Go-Lightly on my Blanket! A Night at The Elevated Acre with Truman

Paul Varjak: And I always heard people in New York never get to know their neighbors.

Had Breakfast at Tiffany's beautiful hero, Paul Varjak, made it to Manhattan a mere 46 years later he would have seen that New Yorkers actually get to know their neighbors in a whole new way these days. The free, outdoor movie. My friend 'Neff has an incredible nose for sniffing out free stuff in Manhattan- whether its free latte day at Dunkin doughnuts or a knitting class at Bryant Park- 'Neff has the scoop. So when she asked me if I wanted to go to the movies I already had an idea it would be free ride with all the perks and it was.



I baked a dozen chocolate chip pecan cookies that morning (I had a batch of dough stashed in the refrigerator in case of an outbreak of guests or...just such an emergency) and headed into work. I thought about the great style of Holly Golightly
Truman Capote's fragile/fierce heroine. I lamented to myself the loss of her style and grace in these casual times but decided to set myself a 10 minute challenge- I stood on the corner of 7th Avenue and 34th Street- smack in front of Macy's with my camera and determine whether in black and white if Holly's style still lived.













OK- this lady was more Billy Holiday, than Holly Golightly...but fabulous deserves homage.







The movie started at 8 at a plaza on the East River near Water Street in a little park called the Elevated Acre- an amphitheater- type space with a central patch of astro-turf surrounded by cement seating. 'Neff's friend Natalie had staked out 2 bed sheets worth of space and sprawled across it to save our spot. I wandered around snapping more photos of the denizens of free culture- similar folks to the Shakespeare in the Park crowd but a bit more on the downtown hipster side- the type of folks that never go above 14th Street. Despite a lack of access to the loftier sections of Fifth Avenue, style was far from lacking.









I can't resist squinching my toes in grass- even plastic grass.



As I said- 'Neff knows all the best spots- and the fact that they give out free popcorn and bottled water.









As the sun set, the movie began and we settled in for what felt a great deal like a huge slumber party as people sprawled yawned and watched a really big movie on a very small but serene spot in the normally bustling city. No one talked- aside from a person or two who, from personal necessity left their own blankets to hop as best they could from one stranger's nest to the next ( Sorry, m 'scuse me, oops...) the movie played with less interruption than one would expect at the Cineplex with a $7 bucket of popcorn and an $11 ticket. And we got to know our neighbors a little. Bonus. :) X

The Tourist Trade

There is a famous saying something to the effect of the fact that 90% of life is showing up. As I have pointed out many times- step outside- here, and life happens. Showing up for work means an offer comes in via e-mail, go see a Broadway play- sit in the orchestra (row H- as in "Happy to be Here") and by the way did we mention the play won 5 Tony's last year? So the gods of ephemera washed up this lovely pair of tickets for "The Drowsy Chaperone" on my e-mail beach. In the interest of fairness (and the fact that he is good company) I called the poor soul who endured the goat seats for "Gypsy" with me. "Where are the seats?" he asked dubiously- "In Manhattan"I said testily ( they were FREE- sheesh).

Since the theater was right near the infamous "Restaurant Row"; 23 restaurants in one city block located between 8th and 9th Avenue on 46th Street. Michael suggested we eat there. I had to sheepishly admit I had never eaten on Restaurant Row- my experiences in dining before the theater being limited to "find" restaurants like the only place for Authentic Ethiopian food in Manhattan- a bargain at under $20 unless you count the cost of the fire extinguisher you will need after the first course- even the water was spicy! Or that all the food in the restaurant is the consistency of baby poop and the only way to get it from the plate to your mouth is using soft pieces of injeera- a limp spongy sourdough flat bread traditional to the region- forks unfortunately are not traditional to the region. It's like trying to eat pea soup using a cloth napkin. Between the firefighting tools, the dry cleaning bills and the antacids- I attend "find" restaurants with extreme prejudice- one way or another- you pay. My other theater district staple- NEW and the OTHER kind of hot- is the kind that is crowded, glass-enclosed and features- a 2-story waterfall or fire dancers who cook your food on their faces or portions so tiny they are accompanied by an electron microscope and tweezers. The guarantees here- you will wait, you will leave hungry, the waiter will have more attitude than a society matron at the Walmart AND you won't have to eat here twice- these restaurants usually burn out quicker than a tray of Cherries Jubilee and are generally a lot less fun. The only advantage in this experience is that the day after attending one of these places you can a.) say you've been there and b.) tell everyone how much you hated it.

