flesh. It doesn’t matter how many reproductions you’ve seen, from postcards to Broadway shows. When you are actually standing in front of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC there’s nothing to say but “oh yeah.” Except it’s more like “oh yeaaaaaaaaaah.” This is not only true of the classics like that one but also the sub-species of incredible stuff you usually only see reprinted on coffee cups and sheet sets and t-shirts.

I mention Van Gogh specifically because his “Bedroom at Arles” painting is at the current Impressionist exhibit at the de Young Museum in San Francisco. The show is called “Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cezanne and Beyond” and there are approximately 100 works of art on loan from the Musee d’Orsay and I recognized some of them from the three or four times I was actually standing in front of them in Paris. My brain could barely handle the overload. A stunning exhibit and I feel privileged to have been in SF coincidental to its being there too. I would probably be horribly disappointed if I made the same trip to the Musee in Paris and all of these works were on loan in the United States.

Even though I was thrilled to see the originals I confess I was moved to buy a Seurat jigsaw puzzle as a present and I was pleasantly surprised to receive a Van Gogh coffee cup. I’m at least a consumer with taste. Good or bad is in the eye of the beholder. The cup is dishwasher & microwave safe and is Made in China.

Me and Mr. Incredible

2011-01-20T18:33:00.005-05:00

I had the privilege of having lunch at Pixar Studios in mid-December. The soup was excellent. So was the special exhibit of original Chuck Jones (Bugs, Daffy) drawings. But, being who I am, I also had my photo taken with a large reproduction of Mr. Incredible. My new Finding Nemo t-shirt is a treasure and, hey, the whole experience animated my existence that afternoon.

Also, I’m not sure how to explain this, but when we were negotiating entry into Pixar’s parking lot (in the rain) there was a person dressed as what I thought was a potato (maybe a mushroom) standing on the curb holding up a small sign that said “Pixar, You Can Help.” Upon inquiry the guard explained that the creature was not a vegetable of any sort but was, well, campaigning in support of testicular cancer awareness. So, ummm, the costume was, well, not a potato. Now that would have been excellent photo op!

Stefon Rocks

2011-01-20T17:39:00.001-05:00

At one time I was a huge Saturday Night Live fan and for years back in the good old late nights I rarely missed a show. My current silly sense of humor was probably shaped by my loyalty to that cast of geniuses. In the interim I either grew out of it or the shows just couldn’t sustain the snuff I required to tickle the bone we call funny. So my interest lagged and I moved on with my memories of it. Occasionally I would hit it up again but usually in a casual way…okay, what else was on? Recently a new character has surfaced on the show that has gotten me into silly laugh mode once again. His name is Stefon and he was created and is played by cast member Bill Hader. Stefon appears on the Weekend Update segment of SNL and his job is to review the new, the hip, the weird and the ridiculous night life of NYC. The establishments he judges are fake but they could be real with names like Rust and Raw and Faux. Somewhat like the actual places that seem to pop up in the back alleys of the five boroughs that people like me only hear about after they’ve closed. Stefon is hysterical! Not only in his own persona but in the real sense of the word…he has me on the floor! If you don’t agree with me you will at least get a glimpse into what makes my funny bone tick. He’s like a flash of the old days when Gilda Radner could put me away for the evening. You go, Stefon!

General Observations

2011-01-20T17:22:00.003-05:00

I was in the U.S. Army post-Korea and pre-Vietnam. This “peacetime” army was mostly made up of draftees who timed it right; or rather, I guess our parents did. I somehow kept my nose clean and was honorably discharged with a couple of minor medals and not much else. For years I told people that the only thing I got out of being in the military was the dental care until, that is, stuff started falling out over the next few years. After that I didn’t have much positive to say.

During my years in the army and being the sassy type I had a couple of contretemps with the chain of command since I was unable to disguise my disrespect for at least 75% of anybody that had a higher rank than I did. I had one encounter with a General although only of the One-Star ilk. I mean he was a One-Star General, not that our encounter garnered any stars at all. I’ll explain:

I was bailiwicked in Germany for two years and we were stationed on a hilltop overlooking the “real” army base in Baumholder. We were a secretive “elite” unit and it all made no sense to me because everybody stationed within a hundred miles, if not all of Europe, were clued in to what we were and, of course, our location. Anyway, one of the extra-curricular things in which I was involved (besides the basketball team) was as a member of the “Honor Guard.” Which meant that on special occasions we would dress-up, line-up and look pretty for passing royalty, that is, anybody who outranked anybody stationed in Baumholder. Although we were pretty much left alone by the powers-that-be, each year we were supposed to be “inspected” by the one-star general who presided over the battalions that made up the mass of army personnel that occupied that particular area.

Did you happen to catch General McChrystal when he was followed around by fawning reporters on 60 Minutes (prior, of course, to his dismissal on June 24, 2010)? Our general was of that same ethic, that is, a fitness nut who ate one meal a day and slept on a bed of nails and expected the same from his subordinates. This was well known throughout his command, of course, so preparing for his inspection was pre-ordained and planned on for months ahead.

I didn’t volunteer to be on the Honor Guard. Nor did anybody else, even though we had enough gung-ho soldiers who could, and would have gladly, filled the ranks. There were 20 of us and we were all exactly six feet tall. For the two years I was there, as people came and went, that was the criterion for qualifying to be in the elite unit within this elite unit. Race, religion, ethnic persuasion, or sexual preference had no bearing. Height did. But there was another glitch. You couldn’t be overweight because his subordinate officers perceived that the general might not like that, even though I’m sure he never put it into words or probably even had a whisper of a thought about it.

When I was in the army a large number of the older men in our unit were career soldiers who had actually served in World War II and, consequently, were long in the tooth and were simply working the system to obtain the maximum amount of retirement largesse possible. These men were no ones idea of physical human specimens. They were probably really good soldiers and totally loyal to the military but, hey, they weren’t going to be throwing themselves over barbed wire any time soon. Okay, I’ll say it…a lot of them were fat. They were probably the best platoon sergeants ever and they had been around many corners in their lives (not only WWII but Korea) and I mostly agreed they should be allowed to serve out their terms successfully. Some even became friends and some were assholes who thought their shit didn’t stink and were to be avoided at all costs. However, what tickled me then and still pretty much does to this day because it really shows how the military thinks, when it came time for this big-shot inspection these guys were are all rounded up and hidden away in the basketball gym of a military-run high school about a mile away. There were about 40-50 of them, all ranks, and I have zero idea what they did all day; probably sat around and played cards, I’m pretty sure they didn’t play basketball.

Anyway, all of us in the Honor Guard were physically perfect height-wise and, to top it off, we were nonetheless touted as the best possible soldiers in the company. This was not done by any individual effort on our part, I mean as far as military training or shooting guns or hand-to-hand bayonet combat or anything meaningful. Although everybody on the post had their cots, their lockers and lived in barracks, none of the general-issue stuff we had of our own was used during this annual General Inspection. All of our rifles; all of our brass and all of our uniforms, including either boots or dress shoes (depending on the occasion), were kept separately in the armory…and kept spic and span by a small cadre of lesser soldiers, mostly of shorter stature. Although we all marched to the same drummer, the Honor Guard marched in a much more spiffy fashion. We even had spats and white gloves and strategic decorative highlights to our dress-up. It was totally cheating and ridiculous because it’s not like any of this was secret! But we did it anyway. About once a month the 20 of us would practice and march around the compound, much to the entertainment of our brothers in arms, who ridiculed our look, our marching and, of course, our equi-stature.

My arrival in Baumholder was such that I just missed a current yearly inspection so I didn’t have to participate for a year. So here’s what happened when I finally did participate:

The General was scheduled to arrive by helicopter at 1500 hours (3:00 p.m.) so our unit commander told his lieutenant to muster the Honor Guard at 1400 hours (2:00) and we would form a welcoming line (and salute the motorcade) along the road leading up to our gate. The lieutenant told the sergeant at arms 1300 hours (1:00) and the sergeant told us 1200 hours (noon). If you were in the Army (and maybe other branches of the armed forces) you already know this constant adding of another hour was, and maybe still is, common practice as each rank took over the planning and the execution of any scheduled event. So, at 1100 hours (11:00) we, the honor-ers, gathered at the armory and checked out, and donned, our pristine gear which sparkled like new, as it probably was. The lackey’s at the armory checked us over, the sergeant checked us over and marched us over to headquarters where the sergeant-at-arms checked us over and put us in formation so that the lieutenant and the captain could put us through the drill expected to be performed by the general. The captain, the major and the colonel (our commander) then got into cars to go pick up the general at the heliport on the main base, perhaps a half hour drive away. Remember now, the G was scheduled to land at 1500 hours (3:00) and it was now hovering around 1230 hours (12:30). At 1300 hours (1:00) the sergeant and lieutenant positioned us along the road about ten yards apart so, with the 20 of us, we were two football fields worth of honor guard strung out along the road with instructions not to get dirty or let our uniforms get wrinkled or even get dust on our shoes. So for an hour and a half we stood like statues, trying not to sweat or spit or do anything human. I must say, however, we looked really impressive with our reflective helmets miniature suns unto themselves.

One more thing that helps make this story a good one: Evidently the general had decided he should land his helicopter on the football field we shared with the high school but he was denied permission because the field was too close to the civilian housing and therefore dangerous for the kith and kin of our cadre. Oh, by the way, all the fat guys got sent to the gym at the high school at 1000 hours (10:00 a.m.); five hours before the general’s scheduled arrival…god forbid anybody should catch a glimpse of any overweight soldiers! Anyway, there we were, the 20 of us goons strung out along the road and at about 1500 hours (3:00, as scheduled) here came a helicopter that passed pretty low over our heads, kicking up dirt and debris that you wouldn’t believe and proceeded to land on the football field. The only officer with us was the lieutenant who sprinted off to meet the general (and his entourage) and the sergeant screamed at us to get our butts into formation in the parking lot in front of headquarters. We ran to do so and after we got in perfect line (and perfect heights) the guys from the armory started brushing us down, yes indeed, including buffing our shoes and cleaning our (highly polished, but now dust-coated) mirror-like steel helmets. We were all issued new gloves and they removed the spats (since we had no replacements) that had gotten dirty because of the helicopter. In the meantime all our hotshots that were at the heliport had to make it back to the cars and race back to our compound.

