Tickle Me Emo...Walking in the East Village

Ephemera sometimes drifts into a slightly dusky spaces. I have been wandering these streets ever since I could squeeze out of my basement bedroom window after my mom was asleep. Running to listen to bands now long gone in clubs that are now no more than the subject of ironic hipster t-shirts. Gentrification has firmly settled into the area yet somehow the grittiness and the darkness prevails over oil based coats of graffiti-proof paint. The light of a patchouli scented candle has been replaced by the glow of an Apple laptop. Emo supplants punk as the outcry of smooth pink flesh in the dispair of questing for a firm place to stand and something to believe in- or be disappointed with. I can still hear Debbie Harry singing as I walk along the streets...


Ooh baby, I hear how you spend night-time:
Wrapped like candy in a pure blue neon glow.
Fade away and radiate.
Fade away and radiate.

Ooh baby, watchful lines vibrate
soft in brainwave time.
Silver pictures move so slow.
Golden tubes faintly glow.

Electric faces seem to merge.
Hidden voices mock your words.
Fade away and radiate.
Fade away and radiate.









Beams become my dream.
My dream is on the screen.
The beams become my dream.
My dream is on the screen.

:) X

The End of a Paper Trail....

This is my 100th blogpost. (No applause please and for God's sake quit throwing paperclips!) I thought to myself, "Self...should be big, should be interesting... and maybe have a dog in it.." I couldn't find a dog. But this may be of interest-
I am leaving the big fantastic paper store after ten years.

For me this is huge. Aside from my relationship with my step mother, and my ex-husband, oh and my therapist (sorry Marc) I haven't had too many relationships (Syd, Mirm, Gab and Julie- you guys too) that lasted this long. Life in the big city can be, transient. It moves fast and change becomes a part of - well, waking up in the morning- as in am I a cowboy? a prepster? Emily the Strange? This makes for big piles of clothing in the middle of the floor and begs the question each evening "Who DID this??" And then the startling realization "Oh wait, I live alone." all the while checking to see if the cat grew thumbs (nope).

A wide range of things brought on the change- small company- big dreams. Large money hopes- small budget. And the nagging feeling that in this particular wading pool, I'd pretty much outlived most of the other fish. And without stretching for another aquatic metaphor- I'd done all the stuff I set out to do- and the wows were coming less and less.

So I sent out a resume and .. got a terrific new job on the very first interview. I know, I know- I maybe shoulda waited, maybe shoulda looked some more, but trust me- this one was a keeper and aside from an office space which makes every small room joke seem like an understatement (hunchbacked mice- key in lock breaks window- take your pick) it's pretty much tailor made for me. Like the suits I had to have altered because the stores don't think any woman is under 5'9"- if anyone has ANY suggestions for how to use 4 sets of 5" pant cuffs let me know- I saved them. And the new job is with ... well I'll save it a bit but I did have to look up what Horology meant- now you will too.

It's hard- really hard leaving the world of paper. A friend said I got real comfortable here and I did- it's nice to know whether it was NASA or the Princess of Thailand asking- as long as it was paper related- I had an answer. Nice to feel safe that way. And the challenges- when I came here I could not talk in front of groups of people- AT ALL. I had to hold a chair back when I spoke before the staff I was hired to supervise- so they wouldn't see me trembling head to foot- though I guess they heard it in my voice but- they were strangers then and perhaps thought I was channelling Kate Hepburn. Over the years here I had surgery to correct an eyelid droop that kept me from looking directly at people and I started to really connect, I was good at what I was doing and that gave me confidence. I loved what I was doing and what I was doing it with- the paper- the stationery- all the beautiful things that enriched MY life- like letter writing, crafting, gift wrapping or sending cards- I could help other people do that- and that was great. Then they set me loose in the world of marketing and pr for the company- I knew NOTHING about marketing- I was an ART major for Pete's sake- do I need to draw you a picture (I can you know..)? Take a crack at it they said- they'd fired my predecessor for wearing her pj's to work- how much worse could I do? I might mention that at this point in my career I was determined to dress to excess and wore a series of terribly short skirts to work- much to the chagrin of one of the older women on staff- a woman who I might mention had suffered from chronic depression brought on when they dropped a house on her sister. I once wandered into one of the fabulous paper store's retail locations on my day off in a particularly miniature kilt and tights and the aforementioned Witch of the Upper East Side spied me- she walked up to me and sneered "You have a hole in your tights, Miss" I said "I know". "Would you like me to tell you where..?" she asked evilly. I turned to her and said, smiling- "Listen, what I do with MY hole on MY day off is MY business." (unsaid ending- "so go kiss a flying monkey, sista.") She turned on one pointed black shoe and left in a huff of brimstone and liniment. Well- after being caught by last minute film crews once or thrice in less than... shall we say, TRADITIONAL business attire- I learned to keep a black turtleneck and slacks, if not ON, then at least handy.

And go on camera I did. MSNBC, CNN, Martha Stewart radio- talking to groups of 80, 100 people.. somewhere along the way I sort of GOT that this was just me talking to one person- all in a big bunch. And it became fun. I once bet a friend that I could get the press to say that the new colors for Christmas that year were Kiwi and Magenta (that's what we were showing- go figure). I did (I think it was "People Style Watch"...) And lo and behold it actually was (more avocado than kiwi but-it was a hoot nonetheless) I was listed as an style expert along with one of the fellows from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy- boy, was I proud. And it was all fun. And somewhere along the way, with all the people who actually listened to me- took me seriously- I grew up. And I believed it- just a little- not that I was any real expert or artiste-but that here in my tiny niche- I'd carved out a little space that was uniquely mine-and when Diane Sawyer needed an origami bunny- I hooked her up. And it never stopped being fun, until I realized it was too easy. Short of hemline was ok- but short of challenges... not so much fun.

So I looked outside- and there was a whole world of new things I could get to be good at- and learn- and achieve. And the ephemera gods handed me a doozy. And though I will miss EVERYONE at the fantastic paper store, I won't forget what I learned- or any of them. I couldn't have done it without all of you to practice on.

So the new gig starts in September.

My new boss e-mailed to let me know my business cards are ready, as well as e-mail, Treo, Laptop, and phone extension- which he says puts me two weeks ahead of the usual new hire. He ain't seen nothin yet...

:) X

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