"Never eaten here?" Michael asked- amazed as he knows I LOVE going to the theater and trying new restaurants. "Too touristy, huh?" he opined. I didn't answer right away- I hadn't thought about WHO eats on Restaurant Row- I just figured in a choice between indigestion and indignation- it was worth a shot.

We walked along the row looking at the different menus encased in acrylic in front of each narrow storefront- Restaurant Row- I would hazard a guess, is the great grandfather of the food court. EVERY cuisine is represented in a series of really teensy spaces. Each doorway housed an inspired little ingenue biding her time until her "big break" by trying to entice walkers-by into her restaurant. I kept waiting for all of them to break into a group chorus of "Hey Big Spender". The overwhelming feeling was that of a limping antelope on the veldt being tracked by leopards. One pause and I was a goner sucked into the wrong regional cuisine with no hope of rescue. A lovely Latina started extolling the virtues of her cafe in lilting lisping Castilian infused Spanish to Michael who had made the error of missing a step in front of her turf. "Oh no", he said smiling conciliatorily "I wanted the French place". She pouted prettily and went back to her post in a saffron scented whiff.

The French place was actually really cute- Le Rivage. Their door person was the ONLY one who could properly pronounce "prix-fixe". The restaurant was hopping- waitresses busily saying "Voila" as they handed you the menu. OUR waitress wasn't French. I could just tell. She had a slight put-upon air as she handed us our menus, her "Voila" terse and clipped. Her accent- German. "You have the show tickets?" she asked- we nodded. Her lips thinned "You're late" she said...only her mouth smiled. It seemed early enough- after all it was only 6:30- we wanted to eat dinner- not catch and kill it. She moved us through the courses like a pro- I ordered the celery root salad in a mustard remoulade- Michael was intent on ordering from the squidgy-squirmy side of the menu and began with sardines- for sardines they looked nice enough- plump and not stinky- Michael liked them fine. I would like to mention here that EVERYTHING was covered in a vinaigrette- I think at night they mopped the floor with it- part salad dressing, part floor wax, in the interest of maintaining an authentic French atmosphere- sharp and a bit acid. The next course, oddly enough was the salad- which USUALLY comes after the main course, with, natch- more vinaigrette. As I was on the verge of acid-reflux brought on prematurely by an excess of salad dressing- I picked at the romaine and raddichio but didn't truly dig in- my friend Gerri named this sort of salad "ear wax salad" when we were still in college- to this day the sight of raddichio or worse- frisee, brings that memory back instantly. With less than optimal results. The waitress stared down at my salad plate "Done?" she said- her tone and single raised eyebrow indicating I was NOT. "Yes, thanks", I smiled. I did not want to look up and see her eyes boring like lasers into the top of my head in disapproval. I just had the feeling- from that ONE WORD, she was remembering her days in Le Resistance when they lived on rats caught in sewers... or something else they could pickle in vinaigrette and eat to stave off starvation. The next course was the entree- I had monkfish in a lobster reduction and from the squidgy side of the menu- Michael had ordered grenouille. What may you ask are grenouille? You will be sorry you asked.

Frog's legs. They kind of looked fried. And they were so small! I just looked over at the plate and imagined the 8 or so frogs relegated to a life on crutches to make this dish. What could I say but... "Bon Appetit"? I was treated to yet another blast of Teutonic indignation when I did not eat the rice served with the monkfish- I thought about asking for a little vinaigrette on it but thought the better of it. By 7:28 the room had emptied and we were on to coffee and dessert. "Are we late?" I asked "Nah"- said Michael- "its only 7:30." Maybe they were eating dinner and then catching a show back home in Omaha. Why else leave the restuarant for the crowded theater district streets? For me, standing outside the theater sweating until the house opens has lost its lustre- call me cranky. The waitresses began eyeing us with vague hostility as we leisurely sipped our coffee- no doubt all waiting for us to leave to break out in a chorus of the Marsellaise and light up their Gitanes- though I pictured OUR waitress smoking by pinching her cigarette between thumb and forefinger, taking it from her mouth stained with orangey red lipstick and adjusting her beret... ok- maybe I thought about her a little TOO much.

