Believe it if you can, or leave it if you dare...

Zen Tricksters at B.B. King's August 1, 2007

I have never listened to the music of the Grateful Dead. The issue? Soap.

I know that sounds weird. But hear me out- it gets weirder. Anyone reading this who is surprised at that admission doesn't know me.

In 1982 I shared a room at Camp Ella Fohs with a woman named Helen. I can't for the life of me remember her last name- I know she taught SOMETHING- maybe dance- probably ceramics- we were "specialists" which in camp lingo means we didn't have a bunk of kids to care for- we taught something "special". I was arts and crafts. To the best of my memory, Helen's specialty was annoying the crap out of me. It was the little things- the unmade bed, the clothes none of which were a single color- I swear she had tie-dyed underwear- not that she ever wore it- but it was strewn about our tiny room like Christmas ornaments along with her guitar (was she the music counselor?) her diaphragm (at that time- wide eyed and innocent I had to be told what it was after I picked it up once and it popped across the room) cassette tapes and various feathery beaded things. She didnt shave her armpits or her legs- which to a girl from Staten Island seemed just WRONG on so many levels. But I think I could have lived with all of it but she would ALWAYS use my soap- nothing fancy mind you it was probably Yardley's Oatmeal or Lavender- which my mom had sent me long with a 3 pack thinking that one bar for each month would suffice. HA! Helen not only used my soap, she would leave it, in its little plastic travel box, open, sitting in a puddle of water on the floor of our rusty stall shower. Each bar dissolved within days into a red box full of soap slime. Without exaggeration, I went through 12 bars of soap that summer. Working six days a week it INFURIATED me that I had to go soap shopping on my one day off.

Petty, yes.. But twenty five years later- it still kind of tweaks me.

Helen loved the Grateful Dead after that description you can tell she was pretty much a Dead poster child. I would enter the room to the strains of Sugar Magnolia and if Casey Jones was playing- a song that Helen played when she was "in the mood" and cohabitating with the friend of the week, I wouldn't enter the room at all. It was surer than a necktie on the door there was nothing inside I wanted to witness and mosquitoes be damned I would be hanging out in tent city for the night.

My friend Fred loves the Grateful Dead. He teaches their songs as philosophy and uses them as prayer. Hanging out with Michael riding through Pennsylvania the perfect musical accompaniment to the winding ride along the Delaware was a song I later found out to be "Dark Star" and one night heard a great R&B version of the great Smokey Robinson song "I Second That Emotion"- The artist: Jerry Garcia.

I might need to rethink the whole soap thing.

Last night I went to B.B. King's with Fred- the occasion? Jerry Garcia's birthday and the Zen Tricksters. I was dubious. I mean, ok I was liking the Dead Songs but a cover band? B.B. King's does Beatlemania tributes and other...well borderline cheesy stuff- I am musically intolerant of many tribute and cover artists and EVERY time someone does their version of "God Bless the Child" I wince. Since I was already sporting a pretty nagging Dead prejudice hangover from the days of Helen- what was this going to be like?

I was with Fred- who literally acted like he'd come to a birthday party. He sported a smile as big as a six year old's who knows there's gonna be cake. The front of the room, populated by polite tables for the John Waite concert was cleared out and I wondered at all the empty space. Not empty for long- the room filled in moments, mostly with men- the ratio was about 25-1- which seemed like a very NICE ratio. The uniform varied a bit- golf shirts and khakis for many of the older guys- an enormous selection of vintage Dead concert shirts and a couple of unbuttoned button downs. As the night progressed lots more got unbuttoned.

The Zen Tricksters took the stage and began with "Shakedown Street" and I realized I knew this song- and several after- osmosis? As I said I have assiduously avoided Dead music for years- and so cannot explain why I know the words to "Bertha" and "Box of Rain" or why "I Know You Rider" sounded on the cusp of real familiar. As I listened and grooved along I realized I was having .. a really good time. The Tricksters played with all their hearts- the lead guitarist- a Jerry look-alike- played AMAZINGLY- even Fred commented- he was channelling Jerry and never needed to pay attention to the strings- he just soared. On the dance floor the golf shirt guys played air guitar and raised horned fingers to the band. The room swayed and the scent of pot and patchouli wafted over the group. I do not know how anyone lit anything in that tightly controlled room- the bouncer at B.B. King's looks like former KGB. But I was grateful, Security left them alone- perhaps orders from the Kremlin- the smell seemed just a part of all the singing along, and the sort of wriggling hand fishy dancing and the lower lip biting air guitar earnestness and the guys who brought their kids to listen. Like we were all hanging in someone's basement listening to a jam. Albeit a nicely air-conditioned basement on the twinkliest street on the East Coast.




Four HOURS later. Yes four hours. Fred and I began to fade. He looked at me after one particularly long set and said- you know "Terrapin Station" is an ENTIRE ALBUM side- they just did the WHOLE THING! We were both fading. Fred and Jerry were born just a week apart- I think even Jerry would have considered calling it a night, having just celebrated his own 65th.