Unfortunately for them they arrived almost simultaneously to the general walking along the first rank of the honor guard so there was no way for them to interrupt the ceremony. I was in the second row so I could hear what the general was saying (“where are you from, soldier?” etc.) as he worked the line, so I had my answers ready. He checked out the cleanliness of a couple of the rifles but by the time he got to my row he was bored and only said stuff to us that did not require an answer, although he did actually stop directly in front of each one of us and looked us in the eye as he spoke. Two minutes later he went over to our officers, exchanged salutes with them and they all strolled into headquarters. We were put at ease but five minutes later had to snap back to attention as the general reappeared. Saluting, he strode purposely by us and headed for the football field where his helicopter was already whipping up dirt, crap and general debris, and two minutes later it zoomed back over our still at-attention heads and up over the hill behind us headed, I guess, for the next display of army ritual.

Our officers were furious and we were dismissed unceremoniously. We scrambled willy-nilly back to the armory and stripped off all our finery which, I’m sure, got nicely cleaned, polished and relabeled for future use. The general did not inspect the barracks or the motor pool or anything else although everything had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. We heard later the only reason he even went into headquarters was to take a leak. 20 minutes later all the fat guys returned to the post and the mood was mostly one of hilarity. All that trouble for what? We got some scuttlebutt from headquarters a couple of weeks later that the general got into a bit of trouble for landing his helicopter on our football field against orders but I doubt if he got fired for insubordination or for bad-mouthing the President.

Actually I only remember one thing about him: He was exactly six feet tall.

Botero strikes again

2010-10-24T02:30:00.003-04:00

There was once a time, even in my relatively short sojourn in New York City, when the most obvious and convenient rendezvous point was “under the big clock in Grand Central Station.” Everybody knew about Grand Central and its rotunda is famous world wide and, of course, centrally located in Manhattan. So you could meet anybody there successfully; friend, relative and even that mysterious stranger with whom you’ve been corresponding. Works like a charm.

Lately, a little further uptown, in the new Time Warner building off Columbus Circle a new rendezvous point has been designated, at least for a short time. A huge bronze statue of Adam sculpted by our old friend Fernando Botero has been, er, erected in a main lobby of Time Warner and somehow New Yorkers, and other passersby, seem to think nothing of caressing Mr. Adam on or about his manly protuberance, thus causing that particular part of the sculpture to lose it’s natural patina and attain the sparkle and shine of freshly polished brass. I don’t know if this is supposed to be lucky or just people behaving badly but, I must say, the temptation to indulge is irrefutable. So in the future, when trekking toward culture and refinement at Lincoln Center, I’ll happily meet you under the big, shiny, uh, clock at Time Warner. Got it?

Art, Orlando & Brief Encounter

2010-10-24T02:22:00.003-04:00

Art is mankind’s savior. If only the powers-that-be thought so too. Unfortunately, commerce takes precedence and it’s that short-sightedness that precludes the perception of how art can enhance and, yes, advance commerce. I think everybody professes to an appreciation of the arts but, really, it’s just not true. To too many people and, worse, to too many people-in-charge, art is an annoyance and unworthy of their attention. Sometimes I wonder if everybody in the U.S. Senate grew up under a paper box or something. Nothing but smelly old cardboard to give shape to the senses.

They are not only misguided; they are wrong. Art can transform. It can stir the senses. It can be an escape even if, sometimes, what you want to forget is just the pain of a bunion on the piggy that stayed home. In my opinion, admittedly sometimes not so humble, the most satisfying art rests in the expansive arms of live theater. Sometimes one can be incredibly moved by a particular sculpture (in the proper setting) or an individual soaring aria from Tosca (also in the proper setting) but, for me, sustained pleasure can only be had in a darkened theater where “performance art” holds sway. Theater can have all the elements of that great sculpture and that great aria and, yet, still sustain a story, recall a memory or flat-out toy with your heartstrings with the just the hint of guitar strings or the flash of an expanse of silvery fabric.

I have seen two theatrical endeavors over the last few weeks and both deserve mention here. Off-off Broadway gave me “Orlando” and Broadway gave me “Brief Encounter.” Both will shimmer in my memory for some time to come. Both moved me in different ways but somehow also similarly. What I mean is my chest filled; my eyes watered and my hard old heart softened in strange ways. As I said, only the euphoria of performance art can do this. I’m just so much putty in the hands of theatricality and both of these shows have me singing their praises…and I can’t even carry a tune. But my eyes, even now, are watering at what I’ve seen recently. I’m such a sucker for cheap sediment.

The apples are ready!

2010-09-27T17:44:00.003-04:00

We resurrected an old tradition on Friday. Maybe resurrected is not the right word; maybe relived or revived or revisited would be better. Whatever, my best friend and mother-figure Dorothy and my best friend and sibling Jessie (who is visiting from the vast expanse of the west coast) joined me in an upstate-New York drive of approximately an hour-and-a-half to Masker pick-it-yourself Orchards. In the past this tradition has also included a pre-orchard breakfast at a joint called the Orange Top Inn in Tuxedo Junction and a post-picking stop at a roadside stand called Auntie El’s. It’s been quite a while since I’ve made this trek so there was no guarantee that these “remembered” establishments are still functioning, but there they were, none the worse for wear. But Masker itself is the main attraction and remains the same as nostalgia waxes and wanes.

This time I had the Net as an information resource. Masker was founded as a very successful-from-the-get-go commercial apple farm in 1913 on a steep 200+ acre hillside in Warwick, NY. The pick-it-yourself tradition had its origins from the beginning when the owners allowed local residents to come and glean what was left after the commercial enterprise harvested the crop. It became a very popular destination for urban travelers and in 1976 the entire farm (under new ownership) was turned into a pick-it-yourself enterprise and subsequent years proved it a tremendous success and each year the attendance has grown almost to capacity, especially on weekends. Since there are 14 varieties of apples growing on abundant trees (there are about 20,000, some dating from the original planting) and since they ripen at different times from early September to early November there are always fresh apples to pick. And they are all just flat-out delicious! You can drive right up to the trees and, if you are cautiously cagey, you can even reach out your car window and reap the harvest. But that’s no fun and it’s a terrific experience to wander the groves and reach as high as possible for what one perceives as the perfect fruit just out of easy reach.

Since we went on a weekday we didn’t have to buck any crowds and it being an extra hot day (from which we suffered, with beads of sweat dripping off our various noses) the apples seemed to be ripening before our eyes. Since we didn’t take a camera the accompanying photos stolen from the Net do not do justice to the cascade(s) of fruit that overload the branches. Actually the overload is to the picker’s advantage since it puts the apples within reach and I don’t think climbing up and into the trees is a great idea in the best of circumstances, although I’ve done so in the past. Great views of the valley from up there, you know.

We brought home way too many apples but, thanks to said sibling, we've already almost polished off a terrific apple crisp and, just today, there's an apple pie cooling on the rack. Also, we are sharing the fresh, crisp fruit with whoever passes by, friend and foe alike. If you fall into one (or both) of those categories feel free to drop by; you’ll go away with unbelievably fresh apples to nosh on; to bake with, to shine up, to visually admire and to gush over.

Oh, that Archie!

2010-09-27T17:35:00.002-04:00

I know, I know...this is just so much spam and it's probably all over Facebook already but my smut-driven brain can't resist perpetuating the crime.

Candy Man

2010-09-21T16:51:00.001-04:00

These are Red Dollars. Aside from corn syrup this candy is basically made up entirely of chemicals, including its color. It’s chewy (although “gummy” might be a better word); it’s a slightly bilious color; and it tastes like some kind of faux berry. The appearance of the thick quarter-inch disc is unpleasant to the eye, being the manufacturers’ name, Heide, arching over a weirdly designed dollar sign. It is also, unfortunately, super-addictive. I can’t seem to stop throwing them down my gaping gullet like a voracious buzzard chick gulping down road kill from the beak of its scavenging parent. Even after only two days I know this habit will be hard to break but my vow is to do so forthwith. Just as soon as I finish up every morsel out of the unattractive clear- plastic carton and can brush my teeth with something clinical and abrasive. A major flossing is also indicated.

superhero ME

2010-09-18T01:14:00.001-04:00

I’m not sure if this is an ego-booster or not. On the one hand the figure is definitely a superhero (you can tell by the outfit and, hey, he’s flying) and, on the other, this particular SH has obvious drawbacks not usually associated with the profession but, in reality, pretty much represents the physical truth of the matter. This work of comic art was done by a young friend named Jeff Lassiter whose style of artwork is currently all over the map, which is most refreshing in this day and age where the pressure is so great to concentrate on one type of production and, thus, gain a reputation for just that. Jeff can actually draw…meaning he can capture a likeness with apparent ease but he still has a wild sense of color and imagination and knows the meaning of practical compromise when it comes to commissioned art. His heroes are Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring so, if you know the art of those three icons, you know from where Jeff’s imagination springs. Whatever; I’m really tickled by Jeff’s rendering of my superhero side and flattered he thought me worthy.

Twitter Solidarity

2010-09-14T19:02:00.002-04:00

I am a long-term, dues-paying member of a labor union. And, I might add, proud of it!

As usual I expected to be contacted by the union regarding what was planned to celebrate this year’s Labor Day and, sure enough, on September 4th I received an e-mail with advice on how to participate in the celebration and show solidarity within the union movement. Sounds really righteous and cool, doesn’t it?

As I’ve stated before, I’ve never been one to march or carry placards for causes good or causes misguided; it’s just not my nature. I pay my dues; I vote in my union elections and sometimes buy stuff from the company store. For the purposes of this rant it is not necessary for you to know which union it is.

Here’s my union’s e-mail, verbatim:

“This Labor Day, we can all do our part to help send a positive message about the value of unions – and we’re encouraging you to join other union members in doing so through Twitter. We’re joining with…(here they list a bunch of the usual suspects, including the Major League Baseball Players Association…which was interesting and different this year)…about the advantages of being a union member. Labor Day is not just a day to commemorate the protections, rights, and opportunities that labor unions and workers’ rights advocates have achieved in years past. It’s a day to broadcast the critical role unions’ play today for all workers in every industry.

Simply send one or more Tweets over Labor Day weekend – Sept. 3 through Sept. 6 -- with the unions’ hash tag number to showcase the strength, solidarity and diversity of our unions. To see just how many union members are Tweeting, check out (the) union hash (number) in Twitter. Happy Labor Day.”

Say what? What is an old, flatulent union member supposed to do? What the hell is a hash number? Who the hell cares? Whatever happened to shouting obscenities on street corners and waving misspelled placards on sticks? Solidarity; Solidarity; Solidarity!

Update September 21, 2010: I spoke too soon. On Friday, 9/24, there’s a massive gathering at the Great Hall of Cooper Union in NYC for “a conversation on the issues and viewpoints of working men and women at the tipping point and what can be done to shift the balance.” And (how could I forget?) there’s a “One Nation Working Together” March on Washington scheduled for Saturday, Oct. 2. Buses will depart NYC at 6 a.m. and depart D.C. at 4 p.m. The buses are scheduled to go to RFK stadium and participants will then take the D.C. Metro to the mall. So, thank goodness, the Labor Movement is not all about Twitter and solidarity through Tweets!