Back on the street and headed for the Marquis theater I saw the tourists in CLUMPS. They travel in packs yanno- like hyena, emerging from stretch town cars with an unlikely number of offspring all of whom are 14 and all wearing too much make-up and clad in wearing something resembling a very short sequined dress or a very long... tube top. And then there were the girls. (no-no... wrong neighborhood). I had celebrated the evening's free tickets by blowing my budget AND what the tickets would have cost on a pair of completely un-corporate red peeky-toe sandals. My shoe shopping preferences having been cruelly squelched for a month's time in my search for a more businessy look these 4" heeled beauties MUGGED me in a weak moment as I passed the shop window on the way to dinner. I squished my sensible flip flops into my purse and donned them on the spot- I wasn't corporate quite yet and as I buttoned the oversized red leather covered button on the ankle strap they made me feel like Betty Grable. Or they did. After trotting around Hell's Kitchen finding a restaurant, locating the theater and then the box office- which inexplicably was located in another building- in another ZIP CODE. I wished I was Betty Grable- dead that is- at least her feet didn't hurt. My blisters had grandchildren- walking was an act of sheer will.

Triumphing over a positively Byzantine set of elevators, escalators and hallways we made our way to the Marquis theater. A doorman assured us as we boarded the escalator- "The Drowsy Chaperone is GUARANTEED not to make you drowsy!" In his jolly red coat wearing a beatific- and slightly waxy smile- like a red delicious apple at the supermarket- he made me believe that maybe, like those apples- perhaps what was beneath the surface- of the coat, and the free tickets, was something bland and mealy and well- meant for tourists. The seats, located exactly one foot farther than I wanted to walk on my injured feet were just 8 rows from the stage. The crowd- which I love to look at before the show starts- glittered- tube tops as mentioned previously, were in attendance, along with as much dress up clothing as the weather would allow. I smiled- I LOVE when people dress for the theater- having been a part of the process backstage I appreciate the effort involved in mounting 8 shows a week- the musicians, the stagehands, the props, the lights, the theater is a lot of people working really hard in black clothing to be invisible- to make it magic and make it real. That deserves a jacket and tie- or pretty red shoes. I settled into my velvety seat and breathed in- waiting for the moment the present world would melt away and then the lights went down. Michael's hand squeezed my knee- he felt it too- the theater is; even BAD theater- a tiny thrill- if you allow it to be. The first day of school and new pencils, the first time you felt an airplane take off- the moment you looked into someone special's eyes and saw that they liked you, too- you know this moment is going to be just a bit better than an every day one. Maybe a lot better.

And it was. The Drowsy Chaperone is a musical inside a comedy and romped and played and poked fun at itself. I do not wish to spoil even one line from it but it manages to be both a modern day world-weary comedy and a 1920's "gay romp". As the narrator of the play states- back when "gay" meant something else entirely. Every un-pc moment- with terrible Latin sterotypes and Asian sterotypes and gangster sterotypes and blonde sterotypes was met with great laughter- what a relief! All the socially unacceptable thoughts each member of the audience never dared utter out loud was presented with a flourish and a look of wide-eyed innocence- and we giggled and guffawed like a bunch of second graders. BIG music and glorious costumes and red coated monkeys and FABULOUS shoes and tap dancing (I LOVE tap dancing) horrible bakery puns made by a pair of houndstooth clad gangsters posing as pastry chefs- can they macaroon another bad joke? We cannoli hope! It was that bad and that good.