Fred and I parted and I made my way to the Port Authority. I had stopped to look at a lyric I'd scratched down on my ticket back that seemed particularly meaningful, then promptly forgot it. It was "Believe it if you can, or leave it if you dare..." As I looked up I saw a portrait artist had left one portrait on a chair and stepped away- maybe to hit the Starbuck's for a late night latte. And there wasa Jerry Garcia's face staring up at me. I know that the guys on Times Square are pros- and this savvy vendor was just particularly wise to the fact that a Dead concert was on the street that night. As I looked at the smiling visage in the charcoal drawing I remembered someone had told me how the Dead got their name- it seems Jerry randomly opened an old dictionary and found the phrase "Grateful Dead"- its definition : "a dead person, or his angel, showing gratitude to someone who, as an act of charity, arranged their burial." It all seems pretty convenient- or not. But the face I was looking at was so...jolly. The music so fun- innocent, and part of a time past, but a joy still sorely needed in the world. So I believe in random things, in amazing coincidence- and as for soap? I think I'll leave it.



:) X

There Are No Toes In Corporate!

One of my favorite lines from "A League of Their Own" is shreiked at near hysterical Evelyn by the almost equally hysterical
Jimmy Dugan. Practically spitting with rage Jimmy attempts to instruct Evelyn in the finer points of the game

Jimmy Dugan: Evelyn, could you come here for a second? Which team do you play for? Evelyn Gardner: Well, I'm a Peach. Jimmy Dugan: Well I was just wonderin' why you would throw home when we got a two-run lead. You let the tying run get on second base and we lost the lead because of you. Start using your head. That's the lump that's three feet above your ass. [Evelyn starts to cry]
Jimmy Dugan: Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There's no crying! THERE'S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL! Doris Murphy: Why don't you give her a break, Jimmy...
Jimmy Dugan: Oh, you zip it, Doris! Rogers Hornsby was my manager, and he called me a talking pile of pigshit. And that was when my parents drove all the way down from Michigan to see me play the game. And did I cry? Evelyn Gardner: No, no, no. Jimmy Dugan: NO. NO. And do you know why? Evelyn Gardner: No...
Jimmy Dugan: Because there's no crying in baseball. THERE'S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL! No crying!

I couldn't resist the whole passage- it's just too darned funny. But... obviously my tendency for digression persists, my personal philosophy of telling a story being that the shortest distance between two story points is... well... nonexistent.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have been working on a more corporate look at work. I, too have a coach. We will call him Mr. L. Mr. L works for a mega huge big corporation and though he may not FOLLOW the rules, after many years with the mega huge big corporation he knows what they are, and bends them regularly. Bends but not breaks. A good coach for me as if I had to adhere to a system of absolutes my employment opportunities might be limited to work that includes such duties as asking if you perhaps might possibly want fries with that. The dress code would be simpler- something with a shirt that had my name embroidered over the pocket.

I have a basic working knowledge of what a corporate look is- after all- I pass poor souls on the street daily- eat with them in cafes and wonder how they get their plain green salads with a spritz of balsamic vinegar past their tightly knotted ties or digest while wearing that most medieval of inventions, panty hose. I would like to point out that tie tie/pantyhose thing is an either/or situation as I do not imagine there are many cases where the two are worn together. but the mind does boggle and reel just thinking about it.

So I have the suit thing solved- at least til the temps drop below 45, I am covered, in a variety of nice materials in configurations of suit jacket and skirt, suit pants and shirt and vest- skirt and jacket, etc. And I look pretty good. Except.

I never looked under the table while the corporate minions graze and was not QUITE sure what was acceptable footwear. I already have a gorgeous pair of vintage crocodile pumps with a moderate if somewhat saucy Cuban heel which are distinctive but in no way... weird or uncorporate. Unless your idea of conservative is saddle shoes, in which case - ok, they're weird. But also in the rather extensive shoe collection are several pairs of my work dress-up shoes which have served me well to this point as I just didnt feel the need to dress up much. The brown matte satin peek-toe pumps with the ecru pin polka dots, circa 1940 and pristine, the creped black ultra-pointy shoes with the cut-out instep, the "You DO NOT want to mess with me" slingbacks with the 4.5" heel- knicknamed- "The Convincer". I didn't actually NEED to shop for shoes- but if I did buy any more- I'd need a new apartment.