Don’t Tread On My Flag!

2010-09-09T00:52:00.002-04:00

When I was a kid I used to love this flag. I didn’t know what the hell it meant really but it had a snake on it and, at the time, I really liked snakes and was always grabbing up the garter snakes that were native to my little home town in California. Even at a fairly early age I was able to draw (as I recall I specialized in roosters) and could make reasonable facsimiles of a lot of stuff I liked, including snakes. Consequently I drew pictures of this flag over and over again, including its sentiment. For some reason it vexed everybody that I did this and, to this day, I’m not really sure why. Either they didn’t like some sassy kid telling them to buzz-off or they were jealous I could do a pretty good job of drawing it. Well, just look at it. What kid wouldn’t like this snake? It has everything, including a certain cuteness along with its incipient, and venomous, danger. Whatever the reason I caught grief for it; I still feel a certain ownership of the memory.

The current use of the flag by that lippy Tea Party has tweaked a certain amount of resentment somewhere in my psyche that I was not aware could be dredged up. Tread on somebody else’s flag you demon spawn!

Stop clubbing the (fill in the blank)!

2010-08-31T16:14:00.005-04:00

Just because I like this protest poster from the 70’s doesn’t mean I really care!

I am beginning to think it all comes down to the fact I don’t care enough about stuff. Never have. It’s been all about my own survival (albeit sometimes adventurous) and trying to maintain a certain level of comfort, without much wave-making other than scowls of disapproval and despairing, but mostly private, disappointment in the outcomes of several issues I thought I cared about. I don’t carry signs or march in marches. I’m not angry enough to do that but, conversely, not much makes my heart soar enough to get me out of the house either. I suppose I could make a blank sign; that sounds pretty easy. But why should I make and carry a sign with nothing on it to protest that I don’t care enough to carry a sign?

I kind of admire all of those misguided souls at Glen Beck’s gathering in DC last week. At least they are out and about (and getting their smirking, righteous mugs on television). It’s not that I don’t like crowds because, sometimes, group adrenaline can catch me just as off guard as the next person.

Coming from an era where Sarah Vaughan was my end-all of singers and the Beatles were an affront to my sensibility as to just what good singing is, I was never able to jump on anybody’s bandwagon in show biz, swooning with ridiculous passion for an ephemeral what? Screaming fans at concerts, drowning out the performer(s) you paid good money to see, are anathema to me. I got over that way early. I think it was a Beach Boys concert at the Cow Palace in San Francisco—my first mistake in concert going and almost my last, although peer pressure put my butt in useless seats at a couple of very large venues after that

This is not an old fart thing. At least I don’t think it is. I was never much of a show-off in the streets (or concert seats) even when I was a young flatulant (did I just make up a word?). In the future, if you see me out in a crowd holding up a sign for or against something (hopefully, important to the future of mankind), expect to hear from me shortly thereafter regarding fund raising for my cause, but it’ll have to be damn serious stuff! If the sign is blank you’ll know I’ve gone too far with my neutral mediocrity.

Three Days of Grouch

2010-08-26T19:39:00.004-04:00

I started getting grouchy at about 4:15 on Sunday afternoon when my otherwise uneventful trip home from JFK was sabotaged by the closing of a crucial off-ramp that is the easiest access to where I live. Well, to modify that a little, I wasn’t annoyed so much by the closing as I was about the lack of notification of its closing until well past the opportunity to avoid it by taking an earlier exit.

Then other stuff happened, not necessarily in this order:

The knowledge that I am a victim of a typographical error made in 1993 that designated the building where I live as a three unit as opposed to the two unit it really is, which screws up changing the name on the recipient of the gas bill (yeah, really).

Some judge utilizes his power to sabotage stem cell research, the most promising medical break-through since penicillin. Again, I’m not so annoyed at the sabotage as by the fact “some” judge has the power to do this out-of-the blue, without having to explain him or herself. Of course the same thing happened in California with Proposition 8, but at least I personally agreed with that outcome.

The “news” of some half-vast movie star being discharged from rehab gets equal time on Katie Couric with simultaneous bombings in 13 different Iraq cities after U.S. troops have withdrawn. Then her program further irritated me by covering the fact that Erin (Mrs. Tiger) Woods has spoken out about their divorce. This stuff belongs on Entertainment Tonight or TMV(?) or any of those other extremely nauseating half hours of gossip and innuendo.

I dropped four tomatoes on my kitchen floor, smashing their off-the-vine-fresh skins, rendering them inedible.

The spectacle of various politicians, both sides, making hay over the mosque-near-ground-zero controversy. I wish there was some way to subtract votes from candidates who utilize this method of attention-getting.

Thinking I was exceptionally good at responding correctly to a lot of Jeopardy answers, before realizing it’s a rerun and therefore a lot of my knowledge was cribbed because of a previous viewing.

This morning, after toasting my bagel; going into the fridge only to find a recent houseguest had essentially finished a container of cream cheese and returned it to the shelf with, perhaps, a quarter-teaspoon left.

All this stuff, along with general irritations like the NY Mets, Glen Beck, Facebook and my burgeoning waistline have made the last three days a pain in my burgeoning ass.

Writing all that down yesterday made me feel better. It’s like getting a pedicure; that is, a little minor cleansing of the soul. However, when I tried to cut/paste from Microsoft Word to here my computer malfunctioned and I couldn’t make it happen. More grouchy grist for this particular mill. Not being up to retyping directly I slapped my computer monitor in its uppity reflective face and ditched the project until this morning. Maybe the next three days will be better.

Is that guacamole on your wall?

2010-08-10T16:21:00.003-04:00

My first apartment in New York (the “real” one after dwelling in an interim basement for way too long) had a refrigerator that was an avocado color. And I painted the hood over the stove to match. One wall of the living room was exposed brick, which was really popular at the time, and I “exposed” the look of one kitchen wall by covering it with rough hewn crating wood. Yeah, that thin, flimsy stuff that fruit boxes are made out of. I have no clue where I came up with that idea; probably stolen from some other artsy-fartsy New York newbie. I painted my bedroom ceiling with an intricate scroll-like border that took forever to do. I was a youngish adult of the 70’s and proud of it. My tastes were admittedly transient and influenced by what (I thought) was groovy and cool at that time. Not kewl. Cool.

I had occasion recently to chat with Dorian, my own personal tech-geek who assists me with my computer hassles, and he told me he was working on a project for Pantone, the paint company, and he thought I might be interested in an article on their website regarding the rise and fall of color palettes in home décor over the last 40 years. Even though it is obviously a come-on to buy their paint it is still an interesting read.

http://www.pantone.com/pages/pantone/Pantone.aspx?pg=19758&ca=4

I must confess to a moment of LOL when I read about the 1970’s decade wherein “the dreaded ‘A’ word of both fashion and interior designers--avocado--had the American consumer in a full nelson, especially in the kitchen.” The dreaded “A” word! Oh, my goodness, I was the laughing stock of the design cognoscenti of that era! How did that happen and why didn’t I know it?

Nonetheless, although my tastes have now turned toward the “new,” darkly-muted colors and I have utilized them in both my stone-washed tank tops and in the stone-washed accented walls of my home. However, not to be totally steamrolled by fashion, I still painted two facing walls of the small alcove off my living room in, yes, avocado!

I really like both the color and the fruit (or is it a vegetable?) and I see no reason to compromise either my taste for its color or my taste for its smooth, seductive flavor. In a sandwich, in a salad, on an omelet or raw, with a scoop of blue cheese dressing, it's nectar for the gods. I also really like a good guacamole dip with crisp tortilla chips. So there, Mr. and Ms. Pantone! He who LOL’s first…etc.

If I was on Facebook (2)...with exclamation points

2010-08-09T16:42:00.006-04:00

1. While conscientiously struggling through Judge Vaughn R. Walker’s ruling on California’s Proposition 8, the following partial sentence struck me as the most relevant and succinct statement of logical thought I’ve seen in many a moon: “The Constitution cannot control private biases, but neither can it tolerate them…” You GO, Judge!

2. Elena Kagan: Welcome to the Supreme Court!

3. Charles Rangel: You’re 80 and have served 20 terms! You’re ethics have rightfully been called into question! Please retire!

4. Although using a cliché is certainly not absent from my own jabbering, I am really tired of reading the words “slippery slope” in every goddamn Op Ed piece, if not in practically every story in the newspaper regardless of topic. It now tops my list of pet peeves, along with “That said…” at the beginning of a second paragraph and “It goes without saying;” immediately followed by saying it. I’ve given up on people who say, or write, “I can’t wait…,” when, of course, they can!

5. I’m thinking of moving to Metropolis, Illinois just so I can walk by this statue every day!

Running With Knives

2010-08-05T14:51:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I heard a truck being driven slowly past the house with a very distinctive “ping” of a bell. Thinking ice cream I looked out and it was a green truck with “Bob’s Grinding Service” emblazoned on its side. I rushed downstairs to grind him to a halt and ran back upstairs to get two old knives that I’ve had forever. They are the ones that were so dull they were reduced to being the tool of choice for cutting up cardboard boxes. But they are still favorites because they’re throw-back old and I like the cut of their jib. Bob sharpened them while I waited and now they are capable of slicing a tomato (home grown) with razorblade precision. Actually, the best thing about the transaction was the old-world feel with a service being offered door-to-door. I think the last time this happened was at least seven or eight years ago when I heard (but did not buy) from an open-backed truck with the driver yelling “Straaaawberrieeeeeeeees!” Probably illegally, right? Anyway, I do think the knives are now in better shape than before but it was the process of getting them sharpened that was cool.

After writing the above I Googled the airwaves for possible references/information and, of course, there were 157 hits about getting your knives sharpened (in my neighborhood) in general and Bob’s mobile service in particular. At least I’m in the top 200. BTW; when I overpaid Bob (I choose to think he was Bob and I overpaid because I was so pleased with the service) and he handed them back to me he said, "Great old knives." I agree. Now where's that strawberry guy?

Idle Feets

2010-08-03T17:27:00.006-04:00

This is not an original idea. A couple/three years ago I was lounging around the beach on Anna Maria Island in Florida (off the coast of Bradenton) and the proprietor/owner of my rented shack came by to see how I was doing. One of his big toes was nicely shiny with nail polish. I admired the décor and he explained that particular toe was misshapen and ugly and he hated it so he had his local pedicurist give it a coat of polish every once in a while. That is the page I have stolen from his personal book. Now, of course, questions arise. Too eccentric? Too feminine? Too gross? Not a good choice of color? Yes, yes, yes and, well, it matches my eyes.