Towards the middle of the play- the narrator (played wonderfully by John Glover of "Smallville" fame as well as a slew of stage credits) a musical-theater loving, cardigan-clutching, tea drinking, single gentleman alludes to the fact that he was once married and then looked at the audience and asks- "Are you surprised I was married?" He drew himself up "Well- you shouldn't make assumptions about people" he huffed. "I'm a VERY COMPLICATED person." Tourists. Bikers. Pastry Chefs and Reformed Downtown Girls. We're all pretty complicated and I shouldn't make assumptions- it was a great play- and a lovely dinner and the reformed downtown girl isn't so different from the tourists- we're all just sitting in the darkness looking for a little magic.

:) X

One from the vault...

Two years ago my little buddy and I spent an afternoon together when his mom went to run errands. I remembered writing this to let her know what she missed out on while she was gone...

Pampers should be labeled "FRONT" and "BACK"

Baby wipes are packed in 2- use packages - 80 in a bag but when you try to get one- you get 40- so...

A baby being diapered by a rookie can get the diaper OFF faster than the rookie can get it on

After 3 failed diapering attempts the reigning philosophy becomes-
"What's so bad about running around the house naked?"

After cleaning up many small unidentified puddles and one particularly nasty packet
you understand what's so bad.

The time limit for a shower for the sitter is 30 seconds - after that every toy in the house and a fully dressed 2 year old will be joining you- and the hope of getting the scratchy bits at your heels scrubbed smooth will be a thing of the past.

If a baby places the end of the toilet paper roll in the toilet and water pressure in said commode is fair to middling, when he flushes (repeatedly) the paper will spin off the roll and straight to the Hudson River- fast, very fast. ( say, in the 30 seconds it takes the babysitter to shower.)

Don't give the baby the tube of toothpaste ever,- even if he says please.

Over the course of the day you will string words you never thought you would together,
such as "Do NOT ride the FAN" and " Stop climbing the venetian blinds"

Questions like "Where did you put your diaper? (my cel phone?, the laptop?, the keys?)" will go unanswered - no matter how often repeated or how loudly. Any answers given will be in gibberish and be protected by the Geneva convention.

If the question is- "He can't fit in there, can he?" the answer is always "Yes, yes he can." He just can't get OUT.

If a baby out of visual range laughs- its bad- if he's quiet- it's worse

A child who will eat dirt with his bare hands will not touch his French toast if there is a crumb in the pool of syrup.

Afternoon naps are a myth perpetuated by hospitals to keep their ob-gyn business healthy

And finally: A babysitter who allows a 2 year old to play with a radiator under the assumption that cast iron is "pretty darned durable" overestimates 19th century craftsmanship and underestimates the ingenuity of the 2 year old.

:) X

Waiting for Will

I'd tell you where these windows were- but to me it looked like a cottage in the woods

88 Degrees in New York City today. 90% humidity. And we had a tornado in Brooklyn or a hurricane - something... UNUSUAL for this neck of the woods, weather wise. Whatever the reason, I had no plans for the evening and no real desire to head home right after work. Maybe the atmosphere was so... charged... whatever- I needed to move around. So I hopped on the D train and headed for Central Park, no ticket in hand, for the 1st preview performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Delacourt Theater. The first night's performance was cancelled because the director had broken a rib. Obviously "the show must go on" only if all the director's bones are intact- I bet D.W. Griffith would've made them go on...

So I went- reasoning that I would see not much in the way of new or particularly surprising- in my apartment. When I arrived I went straight to the box office, mentally picturing the box office person cheerfully saying "Sure! We just had someone hand in a ticket, in the front row- hope you don't mind..." But when I got there I encountered a slightly less than cheerful (his cheer no doubt dampened by the oppressive humidity and the fact THREE HUNDRED people had probably asked this already..) "Any tickets for tonight?" I asked. His eyes moved heavenward- praying, I thought, for patience - I looked up with him, prayer always a good solution in these situations, and saw the sign reading "Tonight's Performance SOLD OUT" "Sorry" he said (I swear there was true remorse in his voice) "the show is all sold out". I smiled and decided to sit on the bench by the box office and await my first row cancellation. I lucked out in that Judy from my office had brought me a container of Trinidadian Rice and Peas. People walking past with their overpriced concession sandwiches looked enviously at my dinner- which was ok because I was eyeing their tickets and wondering how long they would laugh if I offered to trade.