The solution? Call in the coach. I asked the coach, with appropriate reverence- if I could pose a corporate shoe question. A lesser sensei might have balked at such a minor detail, but Mr. L. being very wise in corporate ways knows that God- and a positive yearly review and subsequent bonus, is in the details. "I can wear slingbacks and still be corporate, right?" I said, firmly- I knew this couldn't be a problem. "No heels in corporate" He said, his tone brooked no question. Maybe in climbing the corporate ladder one might tend to slip in slingbacks- moving on- "How about ultra pointy shoes?" I said.. my bunions praying on this one for a negative response. "There is no point in corporate" zen koan or shoe advice? Mattered not, my feet opined- we hated the pointy ones anyway. I drew the last card from my hand "How about peeky-toe..." I could not even finish the sentence. It was as if I had violated the 11th commandment "There are no TOES in corporate".

Shit.

I just sat there, awaiting Mr. L's return to his usual demeanor of bonhomie- he's the kind of laid back authoritative guy you imagine smoking a pipe- even when he's not. "No toes?" I squeaked. "No." "Not even one..." "NO...Toes" I thanked him for his time and headed back to the shoe stores. In flip flops. In case you wondered- very not corporate. Everywhere I went- toes. Macy's windows. Toes- paptent leather platforms and criss crossed strappy sandals mocked me from the windows of Bendel's.
Here's my question- the shoes ranged in price from $200-$600- without a corporate salary HOW can you buy it? And with a five inch heel and a sole the thickness of a slice of tuscan white truffle where do you wear them? I imagine the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Sarah Jessica Parker need to worry a bit less- I am certain under the sole of these dainties lurks a little label specifying that the wearer cannot weigh more than 98 pounds dripping wet and any food consumed while wearing them should be immediately coughed up to spare wear and tear on the heels.

But still I had a dilemma. I was well clad and shoeless. It worked for Abbey Road but I am not Paul McCartney and this isn't London 1967. But I thought about it- while clothes may make the man- shoes do not make the woman. My wearing heels- even with a peek-toe, won't slow me down. Nor for awhile, will it hobble me to keep the piggies under wraps. So I bow to the sensei- whose earring twinkles blatantly in defiance of the mega big huge company's preferences for executives. And the day after my first big coup- I will celebrate with a pedicure and brazenly show one perfectly lacquered digit, therefore challenging the status quo, one toe at a time.

Animal Husbandry or Learning with Stickers

Long walk today- and learned a few things...





Woolworth building- big nasty sign in front says "Tourists Go NO Further" Old F.W. would've sold them stuff in the lobby!





View: Kenmare and Lafayette- La Esquina (the corner) Diner





View: Grand Street and Broadway



Obviously, when drinking, pigs are no longer bored and quite fit!



View: Spring Street and Mercer





View: Trendsetter and Crosby





View: Longchamps and Spring Street





View: Trinity Churchyard and Sunset

And a MUST view:



www.poultrygeistmovie.com/video/trailer/

:) X

In a New York Minute

You've heard the phrase- "in a New York minute"- I always thought it meant fast, before you could blink. I grew up here, well, on Staten Island anyway, by way of Brooklyn. I ran for New York City as soon as I was tall enough to reach the fare box on the Staten Island ferry. Back then it was twenty-five cents round trip. I had to be there. Because it is more than just speed- it's density, too. In a New York minute there is so much happening you can barely take it all in and can never predict what will happen or how it will change you. To be a New Yorker is to have faith in knowing yourself, knowing that whatever happens in that blindingly fast, stupendously bright and shiny moment- you've got it covered. Sometimes the minute comes to you, and sometimes you reach out and grasp it- clutching it greedily to your chest, knowing that in all the world that the minute, and you, are totally unique.




Last Thursday night I had the privilege of seeing Patti Lupone in "Gypsy" at City Center. I have been blessed to have a great deal of theater in my life. I was married to a stage hand and perfected my early baking skills by experimenting mercilessly on back stage crew as well as actors and front of the house folks. The year I spent perfecting my banana bread couldn't have been easy on them... but their reputation of being starving artists is well earned- they ate every crumb- none of them starved while I was around. My friend Richard once said "For the love of God don't FEED them- you'll never get rid of them!" It's true. For many years I have been treated to free tickets, house seats and warm welcomes. I remember bringing a loaf of my lemon bread to the theater when I went to see "The Heiress". The loaf was a gift for Francis Sternhagen- an amazing actress whose acquaintance I made while she was working with my ex-husband on a play called "Remembrance" at the John Houseman theater. Frances was part of the beta-baking-testing I did when I opened my second bake shop and was particularly fond of the lemon loaf. "Remembrance" was at least 5 years prior and I did not imagine she would remember me but as I knew I was in for a treat seeing her on stage- I wanted to leave a treat for HER backstage. I sent a note, just so she would know the loaf came from a friendly fan and merely signed it "Melanie". I received a handwritten note by mail two days later absolutely lambasting me for not visiting backstage and admonishing me for not contacting her sooner. I guess Richard was right.