Idle Hands

2010-07-24T02:07:00.004-04:00

Never underestimate the power of idle hands. Idle hands do things like dumpster diving and retrieving old bowling pins with the idea off making them into decorative objects! This can certainly be accomplished but, really, to what end? You dive for ‘em, which can be fun though dangerous to your health. You paint ‘em up (even though the task takes up too much living space) and then what? You certainly don’t want them sitting around your own apartment do you?
So whom do you foist…er, I mean, proudly give them to, thereby putting pressure on your friends and/or family to make them part of their own home décor? They are not even a good doorstop since they fall over at the slightest touch. It’s a dilemma for both the donor and the donee and, of course, the best advice is to just stay the hell out of other people’s trash in the first place.

Check!

2010-07-23T20:46:00.002-04:00

About seven or eight years ago I made two lists; two columns actually. The first column consisted of all the things I wanted to do in/with my life. The second column was check marks and I was pretty proud of the fact there were only a few empty spaces. One of the things not on either list was to grow vegetables or, for that matter, have a garden at all. Well, if growing tomatoes had been on my first list I could have now checked it off! In honor of my late friend Frank I planted three tomato plants in the backyard. Frank came from farming stock (in Wisconsin and Minnesota) and even as an urbanite in Brooklyn he conscientiously grew edibles and provided fresh victuals for his family and friends throughout the summer and fall. I was often the beneficiary of this beneficence and I thought he might like to know I have made this small effort to at least help me help people make fresh tomato salads! I think I can pick the first ripe tomato in a couple days but I’m not really sure. Maybe I won’t pick it at all just because I like the way it looks right there on the vine. So my question is am I honoring Frank enough with just the visual or does it need to be eaten to complete the salute? Whichever I choose, here’s to you Frank, I hope you’re smiling!

Hold the mayo...

2010-07-15T01:41:00.002-04:00

So some dude in Utah named Travis L. Wright collected approximately $140 million from friends and neighbors promising a return of 24 percent on real estate investments (doesn’t anybody read newspapers or watch the 6:00 news anymore?). If this isn’t insult enough to the greedy brainiacs who gave him the money Mr. Wright turned around and, instead of investing the money in bogus real estate, he put it towards the funding of an outfit called Mark One Foods, who is rolling out a product called “Candwich” later this year. Yeah, sandwiches in a can. (Mark Kirkland, president of Mark One Foods, says the shelf life of a Candwich is “excellent.”) Mr. Wright’s pigeons…er, I mean investors are understandably outraged and are suing Mr. Wright for mismanagement of their money. I’m not sure why. Peanut butter and jelly in a can sounds very convenient and much easier to swallow than dusty real estate in Utah.

Blue Shadows on My Trail

2010-07-14T15:46:00.005-04:00

I think I’m about to find out, yet again, how irrelevant my formative years were, growing up simple-headed in a small town in California in the mid-20th century. I loved Roy Rogers and probably saw all of his movies, several times over. They were all exactly the same with predictably derivative plots. White hats and black hats. Beautiful horses and dogs and jeeps. Who knew from nuance?

Today, Christie’s auction house is selling Trigger to the highest bidder. Legend has it that when Trigger died in 1965 at the ripe old horse-age of 30, Roy couldn’t bear saying goodbye to his beloved equine friend and had him stuffed and subsequently prominently displayed in the front yard of his dude ranch near Victorville, Calif. I think the ranch was called Happy Valley, but I don’t feel like doing the research to corroborate that semi-informed guess. Maybe Apple Valley?

Trigger isn’t the only Rogers memorabilia for sale; his trusty dog Bullet and his wife Dale Evans’ horse Buttercup is also up for grabs. The jeep is there too. Christie’s is expecting to sell Trigger for $100,000 to $200,000 with Bullet fetching $10,000 or so. (Dale and Roy’s best bunkhouse buddy, ahem, Gabby Hayes; will probably garner considerably less since that sort of thing is no longer a true, or profitable, collectible). I understand that the Smithsonian asked Roy’s heirs for Trigger but they refused; preferring instead to negotiate the for-profit margins. I’m trying to come up with some psychological sense to the reason behind Roy and Dale naming their son Dusty. Maybe it’s just a nickname…that would be easiest.

I put in a pre-auction bid of $200 (the minimum) for one pair of Roy’s boots (there are about 100 available) but I don’t expect that to hold up.

Update 7/16/10: Trigger sold to a television station, RFD-TV in Omaha, NE, for $266,500. Separately, the saddle went for $386,500 which was, oddly enough, one of the questions I had when this auction was publicized. Also, it turns out I made a mistake in my attempt to buy some RR boots. Instead of just one pair I had bid on a lot of ten, so I think my $200 was slightly low-ball. It doesn't really matter because I heard (not confirmed) that somebody bought all 100 pairs pre-auction (price undisclosed). So all is not lost, I guess, if I want to ride into that particular sunset on e-bay.

Executioners Song

2010-07-13T17:24:00.007-04:00

I have a birdbath in my backyard. I also have a bird feeder. About twice a week I replenish the supply of birdseed to make sure I get continuous visitors of the avian kind. It’s a pleasure to watch our feathered friends frolic in the water and chase each other about, chittering over which morsels are the best. There is always a down side to most pleasures, of course, and this one is obvious. Just like human relationships, no matter how much you love them, when you feed birds you have to deal with their crap. In my backyard it’s worth it since the bird crap is small (because the birds are) and a daily hosing (just like humans) is all it takes to restore order.

My yard is only 20’ x 20’ so the small landing area keeps bigger birds at bay, including the Canada geese that take almost daily v-shaped passage to and from the lake at Prospect Park to my southeast and Green-Wood Cemetery to my northwest. The problem with these geese is that they achieve quite a stature when fully grown and, consequently (might I say, naturally?), their bird shit is directly proportionate to their size. Sometimes a walk in the park is, well, it just ain’t. I occasionally stroll over to the lake with leftover bread but generally confine my largesse to the ducks or swans although the geese are also beautiful birds up close. It’s just that I try not to reward aggressiveness, again both avian and human.

Like every other uninformed lay person, when confronted with an annoyance, I tend to say, hey, why don’t “they” do something about this, meaning all that goose shit that prevents comfortable strolling or picnicking, etc. Unfortunately, last week “THEY” did. Like thieves in the dark-of-night (very early Thursday morning) the minions of gloom (ostensibly on orders from the Agriculture Dept…for obvious reasons the actual culprits remain unspecified) sneaked into Prospect Park, rounded up about 400 Canada geese (in molting season they cannot fly/escape), penned them up and then methodically transported them two-by-two to a “nearby building” and gassed! I’m not sure I even want to know the details of that.

Although done for the sole purpose of “aviation safety,” from what I understand most of this particular flock of geese were probably year-round residents of the park and were not migratory. “They” say, however, that it is impossible to tell which are and which are not so a decision was made to euthanize them all…and with no advance notice. Wow, that secret must have been kept nicely by the “they” that perpetrated this act; not even telling their own families I bet, because the deed was completed swiftly and clandestinely in the middle of the night, thereby circumventing a huge protest that was sure to ensue if known of by the general population.

This is just awful and makes me feel bad. And, although my little backyard continues to provide shelter and succor to a variety of birds, the sky seems suddenly empty.

Update August 2, 2010: Well, that didn't take long. Yesterday, about 5:30 p.m., here they came; about 25 Canada geese winging there way from the park to the cemetery. Probably it won't take long for the park to attain its full complement of 400 just like before. Will another avian holocaust ensue?

Bio Diversity; Carol, Willie, Jules

2010-06-30T01:48:00.005-04:00

Carol Burnett’s new book “This Time Together” isn’t really a biography. It’s a string of anecdotes with punch lines and large print and can be read in about two minutes. Hardly a tell-all, she only implies slight negatives about certain people, but mostly everybody is perfect, without sin and so lovable she should include a barf bag as an attachment to the dustcover. I loved Ms. Burnett on television but she pretty much sucked in the movies and has the dubious honor of having been in one of the worst directed (and most miscast) adaptations of a Broadway show of all time, Annie. But you would never know it from this book. Her only stab at real life is her recounting of the sad and wasteful death of her daughter although even this story is (mercifully) short and, wouldn’t you know, full of “inspiration” <~~~see quotation marks. Upon further reflection I now realize that Ms. Burnett hasn’t written a book; she’s (OMG) written a blog!

“Willie Mays, The Life, The Legend” is a true biography. It’s written by James S. Hirsch (authorized by Mays) and is satisfyingly and historically complete, although I’m not really sure Hirsch got into Mr. Mays soul as much as he would have liked (and claims). Like Ms. Burnett’s book it’s full of anecdotes but they are told within the background story of Willie Mays’s growing up in a racially segregated society in a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. Yup, there’s lots of stuff in, and about, black and white but, still, not much new to tell us about Willie Mays the man. I’m sure he cooperated with Mr. Hirsch as best he could but part of his persona is in the withholding of the details. My connection with Willie Mays is almost personal in that I was living in San Francisco when the Giants snuck out of the Polo Grounds in NYC and into San Francisco in 1958. Not only was I thrilled by having a major league baseball team at my fingertips, I also had a superstar to gaze upon. Over the years I spent many a freezing evening in Candlestick Park for one reason, Willie Mays. Other stars emerged but, for me, he was The Man and I witnessed a lot of his triumphs as an adult (both his and mine). His days as a young phenomenon in New York were only snippets on the sports pages to me but now I was Johnny-on-the-spot and had my eyes peeled for anything-Willie. So this bio doesn’t tell me much I didn’t already know, both good and bad (and racially biased) but it has reminded me that I did know it and have now been reminded. Oddly enough, when he was dealt back to New York, and the Mets, I had also moved to Brooklyn and was a first-hand witness to his last two years of physical decline as an athlete and his retirement as a baseball player. What is so damn stupid about biographies of athletes is that, suddenly, and I’m not kidding, being 40 is the new 65. Mr. Mays was 42 when he retired from baseball (as a player) and everybody was treating him like a nursing-home patient. Good grief, nowadays 40 is the new 25!

My timing was also pretty good in that when I moved to New York Jules Feiffer had started making a splash with his cartoons in the new “alternative” Village Voice and I was an attentive witness as he burgeoned into being a true social satirist, an accomplished playwright and a raconteur of the first rank. Feiffer is now 81 and seemingly his drawing, writing and verbal powers have not diminished in the least. Has anybody seen his tour de force interview with Charlie Rose? In fact, if anything, he’s better than ever and his new memoir “Backing into Forward” seems to prove it. Although he had a horrible childhood in the Bronx and the first 100 pages are painful to read, once he was able to kick his mother to the curb the book takes off and is pretty wonderful, especially if you’re an indignant, border-line radical, liberal mouth-off like he is. Yes, I can identify.

