Elevator confessions
As I've mentioned, I live in an old building. Outside of bringing the wiring up to code when the place went condo, and the new appliances some of the owners have put in, there hasn't been a lot of modernizing since, well, 1940.
That includes the elevator. It's the same one that was installed when the building was originally built, and it's a real throwback. You press the button to call it, and when it comes and the inside sliding door rolls back, you pull the doorknob on the outer door to get in. It's only big enough to hold two people comfortably, and if you're going to two separate floors, the second person has to wait to press the button for their floor after the other person gets to theirs. The elevator is purely mechanical -- no computer to remember floors or anything else.
I came home the other day to find the building manager walking down the driveway with tools in hand. He explained that the lights had gone out in the elevator car, and he couldn't figure out why. Unfortunately it was Friday afternoon, so a repair person wouldn't be able to come by until Monday. In the meantime, the manager said, he'd put a flashlight into the car so it wouldn't be completely dark. I went in and checked it out -- yeah, it was dark, but the flashlight made it a little less spooky.
On Saturday, I went out for groceries, and being that I'm on the third floor, my usual practice is to bring the bags in through the back entrance and take the lift. When it came down to the basement, I opened the door to find two of those electric candle thingies in the back corners of the cab. They gave off a soft, flickering glow. In fact, at first I was confused into thinking they were actually lit wax candles.
So here I was, in a small box - a booth, almost -- with candles burning and a tiny window to see out. Hmm...
"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."
"How long has it been since your last confession?"
"Uh, let's see... I had to take the trash out Wednesday night. Maybe it was then ... do you remember seeing me carrying a sack of used cat litter?"
The Catholic church should check out the concept. Imagine if every elevator doubled as a confessional. The impact in office buildings alone would be tremendous, as people would be less inclined to make snide comments when other people leave the elevator. And I'd bet that the number of afternoon rendevous at upscale Manhattan hotels would plummet.
Then again, it probably wouldn't work. Nobody talks in elevators in normal circumstances. It's even more awkward when you're trapped in one alone with someone who insists on having an inane conversation with you. Imagine being stuck in there with a priest who's assigning penance. How many floors, how many Hail Marys?
It might be safer just to take the stairs.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Asbury Park progress... maybe they are doing what they said they would...
Went back down to Asbury Park; was wondering how the renovation of the Casino was going.
I found a good deal of activity going on. The old Howard Johnson's restaurant, with its space-age architecture, had been cleaned out, its former tenant replaced by a trendy casual restaurant. The goombahs who had sat outside keeping watch on the boardwalk were replaced by upper-middle class folks who would have shunned the old HoJos in disgust. A glass-blowing workshop and an art gallery were mixed in with the usual hot dog and pizza stands -- Asbury Park has to have the only boardwalk in the world that's home to resident artists who don't do caricatures. All of the businesses seemed to be getting good foot traffic, and people were dining at tables laid out cafe-style on the boardwalk.
I half expected to find the entire Casino site reduced to rubble, but there it was: the walkway and the carousel portion of the building, still standing.
The plywood construction walls were gone, exposing the ornate, century-old plaster walls, complete with framed windows. The back side of drywall, held up by new metal studs, blocked off
the entryways leading to the arcade that no longer stands. And I looked up to see what has to be a new corrugated metal roof, held up by the old metal rafters. I wonder if they'll put up new plaster to replace what had been there (and falling down).
As I walked through, I noticed that a door in the construction barrier on the western side of the building was open and exposed the carousel room. I'd never seen the inside of that, except in pictures of the old merry-go-
round that had long ago been sold off to some amusement park in the Midwest ("ride on an authentic Jersey Shore carousel!"). Work was being done there, and I was happy to see that the metalwork faces in the arched windows have been preserved.
Outside, workers were busily tearing the shingles from the peaked circular roof above. Already, the room between the main walkway and the carousel had been replaced by a shiny new metal roof awaiting a final topcoat. Hopefully they won't find any rot beneath, and they'll be able to save at least part of what was originally laid there.