Oy, I digress... but as I said, I have been very lucky. I have seen lots of great theater. I haven't seen Patti Lupone onstage since Evita so many years ago. I almost didn't see her Thursday- the best seats I could get, while a bargain at $25 each were in the second balcony, row G- we had seats 13 and 15- the theater was packed. My companion looked down at the apron of the stage in amazement-" I've never had seats like THIS" he said (he's more of an orchestra man) and truly it was a bit like the view goats have from the top of an alp. "I told you they were far back" I said- "you can go if you like but I'm staying!". I thought everyone knew what nosebleed seats were. He stayed- and we were both glad. I felt like Patti Lupone was playing right to me- the performance was the biggest and the best I've seen, ever. Rose is supposed to be a bit dowdy- a bit of a frump, oddly dressed. Patti was just plain sexy- vamping her way across the stage, a mature woman fully aware of her allure. No woman since Scarlett O'Hara yanked down Miz Ellen's porteires has worn curtain fabric with such style! Her comic delivery- her body language, her angst, her heart- playing Rose as a woman on the edge between madness and great love- she was incredible. The role was written for Ethel Merman and I always associated the character of Rose with Merman's pushy brassiness and at the end of the play as someone you almost felt sorry for. As Patti Lupone took the fur stole from Gypsy and said "this looks better on me than it does on you." it was the world I felt a little sorry for- this Rose was most assuredly in charge. The performance gave me chills- in a New York minute I saw something I would remember the rest of my life.

The next day I had a very early morning meeting in mid-town. I was a bit sleepy after singing the entire libretto of Gypsy to myself through most of the night. I came up out of the subway to the sight of Central Park, misty in the humid haze. The Plaza hotel is shrouded in scaffolding these days as it becomes an apartment building but the fountain in front burbled and wafted a welcome cool breeze as I scooted towards Fifth Avenue. And then- though I was on the cusp of being late, I stopped dead. Five women stood on Fifth Avenue just below 57th Street wearing evening wear at 7:43 in the morning clutching danishes and wearing pearls and big dark glasses. The location- naturally- Tiffany's. I didn't ask why. In a New York minute, there isn't time. It just is. And it's wonderful.




In just 60 seconds in my city you can run through the food hall at Grand Central, and see that Brooklyn and Detroit are just a pickle's length apart. And in a New York minute- the ones you love are standing right there beside you, laughing. And the pickle guys don't blink when you ask to photograph the jars-- they live here too.



And you can have a meeting. And in a New York minute all the work you've done tells you-if you can make it here- survive each and every minute and prevail- people see it. And you get appreciated in ways unimagined and in that minute everything is changed. And breath just disappears- at least for a second. And then life goes on, and you hop a ride for a Philadelphia roll...



In Philadelphia.



:) X

Listening Live

There's diamonds in the avenue as the dayshift turns to night
In the Empire diner dreaming hard rain, fluorescent lights
As the waitress fills my coffee cup and the working girls go by
Drenched Irish cops are dreaming sex and peep show alibis

Everything underneath the skyline from the east side to the west
I see the miracle in real time and there's one I've loved the best
See there's an angel on the D train as she's flying to my world
And I'm waiting for a New York City girl

Times Square looks like Avalon in a Disney morphine dream
Dylan Thomas rides a white horse drunk at the counter next to me
I wake up in the bed sometimes and watch her as she sleeps
In the silence and the sirens I pray her soul to keep

The Catherine wheel burns bright tonight down on the avenue
But nowhere near as bright, my love as the fire that burns for you

Everything underneath the skyline from the east side to the west
Of the lives I've lived and those I've known there is one I've loved the best

See there's an angel on the D train as she's flying to my world
And I'm waiting for a New York City girl John Waite/Glen Burtnick

Listen at: http://www.ifilm.com/video/2670553

Wednesday night I went to B.B. King's Club on 42nd Street to see John Waite. The venue is very tourist driven and serves the standard BBQ fare- heavy mac and cheese and pulled pork sandwiches- tasty enough but with the prices jacked high enough to give your wallet a wedgie. I had TDF tickets, upgraded to front row center if I spent $10, which I think is what they charged for the napkins, so not a very big deal. I needed napkins anyway. The wait staff was VERY pleasant and I never saw the bottom of a water glass- and even though the club policy was to serve through the set, somehow they did so without being obtrusive or tinkling glasses and silver- kudos guys- it's a rough job.

The opening act- oh lord the opening act. The announcer told us this guy had the number one acoustic album in Boston that week- it must've been a slow music week. He had the singer/songwriter thing going on- "I don't care" jeans and shirt untucked, carefully uncoiffed hair which probably took the financial equivalent of a third world country's operating budget in hair products to look, well, greasy. I just wanted to give him a good scrub to get the first coat of hair wax off. He looked like he'd been simonized. A harmonica around his neck- sheesh- ANYTHING but the harmonica. It was apparent he spent a week in London and it inspired the next ten years of song scribing- he sang about the coffee, doing laundry, more drinking coffee- or not drinking it because they only had tea and jam, about Nelson's column, lattes and laundromats; it was excruciating. And six songs and four "I LOVE this town" and a "Go Yankees" later he left the stage. The only thing I dislike more than a whiny pretender to the acoustic stage is a weasel who disses his home team for a smattering of applause when on the road. And then...