So that’s the bio-diversity regarding the last three books I’ve read. The only thing they have in common (the books themselves, not the people they are about), is an incredible amount of name-dropping. But that’s reasonable I guess since, after all, you are known by the company you keep and these three people, in their lifetimes, knew and continue to know and sometimes stay in touch with, the headliners.

Next up: John Carey's "William Golding; The Man Who Wrote Lord of the Flies."

Summer chill

2010-06-29T03:00:00.003-04:00

I just made my second batch of sangria using a mix I bought from Williams Sonoma. I use the basic recipe on the bottle with a couple of enhancements; namely a couple of shots of Triple Sec and a lot of sliced fresh strawberries. I will nurse this along for the next two days until the strawberries are thoroughly infused, then slice one lime and one small orange and float them on the top. Served over a generous amount of ice (to get maximum chill) it is the absolute best hot-weather drink, liquor-wise, on my particular planet. Unfortunately, the WS sangria mix is seasonal even though I, for one, would buy it all year ‘round. But, for now, here’s to a great summer!

The God of Wine and Patios

2010-06-27T13:29:00.002-04:00

On May 17 of this year I bought this cement gent at the Living Color Garden Center in Ft. Lauderdale, FL. I liked it at first sight even though it was hanging on a wall maybe three-four feet above my head. Upon closer inspection I said to Pepper, the nursery dude who climbed up, precariously, to bring it down so I could give it an up-close perusal, that I thought it looked a little bit like me and he said that, yes, “it reflects you.” It actually depicts Dionysus (also known as Bacchus), the Greek god of wine (and other kinds of licentious debauchery) so how could I not buy him? I think the piece is what is called a “sand sculpture” (I should have asked, I guess) but there is obviously a lot of the finish that is hand-done subsequent to being taken out of its mold. He is about the size of a dinner plate and now hangs on the patio wall at the house of Earl and Bernardo, buds who live in Hollywood, FL. It seems only right that it is on permanent loan to them since I tend to crash at their place intermittently. They have an extra bedroom, a second bathroom, the best dog in the world, a wonderful backyard pool, a garden to dig around in and, now, an image of a false god to worship. Let the Medallion of Dionysus be a constant warning to them that at any moment I might show up, demanding sanctuary.

Talking points…

2010-06-25T06:25:00.004-04:00

Prompted by various travel stories while sitting around a patio table in Florida this May; as my contribution I recalled visiting a leper colony in Tahiti. Sounds a little far fetched, I know, but it’s true and I also told three other anecdotes from that trip: 1. Visiting the Paul Gauguin Museum in which there are no Gauguin paintings because they would never survive the heat/humidity. 2. Dropping into the famous Quinn’s Bar which turned out to be an extremely rowdy, low-down, and probably dangerous, joint of which my only memory is the bizarre toilet “facility” in the back alley. 3. Being the only passenger on a small boat, at night, going from Papeete to Moorea, lying prone on the small front deck and suddenly being surrounded, on both sides, by wave after wave of dozens of phosphorescent flying fish keeping pace with the speed of the boat.

I have no souvenirs of the museum, the bar or the flying fish but I do have a spear point I bought directly from the leper who carved it. It was never intended to be used as a weapon but was, and is, purely decorative. Upon returning home (from Florida, not Tahiti) I rescued this spear point from storage (carefully wrapped and kept dry since moving into my current abode in 1993) and hung it on the wall in my bedroom. When I say I have no other souvenirs from Tahiti, one thing seeps into my mind. Soon after returning to the U.S. I came down with hepatitis and it has occurred to me that perhaps I did pick up something from Quinn’s.

If I was on Facebook…

2010-06-24T15:45:00.006-04:00

If I was on Facebook I would have made the following comments today:

1. The current World Cup notwithstanding I don’t watch, understand or care about soccer.

2. I hate those car commercials where bystanders punch each other in the arm when they see the product driving by.

3. New visitors to my birdbath: A gray catbird, who splashed around boisterously and two beautiful little American goldfinches who sipped daintily and chirped gaily before speeding off.

4. An idea alert to Hewlett Packard: Feeling McSteamy at the moment (93 degrees and very muggy) I think some sort of small fan could be incorporated into the frame of the computer monitor…it would be nice to have a gentle breeze caressing one’s face while blogging, facebooking or just indulging in general hanky-panky. Perhaps with a small visual inset of a melting block of ice or, hey, a fan!

5. I have owned just one cellphone in my life. It has never failed me in an emergency or even just for casual use, although some of its capabilities I fail to use or even understand how to. I never saw the need for an upgrade. I am not bragging, nor am I whining, about this.

6. C'mon LeBron

A Lizard, Lounging

2010-06-24T13:24:00.003-04:00

It was October 21, 1986 and all significant others were out of town and therefore missing a momentously important birthday. Stepping into the breach were friends Bruce, Ben and Ira. They took me to the Lone Star Café on East 13th Street (on the corner of Fifth Ave.) to see Roy Orbison (or maybe Willie Nelson) and, due to an unending stream of tequila shooters, the rest is only a blur of down-home debauchery and honky-tonk good-old-boy, red-necked delirium and if they had had a mechanical bull to ride I’m sure I would have been right up there. I’m afraid I don’t remember a lot of the details or even if we did see Mr. Orbison (or Mr. Nelson), but I somehow had my glassy-eyed photo taken without a shirt and wearing a sombrero, a stupid grin on my face and a comely chickpea on each arm, so there is some proof it all happened. Evidently the whole evening was hilarious and according to my brethren I was never again as entertaining and witty and I just hope to high heaven I didn’t try to sing along. But I probably did.

The much venerated (and maligned) Lone Star Café was not only famous for being the only western bar in NYC at the time but was in a totally inappropriate residential area, and on its roof stood the fabulous Iggy, an eyesore for days and a landmark for the less artistically picky. Iggy was 40 feet from teeth to tail and he reared his superbly ugly head in defiant disregard for anything that made any sense in the world. The legend “Too Much Ain’t Enough” was emblazoned on the building’s façade at his dangerously clawed feet.

Iggy was sculpted from steel and polyurethane by Bob Wade and was originally in a “display place,” whatever that means, near Niagara Falls. In 1978 the café’s proprieter bought the sculpture for $10,000 and, according to Mr. Wade, half of that was in bar privileges. The Lone Star closed in 1989 and Iggy pretty much disappeared although I do remember seeing him for a couple of years, a dirty and crumbling image, in a field just off the West Side Highway at about Pier 25.

Now comes the good part. Iggy has been resurrected in his full glory and now sits on the roof of the new herpetarium at the Fort Worth, Texas zoo and Mr. Wade, who now lives in Austin, was there for the installation. My research does not reveal whether or not tequila shooters were included at the opening reception but, if not, they missed a bet. Iggy was (and is) not a champagne lizard, no matter how well he’s been cleaned up, and his place in low-down NYC history is secure, as he is in my own cleaned up but low-down memory.

Piano People

2010-06-23T01:52:00.004-04:00

Ideal scenario: I sit down at one of the 60 donated pianos that have been placed strategically throughout the five boroughs of NYC by a public-art group called Sing for Hope. After a few warm-up scales I tear into a two-minute version of Chopin’s Minute Waltz and then segue into some syncopated Joplin ragtime; finishing up with selected Sondheim standards, encouraging my audience to sing along, which they do loudly and enthusiastically; especially the ringing crescendo of the first-act curtain of the title number in Sunday in the Park with George. How thrilling and heartwarming! The only thing wrong with this scenario is that I don’t know how to play the piano.

But if I did play, the scenario is now available. On Monday morning at 9:00 the curtain went up on an art installation called “Play Me, I’m Yours” and music for, and by, the masses should be forthcoming over the next couple of weeks (it ends July 5). 36 pianos have been placed in parks and on street corners in Manhattan, 10 in Brooklyn, 6 in Queens, 4 in the Bronx and 4 on Staten Island. They have all been tuned as much as is possible (some of the instruments are pretty old) and they have all been painted/decorated by local artists.

This “installation” is by Luke Jerram, a Brit from Bristol, and similar works are expanding around the world including Sydney, Australia and Cincinnati, Ohio. Keep and ear out at a park or street corner near you and if your piano teacher was more than a half-wit maybe you can bang out a few bars, just don’t expect any tips other than of the “what did you do with the money your mother gave you for lessons?” ilk.

Postal Predation

2010-06-06T03:36:00.004-04:00

In mid-January of this year my friend Frank passed away. Frank was always a very generous man, for decades contributing to a lot of charitable organizations. Not always a lot but enough to get him on every mailing list in the world; at least it looks that way. Since part of the income of charitable organizations is in selling their mailing lists to other groups he receives stuff from organizations, both legit and bogus, that he never contributed to in the first place. As a friend of the family I have volunteered to take on this mail and, I must say, it has been a learning experience. I’m sure Frank must have had a “contributor asterisk” by his name or something because the deluge of junk mail is nothing short of spectacular and continues to be so after four months despite my diligent notifications-to-sender that this man has passed away.

I learned that just writing “Deceased, Return to Sender” on the envelope does not work since the post office just redelivers it to the addressee. One day the timing was right and I buttonholed the mailman at the front door and he said “Oh, just throw it away” (an exact quote) which is probably not really what his employer has instructed him to advise; even though they probably wish it were so. So I changed my tactics and began opening the mail and returning everything in the enclosed return-addressed-envelopes with a note that the recipient is deceased. This works well if the envelope has postage on them but many of them do not presuming, I guess, you would be glad to furnish a stamp with your check. Since charitable organizations have “junk mail” rates I didn’t think it quite fair that we should pay full postage to return it and, I learned, putting a 44 cent stamp on an envelope by no means guarantees that instructions to remove a donor from a mailing list will be followed.

Anyway, I am persevering and I am ready to out-wait any person or robot that opens envelopes and finds a coupon marked “deceased” and ignores it. Maybe one of these days I will notice an ebbing of the flow. In the meantime I think hundreds of dollars over-all are continuing to be spent on useless mailings by charitable organizations to this one deceased gentleman. I can only imagine the thousands and thousands (or maybe hundreds of thousands) wasted in futile requests for money to the general population who do not respond. “Oh, just throw it away” is becoming an option that is becoming more attractive as the months roll by.

One more note: I have not named any particular charity just because there are so many involved. However, the worst of the worst, The Humane Society and all its incarnations can kiss my pet-lovin’ ass.