After I finished my supper I walked around the Delacourt to Gate 1- why not start at the beginning? As I rounded the corner it looked like LOURDES. Wheelchairs and walkers as far as the eye could see (without my glasses...) It seems that Gate 1 is where the Hospital Audiences folks wait to get in. They were definitely ready for a big night at the theater and the healing power of Elizabethan verse. And I watched the crowd. Interesting people attend the theater in the middle of the park, for free. People dedicated enough to the theater and dedicated to NOT spending $75+ dollars for a theater ticket. So they are poor- or thrifty, artsy and trendy but didnt spend a great deal of money on their look. It makes for a pretty, if slightly eccentric intellectual crowd with t-shirts that tend towards "Veni, Vidi, DaVinci" or something like that- as I said- didn't have my glasses on.

A gentleman in white suspenders with hair much too dark to have been a gifted with it at birth walked past me with a sign which read "NEED an extra ticket PLEASE". What a good idea.. and me without a Sharpie. I kept looking for someone with no companion, 2 tickets and a look of lonely desperation. I should've borrowed the guy's sign- I watched him walk past chatting to a family who all had the look of dread that accompanies knowing you did a good thing by giving this guy your extra ticket- without doing the math and realizing you had to spend the next 2 and a half hours sitting with him...

The people-watching was prime. And the view not one that I could have anywhere else, especially not if I went home. When it became painfully obvious I wasn't getting in, I walked to the Turtle Pond and saw that the backstage area of the Delacourt was visible from the dock at the pond. 15 plus years of watching Shakespeare in the Park, I'd never seen it from that angle- or moment- the ten seconds before entering the stage- the equivalent of being at a race as the drivers rev their engines. And the opening lines..

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon: but O, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame or a dowager
Long withering-out a young man's revenue.

I'd seen them- step-dames, dowagers and young men a bit short in the revenue department. And I'd never even gotten in the theater- I just went for a walk.


I never thought of it before but there really ISN'T a case for carrying a tuba- and only one way to carry it...


Statue of Romeo and Juliet


My dinner- (thanks Judy!) and the proper accompanying beverage? A diet cherry coke.


Here is where I channelled my grandmother and offered this young lady a tissue- actually a Starbuck's napkin.


Try- just TRY and imagine how "Stayin' Alive" sounds when played on an unaccompanied sax...


The risk you take when you kiss in public.


The Dakota at dusk


The folks waiting to be healed by Iambic Pentameter


The view from Gate 1


The guy who got in...


A REALLY interesting young lady by the Turtle Pond. Book, Picnic Basket and Hat with a Veil.


Ten seconds to curtain


Central Park- it's kind of magical at night... I hope you see it for yourself one day soon. It's always a heck of a show.

:)X

Follow that Dog!

When driving along you know it's the country when you see:


Sussex Cows...check.


Lake with unmoving party boats- check. What are they DOING out there? OK, OK they are party boats so they must be having a PARTY...

Sundays are not made for having an itinerary. Ideally if you are awake, and have had a very good breakfast (bacon egg and cheese on a toasted onion naan accompanied by copious amounts of strong coffee, very good indeed, oh, and a canteloupe for roughage) You can pretty much push off from the house and if someone else is driving, just GO. My agenda- reapply sunblock and don't fall off the back of the motorcycle. By the end of the day I'd accomplished one of the two. In the interest of building literary tension I will withold that bit of information for the time being.