John Waite took the stage. He wore a jacket over his dark shirt (tucked in, thank you very much) and "I care so these jeans look like I wore them a few of times but they are clean", and he'd combed his hair. Me, I like a pro. And truth be told John's been around the block lots of times- songs like "I Ain't Missing You At All" and "When I See You Smile" were greeted with applause and a bit of singing along (only lip syncing on my part- I believe folks should only hear the person they paid to hear) He spoke about being glad to be back in New York, and that he'd lived here for years. An audience member shouted "Why'd you leave?" He replied " I fucked up." That statement held just the right amount of sincerity and regret- and I liked him a little bit more for it. His rhythm guitar player- a local boy from Newark whose name was something like Jimmy Laighty (I will find out what this is...) is one of those old school rock and rollers- bleached out blond hair hanging in his eyes- reminded me a bit of Lad-a-Dog from "Please Don't Eat the Daisies" shirt untucked (on him I liked it) and tight...I mean, tight jeans. Sigh. Sometimes I wonder if my rock and roll heart beats faster to the music or the outline of a particularly fetching glimpse of denim clad thigh seen behind the body of an electric guitar. Matters not. This guy could PLAY. And he was playing- he and John moved the music back and forth across the stage with such... joy. If you've ever stood in Washington Square Park and watched a bunch of West Indians chase a hakky sack back and forth between them, dreads flying and bodies leaping through the air, you've seen a similar energy. The bass player was younger, very serious... a fan of Mott the Hoople- though by his looks he was listening to his Dad's albums. He played proficiently but reminded me a bit of the kid trailing after his older brothers and only getting to get in the game because the guys needed someone to hang out in the weeds in left field.

Sometimes... you can get busy and forget the things you love. Or not make time for them- or write yourself off as too busy. Or too poor for the price of admission. As I sat there, the music flowed over me- live human voices, the sound of slide guitar, rapt faces staring at the stage, I forgot the day- not just the one that had passed or the one before or the packed ones ahead, with their challenges. It was John Waite singing to me- about an angel on the D train- and the diamonds on the street. I have seen them, you know. If you walk along Ninth street from Broadway to Fifth Avenue the sidewalk on the south side has mica chips in it that sparkle like stars in the light from the street lamps. Listening as he sang "NYC Girl" I knew- he'd walked that street too. Living in a big city it's an effort to make the connection between people- it's really easy to go home and hide in your apartment- easy, but not nearly as much fun. The walls echo and the light over the couch is too bright, there's nothing on TV and you've played everything on iTunes a million times. So you go for a walk- or grab tickets to a concert and just go. Because when you hear someone singing your song, and its their song too- the streets, and the nights shimmer, and you connect to it all, and to them. The city's not so big- and oh my how it shines.

:) X

Schvecking for Beavers

Lately the weekends are just PACKED. I have decided to be more formal in my work mode dressing and so spent Saturday cramming myself into suits in a dressing room at the local mall and torture emporium. This is an exercise best left when the temps and the humidity drop BELOW 85. And a P.S. to the wise; if a water main breaks in the vicinity of the mall WHILE you are trying on suits it is indeed a sign from above to get your act HOME, as trying on lined suits in 85% humidity goes to a whole new level of awful when they close every bathroom in a 2 mile radius.

I came home shaking from that experience and after a potty break, 3 iced teas and a nap was beginning to feel marginally like myself. The good news- I have purchased suit number 1- the wardrobe change-over is to be a trilogy with a couple of 3 piece options (1 jacket 1 pair pants, one skirt) so that I have a 5 day supply of sophisticated looks) The GREAT news is- I look pretty darned terrific in a suit, if I do say so myself. I haven't been this pleased with a costume since my Ben Cooper Cinderella get-up circa 1964. And the suit is as much a costume as the mask and rayon princess rig- I am no more suited to princess life than to corporate strait jacket life but when in Rome- it's good to have a working knowledge of Italian and a killer suit. The rest is just skills, baby.

After a challenging Saturday what better way to spend the day then at a landfill? We took a little motorcycle jaunt to the border between New Jersey and Pennsylvania to a lakeside cabana-like house. This weekend's second lifestyle changing landmarkfor me (after the purchase of the aforementioned suit) was a very quick ride without a helmet, on the bike. I hadn't tried it til now but in Pennsylvania there are no helmet laws and as we were going from one parking lot to another- I decided to chance it. Oh wow. The feeling gave new meaning to the phrase "letting your hair down". It was the way I imagine it feels to be a paper airplane- an effortless and giddy flight. Problem was- after about 2 minutes I thought about my head, what was in it, and how I might want to protect its contents, however minimally. The truth is, I just feel like it is a nod to the powers that be that says- all right- the body is past its prime- if it takes a hit- ok, I'm not getting any prettier. But the noggin. That keeps improving- I haven't seen the downhill side of that slope yet and so- though it pains me, and much to the approval and delight of my friends- I'll keep the helmet on, even if local law enforcement doesn't insist.