So who knows where they'll be in the process the next time I'm down there. They're certainly making progress. Maybe (hope springs eternal) by this time this year, we'll be enjoying the new building.
I just wonder if it will still give me the willies.
Went back down to Asbury Park; was wondering how the renovation of the Casino was going.
I found a good deal of activity going on. The old Howard Johnson's restaurant, with its space-age architecture, had been cleaned out, its former tenant replaced by a trendy casual restaurant. The goombahs who had sat outside keeping watch on the boardwalk were replaced by upper-middle class folks who would have shunned the old HoJos in disgust. A glass-blowing workshop and an art gallery were mixed in with the usual hot dog and pizza stands -- Asbury Park has to have the only boardwalk in the world that's home to resident artists who don't do caricatures. All of the businesses seemed to be getting good foot traffic, and people were dining at tables laid out cafe-style on the boardwalk.
I half expected to find the entire Casino site reduced to rubble, but there it was: the walkway and the carousel portion of the building, still standing.
In a way, I'm relieved that the scariest part of has been torn down - that the ghosts of the wilderness that grew inside the ruins of the part over the beach are now gone. But it looks totally weird that there is nothing there ... and that a temporary wall has been built there, kind of like those metal sheets magicians use when they divide the woman in the box.
The walkway was open to foot traffic as it was last summer, and a few people were walking through. I still got the willies from it, but I decided to check it out.The plywood construction walls were gone, exposing the ornate, century-old plaster walls, complete with framed windows. The back side of drywall, held up by new metal studs, blocked off
the entryways leading to the arcade that no longer stands. And I looked up to see what has to be a new corrugated metal roof, held up by the old metal rafters. I wonder if they'll put up new plaster to replace what had been there (and falling down).As I walked through, I noticed that a door in the construction barrier on the western side of the building was open and exposed the carousel room. I'd never seen the inside of that, except in pictures of the old merry-go-
round that had long ago been sold off to some amusement park in the Midwest ("ride on an authentic Jersey Shore carousel!"). Work was being done there, and I was happy to see that the metalwork faces in the arched windows have been preserved.Outside, workers were busily tearing the shingles from the peaked circular roof above. Already, the room between the main walkway and the carousel had been replaced by a shiny new metal roof awaiting a final topcoat. Hopefully they won't find any rot beneath, and they'll be able to save at least part of what was originally laid there.
So who knows where they'll be in the process the next time I'm down there. They're certainly making progress. Maybe (hope springs eternal) by this time this year, we'll be enjoying the new building.I just wonder if it will still give me the willies.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Gotta love technology...
One of the alternately fun and frustrating parts of my job is the necessity of using technology, namely "social media." That's the fancy term for computer-based stuff that gives people the ability to communicate back and forth with others without having to go through a gatekeeper (editor, censor, etc.). You just publish what you want, let it fly and wait for others to comment using the same technology.
Blogging, of course, is one avenue to take. Another is podcasting, which I always find kind of fascinating. The idea that people are downloading boring business presentations to their iPods always seemed kind of ridiculous to me, but I guess there are some subjects that folks would download.
One of my work friends and I are both single, and we've had many a conversation about the vagaries of ending relationships. I've always said it's best to be open and honest and tell the guy you'd rather stop seeing him. Now, I say that's best, but it takes a lot of courage I only recently have been able to muster. My work friend, on the other hand, is a big fan of the remote -- or even silent -- breakup. You know: just stop calling, be unavailable, etc. If she's feeling particularly brave, she sends the guy an e-mail. Of course, you can take the happy medium and call him. You don't have to face him, you become the breaker rather than the breakee, and you can write up speaking points for the conversation.
That led us to the new media alternative: the breakup podcast. All you need is a computer, a microphone and a belly full of disgust or sheer contempt. (Let's face it -- you need to have enough energy to take the trouble.) And you can script yourself! If you make the podcast generic enough, you can recycle it. That's particularly useful for those of us who make the same mistake and date the same kind of guy over and over.