Poll Dancing

2010-06-05T01:55:00.004-04:00

I’m never been officially asked my opinion about anything and I always wonder, when I read about polls being taken on a variety of subjects, if the results ever really include what I think on any given subject. Sometimes my opinion jibes with one side or the other (mostly I’m in the minority) but, hey, why doesn’t somebody call me to get the real poop from a person with plenty to spare?

There was a phone-interview poll taken recently by New York Times/CBS News regarding the level of concern over immigration (prompted by the current situation in Arizona) which included a statement on how the poll was conducted and it’s no wonder why I haven’t been contacted. They only called 1,079 adults! They do say that there are possibilities for sampling errors which means the results can vary from 3 to 4% either way but, hey, a variance of only 6% from a poll of 1,079 ain’t chicken feed!

My problem (besides not being asked) is that if people are like me it depends on a lot of factors as to how my answer would be forthcoming, including the time of day. Call me too early in the morning and you’re liable to get an entirely different opinion from the one I would proffer at, say, 4:30 p.m. on a weekday. Call on a weekend or while I’m eating could also slant the result, especially during dessert. I also have a penchant for changing my opinion over time depending on new evidence or even just a convincing argument from the opposing camp that makes my resolve waver. My strong stance(s) are only as good as my current information but you give me reason to change it and I will. Of course slipping me a fin can always alter my bias.

Feathers

2010-06-05T00:21:00.003-04:00

For over a month now at about 5:30 p.m. every day a big robin visits my backyard birdbath and has himself a high old time, repeatedly immersing himself and energetically flapping around and making water fly in all directions. When he’s done the birdbath is half empty (or half-full depending on your philosophical point of view) and the water supply has to be replenished. Both the bird and I are grateful for this daily occurrence and I swear on a stack of religious tomes (depending on your faith in ideological principles) that he thanks me thusly: he hops onto the rim of the birdbath, cocks his head to one side, looks me squarely in the eyes, chirps twice, and wings away. This is a true story and I have a couple of reliable witnesses to back me up. Of course I have anthropomorphized this birdy conversation to mean “thank you” and, going further, have named this bird “Butch” because he is obviously a beefy, macho member of his particular species. Naming him Robin, although gender neutral, would be just silly.

Further to avian reality, I recently read about a couple of birds whose migration paths have been tracked all the way from Alaska to New Zealand without so much as a brunch-break on the way. They are the bar-tailed godwit (photo here) and, a bit less prolific as to the length of its non-stop migration, the bristled-thighed curlew. The godwit has been clocked at 7,100 miles in nine days which pretty much sets a record for length of flight for a bird without stopping. Although none of these aviators are named Butch (probably) they are still to be admired for their instinctive tenacity and I also have to give kudos to the something-or-other ‘pologists who gave these birds their names. Godwits and curlews don’t need anthropomorphizing to gain our attention and admiration.

In the Limelight

2010-06-04T20:56:00.003-04:00

In 1844 the cornerstone for the Episcopal Church of the Holy Communion was laid at West 20th Street and Sixth Avenue, 127 years passed and (in 1971) I wandered in to take a look at the interior and especially the large stained-glass rose window but, although pretty good stuff, I wasn’t much impressed because of my ruined-for-anything-else trips to Europe and, especially, Paris.

In 1976, with parishioners dwindling, the building was taken over by a “commune” called the Lindisfarne Association (Google that if you want; I’m not bothering) who split after a couple of years and the Episcopal Church sold it to the Odyssey Institute, a drug-counseling organization, which seems fairly ironic because in 1983 Andy Warhol hosted the opening-night party at “Limelight,” a discothèque that, over the next 18 years or so, was regularly padlocked for drug-use and dealing. Limelight closed in 2001 and other entertainment entities gave it a go until 2007 and now, through a few years of failed mortgage payments and bankruptcies, it has become Limelight Marketplace.

LM opened last month and, 39 years after my first visit (and 166 after the laying of that cornerstone); I finally took another look last Sunday. The interior of the church has been given, well, a new interior…meaning that it looks like a new, well, interior that has been set down exclusively within the walls of the church; does that make sense? I mean not of it, but within it. Oh, well, anyway, the original stained glass windows show through here and there, mainly in the stairwells, but overall it’s a fairly ludicrous juxtaposition that doesn’t work for me architecturally.

As an urban mall it’s cute in a slick way but not my cup of pekoe. There are about 50 small-to-tiny shops on three levels with specialized inventories, mostly precious (not in the good sense of the word…it’s like saying “cup of pekoe, instead of “cup of tea”) and overpriced. The foodie goody shops have stuff that looks fresh and tasty and I’m always a sucker for anything new and chocolate-covered but overall there wasn’t much for me to purchase. Limelight Marketplace is sort-of like a modern museum of retail schmaltz and the only thing I was grateful for was the air conditioning and, oh yeah, excellent restrooms (always nice to know when one is out and about). As an example of customer service and product inventory/diversity I’m afraid I threw a scare into one poor girl in a shop that carries some nicely designed (and overpriced) tee-shirts and, although I saw her deer-in-the-headlights look, I asked the dreaded question anyway, “Do you have this in XL?”

Iconoclastic Cross Dressing Criticism

2010-06-04T20:43:00.001-04:00

I think it’s great that Rand Paul won the senatorial primary in Kentucky even though both he and his father, Ron, admit to being ideological libertarian iconoclasts (although as a political persuasion that defies definition…at least by me). In the meantime Rand has stated that he, “as a principled critic of federal power,” would not have voted for the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Whoa! I wonder what his mother, Ru, thinks about that!

Too much Picasso

2010-05-12T15:35:00.004-04:00

I'm not sure spending $106.5 million for this Picasso was such a great deal. Oh, it looks pretty good on my wall but it really clashes with my collection of ceramic clowns (not shown). At least it's better than that Monet I had up there; that thing was really blurry and I couldn't do anything about that no matter how much Windex I used on it. I eventually put it out on the curb because it took up so much space. But I tell you, even that was better than the Monet haystack that some wiseguy advised me to buy when I was in the south of France last year. I had a hell of a time shipping it home and it blew all over the place from the air conditioner. Eventually my cleaning lady, Gerta, was able to vacuum it all up over time. That's her on the roller skates in the photo.

Fadz R Us

2010-04-18T17:29:00.009-04:00

I think sometime in my misbegotten youth I owned a mood ring which, of course, turned my finger green and therefore put me in a foul mood which was, perhaps, its intended purpose. You never know when the diabolical is part of someone’s motivation. After that I became immune to most fads, including Hula Hoops, Pet Rocks, Beanie Babies and Facebook. I did, however, own a series of Frisbees; a fad that has never really died out has it?

I am never, or almost so, in the company of pre-pubescent children so I pretty much relegate them to background noise in my kindly but curmudgeonly way. This afternoon, however, I bumped into a neighbor who has two little girls, I think about 6 and 8, and both of them had a bunch of colorful rubber bands around their wrists. Upon inquiry I was informed in no uncertain terms (by the younger one) that these were “Silly Bandz” (with a “Z”!) and it seems they are the latest thing in childhood tomfoolery. The older of the two whipped off a light blue one and gave it to me and, once it was removed from her wrist, reverted to its manufactured shape, being in the shape of a penguin. I said the proper wows and woohoos and tried to return it to her but she insisted I keep it. I thanked her sincerely and put it on my own wrist, where it still resides as we speak.

I was properly overwhelmed by her generosity but not as much as her mother was. Although exceptionally low-tech these “bandz” have evidently become prized possessions and they are collected, hoarded and traded and, since school districts are starting to ban them from the classrooms, they have become contraband and therefore even more prized--as a good craze should be. Unlike other fads Silly Bandz are really, really cheap and even when they break they are easily (and cheaply) replaced.

They come in numerous configurations: pet shapes, princess shapes (shown here), rock bandz, wild animals, sea creatures, western gear, baseball stuff and piratez with, I betcha, a lot more to come. Some even glow in the dark! WooHoo! So far Silly Bandz seem to be an east coast phenomenon but it ain’t gonna be long before you’ll be noticing them at a bandztand near you. You have been warned. Hey, wait a minute, is my wrist turning blue?

Update June 21, 2010: I attended an art fair over the weekend and, instead of the normal ink-stamped wrist to attain in/out privileges, we were givin a silly band to wear. Mine was a shark. Very clever, very cool.

'Twas brillig...

2010-04-17T20:58:00.003-04:00

Okay, I’m on board. Tim Burton is a friggin’ cinematic genius. The latest page in this book is the current Alice in Wonderland, which is still playing at a movie theater near you. Of course Disney has jumped on board the current 3-D craze but, frankly (unlike Avatar) it is pointless in Alice. In fact it is kind of annoying to have to reflexedly duck something-or-other that comes whizzing past your ear.

Alice is a combination of artistry, cleverness (and campiness) and some jolly, crazy tongue-in-cheek good times. Oddly enough, amid the general mayhem, some real sweetness (honest) comes through that actually gives ones sentimental hard heart a tug. At one point I was reminded of the band of diverse stalwarts from The Lord of the Rings going on their long and dangerous quest, in that Alice surrounds herself (well, through no fault of her own really, it just happens) with all kinds of supporters and advisers, all eventually aligned to thwart the dastardly deeds of the cruel, evil and ultimately vanquished Red Queen. There’s even a bandersnatch with a figurative thorn in its paw (see Androcles) who later helps Alice overcome insurmountable obstacles, mostly for the sake of some fast transportation. Even the hedgehog who is saved (by Alice) from the flamingo wielding Queen in her whimsical game of croquet, lends a tiny hand. Once the Queen’s ultimate weapon, the Jabberwocky, is satisfactorily vanquished (was there any doubt?) everybody drops their weapons, including her pack-of-cards army. Another reference to that Ring movie.

It is all predictable but still very satisfying and I really liked the Victorian setting of everything but, after all, it comes from the fertile mind and imagination of Alice’s character, who is on the run from the staid and limited minds of England’s gentry of that stifling period. The only clinker in the movie, for me, was the ultimate ending (which comes after the ultimate ending in Underland) where Alice, reborn, seems to be single handedly embarked on an enterprise to open the trade routes to China and, therefore, become a captain of industry and commerce. Say, what? Hmm…maybe I need to look at that last chapter of Alice Through the Looking Glass.

Oh, yeah, one more word about that 3-D process. Personally I’m over it. What was good for Avatar is not necessarily so otherwise. The coming attractions shown before Alice, however, seemed to be full of it, deeper in it and, I think starting to exude a fishy smell of it. It just might be unnecessary exploitation, with the use of 3-D permitting the ching-a-ching of cash-register greed, since distributors are adding some major bucks for the privilege of having the audience wear those uncomfortable glasses. Even the Wednesday early-afternoon senior rates are getting slapped with it. And, no, fair it is not!