We were visiting J & P. I had never met J & P before though I had heard much- about their kindness, intelligence and...uniqueness. When someone refuses resolutely to define "unique" you know you are in for a treat. I was not disappointed. J & P have a little "lake house" on a body of water. According to J it is naturally made lake but man-maintained by what is probably the largest waste management company in the world- definitely the largest in the Northeast. So I have come to spend the day at a lake owned by garbage men and skirted by a HUGE landfill- who needs Europe? It is hard to imagine a life more glamorous than this. Hard- but not impossible. As this journey required neither passport nor air ticket and innoculations ( though possibly advisable) were not offered, it seemed a great way to spend a Sunday. My friend Michael and P decided to brave the choppy waters of the lake for a kayak run. Obviously unaware of my previous extensive kayak experience (yes, that ONE time) P deemed the water "too rough" for females. I squished down the urge to yell "you haven't SEEN rough" (flashing back on the "no bathroom incident of Saturday) after all, I was a guest. What made it worse- these were really cool kayaks- ocean kayaks- no little spider hole to crawl into-they were wide open with the seat looking like a little lounge chair at the back, this paired with the fact that you didnt need to wear the life jacket- just strap it on the back of the kayak for show made me want to get in one even more. As I stood on the dock in front of the shark mural which read "Club Shred" watching Michael and P paddle off I felt I understood a bit how a little fish that gets thrown back feels- part relief- a life saved after all... but somehow rejected as "not quite up to snuff". Hmph.

Fortunately for me, J was waiting for me at the picnic table. I have never met anyone as unfailingly cheerful and optimistic as J. She talked on and on about work and faith and family and life and the lake and "the boys". It took me a good half an hour to realize the "boys" she was referring to were Michael and P. With nearly 100 years of life between them the term seemed a bit of a stretch. But not to J. With her platinum blonde pixie-cut hair flying in the breeze clad in a black and white checked sun suit, shoulders covered modestly in a white shirt knotted under her breasts, she was a cross between Tinker Bell and Betty Grable. She kept her cigarettes and her lighter tucked into her bosom for easy access- I haven't seen that trick in awhile. When she pulled them out (the cigarettes, not the bosoms) Michael watched in amusement and then turned to glance at my shirt- I said " forget it, bud - there's nothing down there but me." Truly I was in love, with J. We talked for hours like old friends.

After a time I realized I had missed one of J's core influences on the first analysis. A sort of water-based Diane Fosse, J is mad for beavers. There is a family of five beavers living on the side of the island opposite J & P's lake house. J went on and on about the family of beavers-their sizes- ages- and the way that you could tell one from the other by the breadth of their backsides- triangular heads poking out of the water were too misleading in terms of which beaver was which. P described in great detail using hand gestures and relative measures (THIS year's baby is only as wide as a loaf of bread- LAST year's baby is as big as a bowling ball...etc) Every night at dusk J & P take their little motorboat out to the beaver dam to commune with their surrogate rodent family. That evening Michael and I were to accompany them. As we boarded the tiny outboard boat with the little canopy Jeanne threw in a yellow plastic grocery bag which thudded as it hit the bottom of the boat- the contents? Apples. Their beavers love apples and until last year would climb the island's crab apple tree and shake it until the apples fell in the water, then collect their windfall (or beaver-fall) with great glee. Alas, the tree was hit by lightning last year and was killed. Since then J & P have been bringing their friends apples every night at sunset. I looked forward to a really lovely way to be on the water, watching the sun going down on the lake and feeding apples to the beavers in the peace and quiet.

Not quite.

J has a method of summoning the beavers. She warned me as we neared their dam. "I'm going to make an awful noise now." She said in her cupie-doll voice. How bad could it be? J sounds a lot like a pull-string talking dolly- I didn't think she could speak above a breathy sweet whisper. I was wrong.

"SCHVECKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY" the scream split the air like a sonic boom. "Schveckyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Schveky- schveck-veck!!!!!!!!" She sounded like a startled air horn.

This particular beaver call has a history; J's six-year-old nephew, when questioned as to how one might call a beaver, replied- "I think you say "Schveck". According to J, this brings the beavers out every time. I think it might also have something to do with the fact that after a life-long diet of crab apples and bark, a red delicious apple is mighty fine- even if the hand it comes from is attached to a woman who appears to be shreiking in some kind of terrible distress.