There's probably a very profitable business in there somewhere, too. In the past, folks have made good money writing "Dear John" letters. How about the "Dear John" podcast? It's both effective and memorable! And think - at some point there will be some guy out there collecting the "best of" breakup-casts. I'll bet they start a special section on iTunes for free downloads.
Okay, so maybe it's not the best thing in the world, but it beats IM'ing the guy to tell him you think it's not working. And yes, this was once suggested to me when I said we needed to have "the talk." Ironically, one of my issues with the relationship was that he was over-dependent on texting.
One of the alternately fun and frustrating parts of my job is the necessity of using technology, namely "social media." That's the fancy term for computer-based stuff that gives people the ability to communicate back and forth with others without having to go through a gatekeeper (editor, censor, etc.). You just publish what you want, let it fly and wait for others to comment using the same technology.
Blogging, of course, is one avenue to take. Another is podcasting, which I always find kind of fascinating. The idea that people are downloading boring business presentations to their iPods always seemed kind of ridiculous to me, but I guess there are some subjects that folks would download.
One of my work friends and I are both single, and we've had many a conversation about the vagaries of ending relationships. I've always said it's best to be open and honest and tell the guy you'd rather stop seeing him. Now, I say that's best, but it takes a lot of courage I only recently have been able to muster. My work friend, on the other hand, is a big fan of the remote -- or even silent -- breakup. You know: just stop calling, be unavailable, etc. If she's feeling particularly brave, she sends the guy an e-mail. Of course, you can take the happy medium and call him. You don't have to face him, you become the breaker rather than the breakee, and you can write up speaking points for the conversation.
That led us to the new media alternative: the breakup podcast. All you need is a computer, a microphone and a belly full of disgust or sheer contempt. (Let's face it -- you need to have enough energy to take the trouble.) And you can script yourself! If you make the podcast generic enough, you can recycle it. That's particularly useful for those of us who make the same mistake and date the same kind of guy over and over.
There's probably a very profitable business in there somewhere, too. In the past, folks have made good money writing "Dear John" letters. How about the "Dear John" podcast? It's both effective and memorable! And think - at some point there will be some guy out there collecting the "best of" breakup-casts. I'll bet they start a special section on iTunes for free downloads.
Okay, so maybe it's not the best thing in the world, but it beats IM'ing the guy to tell him you think it's not working. And yes, this was once suggested to me when I said we needed to have "the talk." Ironically, one of my issues with the relationship was that he was over-dependent on texting.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Collecting up flies?
With the magical timing only the White House seems to be able to conjure regularly, a report on al Qaeda's growing strength to attack in the US just happened to come out at the same time as Congressional Republicans are trying to force Bush to change direction in Iraq. In the words of today's New York Times editorial, "the message, as always: Be very afraid. And don’t question the president."
Now, most people with an ounce of common sense in their brain pan understand that the war in Iraq has united -- not weakened -- the terrorist threat. Nothing like giving those who hate you even more reason to hate you, right? Makes America look like one of those abusive parents who shouts at a sobbing child, "You wanna cry? I'll give you something to cry about!" And I won't even get into the debate over whether there was any connection between Saddam and the 9/11 hijackers.
Sure, Bush and his cronies are using every last pathetic angle to build fear among the populace. You know -- fight 'em there so they can't get here. It's an interesting approach, actually. You create an irresistable annoyance in one place (Iraq), figuring that it will distract the bad guys away from another place (mom, apple pie and baseball).
Reminds me of a story told by the late, great Spalding Gray. In one of his monologues, he related his experience in crashing for a night in the hovel of a grimy old hippie. All night, Spalding was pestered by flies. Couldn't catch a wink of sleep. The next morning, he asked his host whether he, too, had a lot of flies in his room, and whether they kept him up.