We headed down the road and I began calculating just how many things I could do wrong just by getting dressed. Thing 1: Do NOT wear the cute thong sandals with the little shells on them to go riding because if you do you will realize at a crucial 70 mph moment that when you need to push down on your feet so you do not BOUNCE 4" out of your seat when you hit a bump the amount of traction they will give is absolutely zero. Fortunately, I am gifted with a generous, if shapely, center of gravity and bounced back down into my seat. Thing 2: Hair- the little claw style hair clip will turn into a vicious, ravening, scalp-eating beast if you try and stick it under a helmet and if you take it out, the carefully wrought French braid will fly out and whip across your face and you will spend the next 40 miles eating hair. At one point I was attempting to enjoy the scenery through the whipping hair foliage when Michael asked- "ever been to Space Farms?" As this sounded like a possibility for stopping and collecting myself, I spat out a mouthful of tresses and said as brightly as I could - "No..." and he turned the bike into a perfectly ordinary looking parking lot. I was completely consumed for the next ten minutes attempting to free my head from the helmet, liberate my hair from the clip and comb the major snarls out. . No joke, small children passing clung to their mothers in fright and pointed at me, the shyer ones whimpering softly. I looked like Cousin It after a Toni Home Perm

When the hair cleared I found myself looking at :



And:



I had no idea what I was in for. Space Farms is located in Wantage, New Jersey. There isn't a whole lot in Wantage except the Space Farm and well, lots of other more traditional Farms. The advertising claims it to be "World Famous". If it isn't, it should be as there cannot be two places like this on the planet- or so I thought- more literary tension here- hang in there I'll get to it.

Space Farms was founded in 1927 by Ralph and Elizabeth Chase. Originally it was a little gas station and general store that stocked " the few necessities the local people needed: salt, sugar, oyster crackers, corn flakes, bulk cookies, canned salmon, soda pop and penny candy for the kids". I guess not everyone needed oyster crackers and times being what they were, with three little Spaces to feed- Loretta, Edna and Fred, Ralph had a second job working for the New Jersey State Game Department trapping predators marauding farm animals. (Items in quotes come from the Space Farms website- http://www.spacefarms.com/ the most colorfully written document since the days of the Victorian bodice rippers and penny dreadfuls). It seems Ralph was a natural "sportsman" though I have never seen the sport in hunting- give the animal a gun and opposable thumbs and I'll think about changing my mind. Ralph mostly caught bobcats, racoons and foxes in the Spring when pelts were plentiful and rather than kill them, he'd pen them in behind the store and keep them alive until the Fall when somehow the pelts became more valuable- I guess a fox stole sounds a lot better in October than it does in July, unless you happen to be the fox in which case it sounds ghastly at any time. It seems that when the Fall came around the little Spaces (God, I love calling them that) had become attached to the animals and would not allow dad to off them for the pelts. Thus the Space Farms zoo was born- people would come to see the "wild animal" collection and along the way buy a soda- or some gas and the store began to thrive.

What I want to know is how in the HECK Mr. Chase got Mrs. Chase to be OK with Goliath. As you walk into Space Farms Goliath greets you- all ten taxidermed feet of him, with claws like sabers and a strangely intelligent and sad look on his face. At 2,000 lbs he was the largest bear in captivity according to the Guiness Book of World Records. Can you imagine the conversation?



Mr. Chase: Honey- I have a new animal for the collection
Mrs. Chase: Oh GREAT what does this one eat?
Mr. Chase: Nuts and berries mostly... no big deal really. We're gonna need a bigger cage though.
Mrs. Chase: What is it?
Mr. Chase: We might need to electrify the fencing too...
Mrs. Chase: What IS it?
Mr. Chase leads Mrs Chase outside to the chained bear who raises himself to his full height and greets Mrs Chase with a friendly paw swipe that properly aimed would have eradicated an entire herd of Holsteins. Mrs. Chase- having seen much in her years with her husband turned calmly to Mr. Chase smiles and says: "We'll let your Mother take care of this one."

Aside from a an incredibly extensive collection of stuffed wildlife like Goliath the zoo features ..."bobcats, tigers and lions, buffalo, hyena, wild ponies, timber wolves, various types of foxes, bears and deer, leopards, monkeys, jaguars, coyotes, llamas, yaks, snakes, and hundreds more. This private collection of North American wildlife is the largest in the world". Sorry I missed the yaks- the hairstyle always reminds me of my Uncle Milton's comb-over. The zoo does boast the record for the longest survival rate in captivity for grizzlies, bobcats, pumas and jaguars. My guess is they got a look at the fellas inside and figured better outside and caged than inside with a pair of glass eyes and a view of the concession stand for eternity.