The yelling and schvecking went on for about 15 minutes- with P intermittently slapping the water with a paddle in a show of beaver solidarity. To pass the time until the beaver's debut, a few theories were thrown out as to why they were hiding (it couldn't be the noise, could it?) and more than a few beaver-related references and jokes, none of it repeatable here, were also thrown in. It was silly- it was funny, and as it minimized the shvecking- I was all for it.

It was beginning to look like it might be the beaver's night off when suddenly a head popped out of the water to the left of the boat and headed for one of the floating apples. About three feet behind the first head, a smaller head emerged. The jokes and the chatter stopped. We watched as the pair ate, their heads bobbing, apples held between their front paws, then swam back to the dam. P- who until this point had been ... very quiet and stoic (like guys are), contributing only a few choice beaver references and focussing mainly on manning and steering the boat- suddenly became very much like a small boy, who had just gotten a glimpse of Santa. His face was soft, his eyes focussed on an indeterminate spot somewhere out on the lake as he spoke. "I love them" he said, thickly. And went on to describe how the management company that oversaw the lake had destroyed two other beaver habitats on the lake, and that this one was in danger as well. He spoke about the property manager in a way that made me invoke a silent prayer that P never ran into the manager when he was armed with a paddle.

As we motored back I was quiet. Staring out at the landfill- its hulking presence turned gray blue in the twilight. Michael poked me gently in the side- "What're you thinking?" he asked. "Nothing" I said. "Nahhhh- you're ALWAYS thinking something" he laughed. I smiled; "Well- what I was thinking was- for a pile of garbage- that sure is pretty". And that was the best I could do- because I wasn't thinking, and that's what Sundays are for.

Oh, and I was tired, too. You KNOW I kayaked across the lake and back :). I have the blisters to prove it.

Schvecky Schveck!

:) X

Coney Island Girl

"Every night she comes to take me out to dreamland. When I'm with her, I'm the richest man in the town. She's a rose, she's the pearl. She's the spin on my world. All the stars make their wishes on her eyes. She's my Coney Island Baby. She's my Coney Island Girl. She's a princess, in a red dress. She's the moon in the mist to me. She's my Coney Island Baby. She's my Coney Island Girl" Tom Waits

They are planning to put a Starbuck's on Surf Avenue. You would think that I would be FOR a decent iced coffee in July at the beach. But not this beach. The Windsor Family has Buckingham Palace. The Munsters had 1313 Mockingbird Lane. My family, for at least 3 generations, has had Coney Island.

In the early part of the 20th century my grandmother, at the tender age of 14 was "arrested" to hear my great-grandmother Anna tell it, on Coney Island. The charge? Public Indecency. Obviously the "bad to the bone" bone is hereditary. There is a photo of my grandmother and her girlfriends on that dark day in my family's history. She stands, her slim hip cocked, smirking at the camera with her arms casually flung over a girlfriend on either side. A black bathing suit with little sleeves piped in white reaches to just above her knees. A floppy sun hat sits pushed back on her head with dark curly hair escaping wildly from its confines (giving lie to her claim in later years to being "naturally blond") bloomer shorts- with matching piping and black stockings rolled just below her knees complete the look. She has on more clothing than I would wear to shovel snow in January. The indecent part, you may ask? It was not proper, or legal for that matter, that hot summer of 1919, for a young lady to roll her stockings down below the knee in public.

Truth be told the policeman didn't actually arrest Yetta, he just brought her to my great grandmother who was sitting with her friends under the shade of an umbrella. Anna didn't believe married women showed so much as an elbow in public- I can only imagine what she wore- I know it was a lot. Anna spoke very little English so when she saw my Grandmother being escorted by a burly, sweating, bear of a police officer she immediately recalled the Cossacks whom she'd left Russia to avoid. To say the least-she was perturbed- or to hear her tell it in Yiddish; varklempt- which literally translates to "choked with fear". Yetta was fluent in English and Russian and one smart cookie- I can just hear her editing in the interest of self-preservation, to beat the band as she translated the officer's explanation of the incident. Between my grandmother's blindingly quick patter and my great grandmother alternately clutching and cuffing her child, unsure as to what was actually called for in this situation, I am certain the officer was more than a little pleased to see the end of that conversation.

Though she did not get arrested, Yetta paid a price- for the rest of that summer not only were her stockings always rolled as high as they would go- she had to wear a sweater over her bathing suit. Anna wasn't quite sure which body part was actually the culprit and she wasn't taking any chances.

The kicker is, that was the summer my grandfather lifeguarded at Coney Island. Harry saw her in that get-up and picked her out of the crowd. He always said she stood out that summer on the beach- not "showy" like the other girls.

My favorite picture of my mom was taken in the summer of 1942 at the bath house which still stands under the boardwalk at 10th Avenue. She and her cousin Fran at 3 years of age stand against a whitewashed cinderblock wall, bathing suits pulled down to the waist, still dripping from having the sand washed off their tiny bodies.

Later family photos from 1948 show my dad and his friends clowning as teens; chests puffed up and stomachs sucked in, simple in those days for dad, before his stint as a cook in the Merchant Marines made that act physically impossible.