The hippie admitted he had flies, too, but he had a secret that kept them away from his bed. "I collect them up."
Collect them up?
"Yeah -- I just shit in the corner before I go to bed, and the flies crawl all over it all night."
I guess that's like "fight 'em there so we don't have to fight them here," but the only ones who get fooled are the flies. In any case, Bush has certainly dumped a lot of shit in the corner -- and it certainly stinks up the joint.
With the magical timing only the White House seems to be able to conjure regularly, a report on al Qaeda's growing strength to attack in the US just happened to come out at the same time as Congressional Republicans are trying to force Bush to change direction in Iraq. In the words of today's New York Times editorial, "the message, as always: Be very afraid. And don’t question the president."
Now, most people with an ounce of common sense in their brain pan understand that the war in Iraq has united -- not weakened -- the terrorist threat. Nothing like giving those who hate you even more reason to hate you, right? Makes America look like one of those abusive parents who shouts at a sobbing child, "You wanna cry? I'll give you something to cry about!" And I won't even get into the debate over whether there was any connection between Saddam and the 9/11 hijackers.
Sure, Bush and his cronies are using every last pathetic angle to build fear among the populace. You know -- fight 'em there so they can't get here. It's an interesting approach, actually. You create an irresistable annoyance in one place (Iraq), figuring that it will distract the bad guys away from another place (mom, apple pie and baseball).
Reminds me of a story told by the late, great Spalding Gray. In one of his monologues, he related his experience in crashing for a night in the hovel of a grimy old hippie. All night, Spalding was pestered by flies. Couldn't catch a wink of sleep. The next morning, he asked his host whether he, too, had a lot of flies in his room, and whether they kept him up.
The hippie admitted he had flies, too, but he had a secret that kept them away from his bed. "I collect them up."
Collect them up?
"Yeah -- I just shit in the corner before I go to bed, and the flies crawl all over it all night."
I guess that's like "fight 'em there so we don't have to fight them here," but the only ones who get fooled are the flies. In any case, Bush has certainly dumped a lot of shit in the corner -- and it certainly stinks up the joint.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Random musings on exploration
This is a small segment of the Paulinskill Viaduct, a massive, 100-year old train trestle in the middle of nowhere in Warren County, New Jersey. Towering more than 10 stories, it stretches 1100 feet across the Paulins Kill (Kill being a Dutch word for a type of river or stream) and the surrounding countryside. In other words, it's big. It's really big. These photos don't do it justice, and my exploring companion and I may go back after the leaves have fallen.
The first inclination is to wonder why the Delaware Lackawanna and Western would spend a ton of money to build this huge structure in the middle of nowhere, until you found out that it was part of a deactivated rail line between New York and Scranton. I guess the volume of coal coming from that part of Pennsylvania made it a viable route. (The viable viaduct -- hmm) See a 1950s era passenger timetable for a list of stops on the route.
There's also the usual apocrypha about a worker being buried in the concrete during construction and so forth. I always wonder about stories like that, which seem to haunt every bridge structure built in America. I guess the smart guys waited to apply for jobs working on them until the requisite one laborer died there. (And no Jimmy Hoffa jokes, please.)
The viaduct gets plenty of coverage, so to speak: Weird NJ and a host of websites dedicated to the exploration of abandoned structures. It's really enticing in a spooky way. Those arches beneath the track bed are hollow and conducive for crawling through. The scenery and the graffiti are said to be incredible.
I've seen photos, but no way was I going to go up there. At least not on this trip. While I don't have a fear of heights, I have trepidation of heights when there's no railing to protect me. And while I may possess the dexterity and energy to make the climb up the steep hill to the most accessible base, there's the whole matter of getting DOWN.
It does, however, bring me back to some of my travels in Europe. Like anyplace else, getting to some of the more attractive destinations takes a bit of skill and courage. Most recently, I experienced this at the Skellig Islands off the coast of southwestern Ireland, where you have to climb six hundred slate steps to get to the real attraction: the sixth century monastery up top. Man, those monks really got away from it all, didn't they?