The rest of Space Farms was a riot of wicker baby buggies, civil war surgical kits- endless indian arrowheads, hatchets and pestles and guns, LOTS of guns. They hung from the rafters like some odd malevolent species of bat. Cuckoo clocks and Indian tapestries shared space on the knotty pine walls and the entire effect was 50's rec room meets the Field Museum. There was also an explanation for all the...stuff. It seems during the Depression folks who might not have been able to pay for the things they needed to buy from the store would barter with their belongings which would be hung on the walls until the time when the family could pay the bill and reclaim them. I think it was Mrs. Space who might have coined the now oft mis-quoted phrase "Don't take any wooden Indians" Mr. Chase, who was probably trying to keep Goliath from consuming his mother at the time and might've missed that request- he took more than one... of everything. The Space Farms' collection now occupies ELEVEN buildings on over 4 acres. I wanted to mention this roadside attraction to my friend Miriam whose husband is an avid collector and kitsch fan, but I think she'd be afraid he'd get too fired up and start acquiring local lands to expand his own archive of.."collectibles".


After the whirlwind tour of Space Farms- we actually never left the concessions area-I looked out the door and saw a perfectly lovely bear pacing out in the grass behind a ten foot chain link fence- I just got too sad. I have a problem seeing animals caged- but I loved watching all the families with their little kids oohing and ahhing and pointing. Walking around there felt very much like another era- when families went out together and spent the day in each other's company. Bears in captivity aside- I liked the way that felt.

But wait there's more. Remember I thought there wasn't another place like Space Farms- I was wrong...

We headed to Mount Arlington to a restaurant called Pub 199. As we drove in I read the billboard sign advertising 2 dozen steamed clams for $8. As it was nearing 6, I was really hungry, breakfast being a mere dim memory (still good, but dim). I was ready to eat anything. Two dozen clams sounded like a good start. The moment I walked in the door I realized that this place had been owned and decorated by Marlin Perkin's twisted twin brother.



Welcome Hunters indeed. This place was COVERED in taxidermed animals of every shape and size. And not just your local lynx and pheasant- a giraffe gazed directly over our table from the wall above, in the corner a mother bobcat appeared to attack her young and far back near the 2 story fireplace hung a doleful rhinoceros head. Quails and pheasant dotted the rafters. Not to say the place was completely without a sense of humor- there was an authentic jackelope head (with certificate) hanging next to the list of daily specials. Fortunately for me they were not offering jackelope on the menu that night.

In the interest of continuing to have no agenda I let Michael order- We split some clams and Michael ordered.. a lobster.

When it arrived people at other tables moved back to make room. This crustacean was big enough to warrant its own zip code. I named her Nelly (as in whoa) One of only two lobsters in the 7-9 pound category at the restaurant that night Nelly was the talk of the entire Pub, people came from other rooms to admire her gleaming red carapace and 14" antennae. I was more than a little intimidated- I'd never tried to eat anything that, had it been alive, would have stood a fighting chance at eating me- or at least giving me a heck of a pinch. In truth, ultimately with a little butter and hot sauce- Nelly was mighty tasty.



After dinner (I will spare you the details of the carnage- I only agreed to eat the lobster if Michael dismembered it while I peeked through my fingers)We headed back to Jersey City and I watched cars go by, realizing that despite the evening chill as the sun set I was my own heat source. My arms and nose were INCREDIBLY sunburned. Suddenly Michael pointed at something on the left. At 77 mph on a 4-lane highway there's a great deal going by, really really fast, I squinted and then I saw him...



After everything I'd seen that day, all the caged, stuffed and boiled animals; the Neopolitan mastiff's big jowly drooling face was incredibly beautiful to me. I watched him hanging out the tailgate enjoying the breeze. I decided he knew best how to have a Sunday and followed his example and just enjoyed the breeze. I think I only drooled a little.

:) X

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.