1962- There are photos of my twin sister and I seated on each of my dad's shoulders. He looked so tan. We looked so happy- two giggling cherubs just turned 2. I can still remember the view from way up there of the midway and the ocean. Funny, now more than 40 years later as I looked across the beach the memory of my dad's sun-warmed fuzzy shoulders was tickled from the back of my mind by the smells of the boardwalk, grilling hot dogs and Coppertone.

Last week as I walked through the amusements I saw many of them shuttered. The paint is peeling and graffiti covers the sign that announces that a building is the home of the Coney Island Museum. Long abandoned, its mullioned windows are hazed, broken and rusting. I realize only the soft focus of my memories make these places appear anything more than falling down & dilapidated. The B&B Carousell is empty and an "Available" sign hangs above the peeling marquis where I begged over and over for one more try to grab a brass ring. Anyone else would see just another empty building. There are 2 more bumper car attractions now that the "Bump your Ass off" cars have closed. Already falling down, Coney Island cannot survive much longer as the buildings lose their charm to a patina of rust and neglect.

The developers promise to maintain the flavor and authenticity of Coney Island. The Cyclone and Parachute Jump; known as the Eiffel Tower of Brooklyn- are protected landmarks and will remain. I wonder if they can keep their breathtaking grandness against a backdrop of a series of proposed 40-story condominiums. I do not mind so much that Nathan's doesnt serve frog's legs or chow mein on a bun anymore- as kids we called it a sneeze sandwich- because it was green and gooey and... well, you get the idea. They still sell a great hot dog- even if they won't toast the bun anymore, and the fry guys still actually dump a few extra fries in the bag when they serve you. If the price for allowing a few more little girls to get in a teeny bit of trouble on a Saturday afternoon, or fall in love or get a family sunburn is a couple of big buildings- ok. But please-I can get a coffee on the way back to Manhattan. Keep it Coney Island, a little gritty. Don't clean up TOO much. Treat it as you would an archeological dig- be careful what you take away- and how you move things, there are a lot of memories in that dust.






































:) X

Finding the Other Brooklyn Bridge

Riegelsville Bridge by Charles Roebling, Riegelsville, PA

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than exposure. Helen Keller

Did you miss me? Sorry- it has actually been with no small amount of guilt that I recognize it has been ::whew:: two weeks since I last posted! I blame the summer- more to do outside and the development- or rather an evolution of my own personal life philosophy. Until recently I might have classified myself as being..outgoing- a risk taker. HA! There are no risks in the familiar territories I have always tread. And there is a great deal of difference between dipping one toe in a backyard pool and running buck-naked, yelling into the ocean in the darkness- in March. Ignoring the little voices in your head reminding you about the fate of the poor folks in "Jaws" or any other practical thoughts- or vividly imagined ones. These days I think the little naysayers need to be put firmly into their place.

To all my friends who always thought I was doing some pretty edgy living up 'til this point- don't be too concerned. Part of the epiphany is realizing that my judgement is pretty darned sound. Living this long, with a fairly facile mind and a well developed sense of personal preservation, I can't help but pick up the signals which say "Stop" and "Go". Fred and I were talking the other day- he said that as you get older, there are fewer choices in life. It is not that the realm of possibilities narrow, but that as you get older, you just KNOW what is right for you. The rest just falls away, the answer is there- the right answer, for you, and there is no choice.

Lately there has been scrutiny around any part of my life that might be examined from the outside. There have even been allegations of bad behavior. I guess if it pleases folks, look all you want- I know that if my life had any bits that needed hiding, I wouldn't publish it in a blog. And realizing that this daring adventure is all mine, anyone else's interpretation is strictly their own concern. The scrutiny may or may not continue, but as the saying goes, no matter how thin you slice it- it's still baloney, and as we know, baloney is mostly garbage. Try and serve it up as anything else and you get a big face-ful of your own bad karma.

If there is a message here- it's a letter to myself. That life is too short to be unhappy, or scared. That the past, no matter how I look at it, mine, or anyone elses', does not define who you or I am at that shiny new moment in time. Or predict how the future will go. So I will sit in a room with an 8' boa constrictor (in a cage, some things will take a bit more time) and try to see the world through her eyes. That I will ask myself am I afraid of getting hurt- or of being wrong. And if I get a little hurt or if I make a mistake- isn't it worth it to learn what lies on the other side?

Sitting on the back of Michael's bike the other day we were talking about life and about dying. "We are all going to die- life is too short to waste time" he said (this sort of comment should ideally not be delivered on a motorcycle driving sorta kinda close to the speed limit...) And I thought about it. If I had just a day more to live- would I want to live it afraid? Or sitting in the darkness of not knowing? Heck no. But while I check out the new roads- with your kind permission, I'll take you along for the ride.




:) X FYK