Play Ball!

2010-04-02T02:28:00.004-04:00

Here we go into another season of baseball!
I always enjoy the first part of the season because one can get reacquainted with the team(s)-of-choice, and their stars--but my interest starts to waver and wane as the weeks and months go by. I know the reason for the length of the season is economic (read greed) but I totally believe that 162 games is just nuts. A nice compact 80 games or so, like professional basketball, would probably have the same results (losers/winners) as 162. Part of my seasonal declining interest is also economic (read my own). I am basically priced-out of actually going to games anymore and, since I only have basic cable, I am blacked out for a good number of them--which influences my interest, or disinterest, until the Play-Offs start in the fall and then pretty much only if the teams I follow have a chance of at least participating in them. Frankly, I’m such a fair-weather baseball fan that I only start building a modicum of loyalty in about mid-September when it all starts to have meaning, leading up to the World Series. It’s probably a good thing Major League Baseball, and all their commercial sponsors, has as much, or as little, interest in me as I do in them since my age and economic status throws me into the dark corners of being a desired target audience; so it all seems to work out for both of us. So, hello again, Mr. Jeter...batter up!

snap, fizz, gulp, burp, ahhh

2010-03-31T01:39:00.010-04:00

I have it on semi-good authority that my favorite soft drink is back on the market, even though it’s not at my local market. My friend Earl in Florida has assured me, perhaps a bit pompously, that's it's true. That would be Decaffeinated Diet Pepsi Lime. Since it seemed to have disappeared, at least from my ken, I have gone so far as to buy Decaffeinated Diet Pepsi and laced it with Real Lime Concentrate, which pretty much creates the same flavor and effect. My next best choice has changed a bit since I discovered
Canada Dry’s Diet Decaffeinated Green Tea Ginger Ale, which is readily available locally and is pleasing to the eye. Prior to that I was a fan of CD’s Diet Cranberry Ginger Ale but it has fallen to third in my pantheon of saccharine influenced libations since its color is reminiscent of a low grade of gasoline. Sometimes, you know, the visual is as important as pleasing the palate.
There has been much hoopla about how diet beverages are just about as dangerous for one’s health as the real stuff but I’m not influenced by good advice a lot. I don’t eat candy all that much but what’s life without a Snicker’s once in a while? I guess they are bad for you but they’re really Snickerlicious.

Happy Birthday, JessCat...

Ticked-Off Titles

2010-03-30T01:22:00.003-04:00

Along with The Hurt Locker, Up In the Air, and Julie & Julia I think you can add Ticked-Off Trannies With Knives to the list of movies I’ll probably never see. The film, even though ostensibly a comedy, concerns three deadly divas taking revenge on the dastards that treated them wrong and it will be shown as part of the Tribeca Film Festival next month.

Speaking of off-the-wall names I had occasion to drop into the Partners and Crime bookstore last week and, among other things, I picked up a free copy of The Bookseller magazine (just because I could). This issue included the list of winners of the Diagram Prize for Oddest Book Title of the Year--and here they are in the order in which they placed:

1. Crocheting Adventures With Hyperbolic Planes by Daina Taimina.
2. What Kind of Bean Is This Chihuahua? by Tara Jansen-Meyer
3. Collectible Spoons of the Third Reich by James A. Yannes
4. Afterthoughts of a Worm Hunter by David Crompton
5. The Changing World of Inflammatory Bowel Disease by Ellen Scherl
and Maria Dubinsky.

Come to think of it that Trannie movie doesn’t sound all that bad.

More Naked Men

2010-03-29T22:56:00.001-04:00

There are 31 of these moody, nude dudes scattered about near Madison Square Park in Manhattan. Well, not all of them; some are loitering a little further a field including a parapet on the 26th floor of the Empire State Building (on the northeast side) and even higher up on the Metropolitan Life and Flatiron buildings. Only four are at ground level so you can make eye contact if you dare and even fondle there cast-iron behinds if you are so inclined, and they can’t fight back even though they are 6’ 2” and weigh 1,400 pounds each. The other 27 figures have been placed on rooftops and parapets of mostly historic buildings and it’s a mad game of ‘I Spy’ to see them all. These 27 are made of fiberglass and weigh about 70 pounds each so if they fall on you you might survive even though it would hurt mightily.

These sculptures, called “Event Horizon,” are the work of Antony Gormley and are castings made from his own body. They were first scattered about London in 2007 on bridges, buildings and streets along the South Bank of the Thames River. The Manhattan “Event” is sponsored by the Madison Square Park Conservancy who raised the $400,000 in production costs to bring it here. It doesn’t cost thee or me anything to gawk but, if you have the time, it’s also very interesting to see how the majority of pedestrians don’t give them much more than a cursory look, if that. But they are fun, in a way, even though seeing four or five of them looking down at you from various heights of strategically chosen buildings give them a gargoyle effect and are, thus, sort-of threatening in a way; even ghoulish, especially on a misty, murky Monday. But fear not, they are essentially a harmless work of installation art with the humor built in through the sheer audacity of their multitude. Unless, that is, one of them slips his bindings and conks you on the noggin.

Merry Dickens, with Gore and Mayhem

2010-03-27T16:31:00.004-04:00

JessCat, who lives in San Francisco, is my bookish resource/consultant in all things novelistic in the mystery/detective vein. You think you’ve found a new author in that genre? JessCat can give you the titles of his/her previous eight books plus a synopsis of their plots and whether or not you should actually read them. Her tastes are rather indiscriminate since she reads a lot of crap including some highly suspect best sellers but she’s very careful in what she recommends to me since I don’t really read a lot anymore and what I do read I get all bent out of shape if the book turns into a waste of my, admittedly, not very valuable, time. It is a rare book indeed that I have read before JessCat gets her hands on it and even more rare if I recommend it to her. When I told her I liked Louis Bayard’s “Mr. Timothy” and, knowing her dislike for graphic violence, I warned her of some action-filled gore about three-quarters of the way into the book. Her reaction was thus:

“It seems a lot of recent mystery authors now feel compelled to explore the gross and evil, describing in detail the horrible physical aspects of the crime, the twisted psychology of the perpetrator and the psyche and angst of the detective. Even some of my old favorites have succumbed to the lure of the disgusting. I prefer my corpses bloodless, the detective brilliant, and the solutions literate and elegant and not necessarily realistic. I have always loved the genre, but not when the evil gets too graphic or too lovingly explored. I don't feel the need to experience it in my gut or my dreams to appreciate it.”

I’ll be interested in her reaction to Mr. Timothy, presuming my warning hasn’t, well, warned her off reading it.

Mr. Timothy is a very entertaining take on what happens to a peripheral character in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, that being the lame and limpid Tiny Tim of “God-bless-us-every-one” fame. According to the author, Louis Bayard, the poor tyke never had a chance of developing into anything other than the damaged adult he portrays here even though, against all odds, his basic moral goodness continues to lurk somewhere deep down in his damaged psyche. The book is written in “period” style and, although not exactly Dickensian, it’s still rooted in the rococo language of literature produced in 1860. To be more precise, in late December of that year which, if you think about it, would be an anniversary of the ghosts and mayhem suffered by Ebenezer Scrooge a couple of decades, or so, earlier. But, although “Uncle ‘N’,” as he is referred to here, is indeed a part of the book and its plot, it is our Timothy who is center stage and Tim’s ghosts are of an entirely different nature. (By the way, one needs to remember that Tiny Tim is not related to Scrooge in any way, but is the son of Scrooge’s overworked and abused clerk Bob Cratchit and is, therefore, literally an overnight charity case upon whom fortune is suddenly thrust. How’s that for rococo writing?) Anyway, the plot of Mr. Timothy gets dark and murky and, yes, horrific and gory as Tim falls into solving and, of course, eventually dispatching a spectacular horde of criminal horror-mongers with some pretty icky perversions. It is this plot turn that I warned JessCat about.

Mr. Timothy was published in 2003 and I’m sort-of amazed I didn’t stumble across it before. But I was still both charmed and horrified by it. Mr. Bayard’s subsequent book is named Pale Blue Eye and I understand he delves into the psyche of Edgar Allan Poe in that one. Uh oh, JessCat, uh oh.

Full Disclosure: JessCat is my sister.

tempus fugit

2010-03-12T16:39:00.003-05:00

More and more I realize I’m becoming my own mother. This thought is prompted by the fact of Daylight Saving Time kicking in this Sunday. My mother never did buy into the whole concept of DST and, in yet another attempt at attaining elderly eccentricity, for years refused to change her clocks. She was right in her quirky way and I didn’t care really because it only took very minor math to know what time it was at her place.

Since its advent and as the decades passed, adjustments were made as to when DST starts and ends. I suppose I could do some research on this but I choose not to. It’s not my imagination but once a decade, or so, some bureaucrat decides to expand it, for a whole phalanx of rationales. As I’ve grown older, like my mother, I have started to doubt them and although I do change my clocks when I’m supposed to (my eccentricities lie elsewhere, and are less minor) I just know the whole thing is a ridiculous hoax.

Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory is right on, that is, the passage of time is really a dreamscape and we shouldn’t fool with it. I have this idea that over the next 50 years, a decade at a time, DST will expand in about 10-day increments and will therefore eventually meet and fold into itself and we will come out the other end and we will never have to change our clocks again since it will forever more be Daylight Saving Time, and the reasons behind it will continue to be more bogus. However, the upshot might be that we will either lose one hour forever or we will have start over at square one by adding an hour each year, changing it to a spring-back-fall-forward mantra and further confusing generations to come because the reasons behind DST will have been lost in the missed of time.

One afterthought: the correct term is Daylight Saving Time; not Daylight Savings Time which has slowly entered into common usage. Eventually, in this electronic age, it will be known only as DST and no one will actually know what the acronym stands for (and no one will care). Not even the cranberry farmers who ostensibly benefit. Or the purveyors of fossil fuels. My mother could be right; ignoring DST might be the noble thing to do. It certainly says something for eccentricity, which can be an attractive and charming asset, even though sometimes annoying as hell.

Naked Truth

2010-03-04T18:48:00.010-05:00

You may want to avert your eyes from this entry because it contains full-frontal male nudity. You’ve been warned!

In late November of last year I went to an art fair at The LGBT Center in Greenwich Village and met an artist name Branden Charles Wallace. I liked his work and I guess he liked the cut of my jib, and we negotiated terms regarding my posing for him and then, for two months, we played phone tag. Eventually we made contact and set the time and date for our first session and flinging caution, and my duds, to the winds the deed is almost a done deal. Branden works in oil on linen canvas and I posed in three sessions, two hours each, three Thursday afternoons in a row and it is this experience I hereby chronicle. If you haven’t already done so, now might be the time to avert your eyes.

People who know me are (probably distressingly) aware that I’m no stranger to public nudity; being an aficionado of au naturel beaches and clothing-optional resorts in Key West, Palm Springs and elsewhere. I am not shy (is that the same thing as having no shame?) nor do I give a hoot about what other people might think about my particular physical attributes, or lack thereof. So posing for Branden was no big deal…all I needed was a glass of water and a thermostat set on “comfortable.”

His studio is exactly what I wanted it to be. It’s cluttered and “arty.” There are various canvases (blank or in various stages of completion) leaning here and there and walls covered with artwork, his own and by others, with every flat surface and windowsill holding all kinds of interesting stuff to look at. It was the right atmosphere for the adventure/experience at hand.

Branden works differently than what I had expected. That is, he doesn’t really face his subject but turns sideways from his easel (he’s a lefty), which means the model can watch the work-in-process. What was more than surreal to me was that he seemed to be waving his brush in the air, not even touching the surface of the canvas, and yet a ghost of a person started to take shape before my eyes. My first idea of a comparison was like the early days of the Polaroid camera where, after the photo was taken, you had to wait for the image to appear. This time the image came from the end of a long-handled paintbrush and, as I watched, a figure started to coalesce. And that figure was me! I can’t think of any other word but “surreal” to describe it.

Oddly enough, as we went along and despite the loss of feeling in various parts of my body (you think it’s easy to sit still for two hours at a time?), it became more and more a nice, quiet carnival ride with a great view of other people working, and in 3-D. I think Branden understood what was going on with me and, in the painting, he has come close to catching my mood in both facial expression and body language. He was the perfect starter-kit for my future success as a nude model, even though I’m pretty sure this is a one-shot deal.

Branden is not chopped liver in the art world although he’s only 37, the darling. What is impressive is that he loves the work. He loves painting. I mean, you can tell he just has himself over the magic he can perform and he is an enthusiastic show-off, which was lovely to witness. For the six hours I was with him we talked a lot and our mutual appreciation of what we think is good art and what isn’t coincides fairly well, so it’s no wonder I admire his taste. Having me model might be a new low for him but, hey, the painting is small and everybody has their career glitches. You can check out his website at http://www.brandenwallace.com/ and he has a blog that makes me wonder if he realizes he might be exposing a tad more about himself than he intended (www.passengersseat.blogspot.com); check out the self-portrait with his mom!

FYI: the painting is still a work-in-progress and is not finished; just my participation in it is (unless Branden drops it down his stairwell, by accident of course). The background needs to be filled in and he has a couple of ideas for that and I’m anxious to see one of them come to fruition. Anyway, my job is done and what becomes of the final work of art is moot. For me it was the ride that counted and I have to thank Mr. Wallace for furnishing the carousel; and even though my particular horse was stationary, my mind gave it flight.

Update May 10, 2010: The painting is finished and is now in my possession. I have it propped up next to my computer and I think it's just amazing; both as a work of art and that I actually went through with it. My mind is again abuzz with a mixture of surprise at myself which includes, yes, a bit of an ego boost (and perhaps a tad of missplaced pride) but also I must confess I'm slightly bewitched by the possible consequences of my own audacity. But this painting is going to last a whole lot longer than I will and in a hundred years who cares? Branden gets the credit; I'm just the joker who posed, which is perfectly all right with me!

Circles; running around in...

2010-02-23T18:06:00.005-05:00

Russian artist Vasily Kandinsky (1866-1944) started getting enamored of the spherical form in about 1926, and this painting was one of the results. I’m not totally enamored of spheres but this one certainly caught my eye last December at an exhibit of his work at the Guggenheim Museum. It’s called “Several Circles” (actually being more than 30) and they jumped off the canvas at me. Seemingly simple but with dynamic juxtapositions of color and light, it’s an inspiring work of art.

So I was inspired to steal his idea(s) and, since it was the Christmas season, I got out the acrylics and a couple of boxes of old, and deteriorating (I was actually going to dump them) Christmas tree balls and dipped them in white semi-gloss paint as a background color and to cover-up all the dings and crackles. Over the last couple of months I’ve been whaling away at Kandinsky-izing tree ornaments. It was intriguing and fun for about two weeks but then I started realizing I wasn’t really creating “art.” What I was doing was turning my living room into a crafts fair and my project was turning into a friggin’ hobby! Of course I am incapable of keeping things simple and went overboard with my colors and couldn’t stop myself from being overly ornamental with my own spheres and spirals. I never learn. I’ll finish up the project (the tunnel light is now beckoning) but I’ve got to learn that an inspirational work of art does not necessarily mean I have to bring it home with me.

Unfortunately I still have boxes of old ornaments I will never use and, hey, both eyeballs and olives are round. Satan, get thee behind me.

Update 3/1/10: The siren call of artsy/craftsy activity took hold of my humanoid persona and the results are hereat recorded. I have gouged out six eyeballs and impregnated six olives with faux pimento. Want one?

Rubber Diplomacy

2010-02-15T01:28:00.004-05:00

For the last four years around this time NYC’s Department of Health and Mental Hygiene has held a condom-wrapper design contest and then, in the fall, distributes tons of free condoms to bars and gyms and other usual suspects where the unprotected deer and antelope (and bear and buffalo) roam. They have narrowed this year’s 600 or-so entries down to five and you can vote for your favorite at www.nyc.gov/condoms. Although I like all five finalists I voted for the one shown here.

Cheesy Commentary on Rye

2010-02-14T03:29:00.003-05:00

If you haven’t read J.D. Salinger’s the Catcher in the Rye I have some sage advice: Don’t. If you have read it and remember it fondly, don’t read it again now (like I did) just because Salinger passed away last month. Or, if you must, try to remember the era in which it was published, that being the early 1950’s. Hailed as a “classic” almost immediately upon publication it became a popular sensation and Holden Caulfield, its narrator, a symbol of disaffected youth. After reading it again over 50 years later it can only be considered a curiosity trapped in its own history and that of its reclusive author. It’s essentially still a bummer but nowadays we know too much about mental illness and it’s so easy to practice armchair psychology and label young Mr. Caulfield as definitely bi-polar, if not totally manic-depressive.

Also, this time, I felt ripped off (it took me about ten minutes to read, give or take an hour or so) even though I bought the book extra-cheapo on Amazon.com. It’s easy to read not only because the type-font is big but Catcher is presented as if it was written by a 17-year-old who, although privately and expensively schooled, just doesn’t have all that good a way with words, with all the “you knows” and “all that’s” that annoy the hell out of normal human beings. Holden is a total jerk and completely incomprehensible to somebody reared under completely different circumstances at the same age; on a different coast and with a totally different financial background. How could I relate to someone so hateful, so self-entitled, self-deluded and a chronic liar to boot? My tear ducts were bereft of liquid this time although I don’t really remember crying over that spilt milk originally. I was not a bully in school but I think I might have been tempted to take a sock at this whining, wimpy character if he had been my classmate.

There are two things that made me laugh; both jokes on myself really. 1) There is still a typographical error in the book that I can remember spotting (honest!) 50 years ago and 2) one of Holden’s made-up names for himself is Jim Steele, which is the name I used when playing super-hero detectives with my brother (Bob Steele) when we were kids. A third observation that I have somehow dredged up from the slime at the bottom of my brain is that the cover-illustration for the book; a rampant, red carousel horse, has nothing at all to do with anything at all. Oh, there is a carousel (with horses) near the end of the book but this illustration didn’t seem all that applicable in the 50’s and it doesn’t now.

Anyway, in my opinion the Catcher in the Rye is a book of its time and the year 2010 needn’t apply.

Painted Nephew

2010-02-13T01:12:00.005-05:00

After months and months of being shrouded in mysterioso drapery, the new façade of my nephew’s house in San Francisco has emerged from the shadows. Pretty cool, huh? He purchased his home in 2005 or 6 (or 4; I forget) and last year I guess he was feeling solvent enough to attempt to return the house to the glory from which it originally sprang and/or sprung and hired a designer/architect/restorer named Skeeter to accomplish the feat. Months passed and costs accelerated which, of course, is the norm for this kind of project. Having made a huge dent in my nephew’s discretionary income, Skeeter is now gone and in a couple of weeks the painters will descend on the site and ascend the scaffolding for their shot at painterly glory and the other half of his retirement portfolio.

San Francisco has a tradition of painting restorations in colorful ways and these houses have come to be known as “painted ladies.” I dunno if my nephew has the testicles to own a painted lady but it will be interesting to see the results of whatever color scheme emerges.

Update 2/16/10--Several of my uppity, but valued, readers have pointed out to me that they have no reference point to judge, or form an opinion on, the renovation. I have, therefore, attached a "before" photo.

Update 3/24/10--Painting done. Now what to do with the fence, gate, stone-finish on front stairs, and retaining wall.

Frank Palmieri: 1914 - 2010

2010-02-01T00:03:00.005-05:00

I inherited a new set of parents in, I think, about 1993. My own parents had not withstood the sands of time very well and left me, the shiftless waif that I am, in 1991 (mother) and 1981 (father).

Frank and Dorothy Palmieri became my “parental units” (although they had no idea I referred to them that way, it being a term right out of the Conehead skits on Saturday Night Live) but I think they also began to think of me as some sort of bastard offspring in 1999 when they noticed I seemed to be sticking around as their friend, snow-shovel-wielding maniac, opinionated gardener (I wouldn’t grow vegetables), light-bulb changer, basement scrubber, jokester, computer dabbler, and general reference point for all things The New York Times and Jeopardy!

It could not last forever, of course, and Frank passed away on January 16, 2010 at the age of 95. Up until the last few days he remained mentally cognizant even though his body was letting him down dramatically. I know it’s a cliché but Frank truly deserves to be called salt-of-the-earth. Although unschooled he was smart in the ways of the world and full of joy and pizzazz and had an up-front interest in all that was going on about him. He was fun to be around and just tickled the hell out of me on many occasions with his sage commentaries, one-liners and eye-rolling opinions about the basic idiocies that surround us daily. He was a life-long fairly-liberal Democrat and just didn’t understand anybody who wasn’t.

I will miss him but, you know, 95 years is a long time to be on this planet and the rest of us should be so lucky to have his life and the honor and love of his extended family (albeit exponentially small since he outlived almost everybody) including me, the son-in-law he never really knew he had (although I always suspected he might have wised-up early on).

I salute you Frank Palmieri; and don’t worry about Dottie--I’ve got her back the rest of the way.