The view is incredible but the steps are scary! And the trip to the island is made in a small boat. Across choppy waters. It wouldn't be so bad if you could just keep your eye on the horizon, but with waves sometimes bigger than the boat, it's not always possible. Needless to say, if you get there without losing your cookies, you may or may not feel well enough to climb
to the top.
Anyway, back to the point - nowhere on Skellig is there a railing, except for the rope you can cling to as you climb the sturdy concrete steps up the dock. There are no signs warning you that the slate stairs are often loose. Or that they're barely wide enough to plant two feet on. No disclaimers, no releases to sign. You just go and hope for the best.
That's the difference between Europe and the overly litigious United States. Reminds me of a story I heard about two Frenchmen who visited Yellowstone park and came upon some bears. As one walked closer to the huge animal, the other warned him not to. The more adventurous (stupid?) one said that it was okay, the Americans wouldn't have bears in the parks if they were actually dangerous. What happened next? Let's just say that the safer Frenchman went home alone.
This is a small segment of the Paulinskill Viaduct, a massive, 100-year old train trestle in the middle of nowhere in Warren County, New Jersey. Towering more than 10 stories, it stretches 1100 feet across the Paulins Kill (Kill being a Dutch word for a type of river or stream) and the surrounding countryside. In other words, it's big. It's really big. These photos don't do it justice, and my exploring companion and I may go back after the leaves have fallen.The first inclination is to wonder why the Delaware Lackawanna and Western would spend a ton of money to build this huge structure in the middle of nowhere, until you found out that it was part of a deactivated rail line between New York and Scranton. I guess the volume of coal coming from that part of Pennsylvania made it a viable route. (The viable viaduct -- hmm) See a 1950s era passenger timetable for a list of stops on the route.
There's also the usual apocrypha about a worker being buried in the concrete during construction and so forth. I always wonder about stories like that, which seem to haunt every bridge structure built in America. I guess the smart guys waited to apply for jobs working on them until the requisite one laborer died there. (And no Jimmy Hoffa jokes, please.)
The viaduct gets plenty of coverage, so to speak: Weird NJ and a host of websites dedicated to the exploration of abandoned structures. It's really enticing in a spooky way. Those arches beneath the track bed are hollow and conducive for crawling through. The scenery and the graffiti are said to be incredible.I've seen photos, but no way was I going to go up there. At least not on this trip. While I don't have a fear of heights, I have trepidation of heights when there's no railing to protect me. And while I may possess the dexterity and energy to make the climb up the steep hill to the most accessible base, there's the whole matter of getting DOWN.
It does, however, bring me back to some of my travels in Europe. Like anyplace else, getting to some of the more attractive destinations takes a bit of skill and courage. Most recently, I experienced this at the Skellig Islands off the coast of southwestern Ireland, where you have to climb six hundred slate steps to get to the real attraction: the sixth century monastery up top. Man, those monks really got away from it all, didn't they?
The view is incredible but the steps are scary! And the trip to the island is made in a small boat. Across choppy waters. It wouldn't be so bad if you could just keep your eye on the horizon, but with waves sometimes bigger than the boat, it's not always possible. Needless to say, if you get there without losing your cookies, you may or may not feel well enough to climb
to the top.Anyway, back to the point - nowhere on Skellig is there a railing, except for the rope you can cling to as you climb the sturdy concrete steps up the dock. There are no signs warning you that the slate stairs are often loose. Or that they're barely wide enough to plant two feet on. No disclaimers, no releases to sign. You just go and hope for the best.
That's the difference between Europe and the overly litigious United States. Reminds me of a story I heard about two Frenchmen who visited Yellowstone park and came upon some bears. As one walked closer to the huge animal, the other warned him not to. The more adventurous (stupid?) one said that it was okay, the Americans wouldn't have bears in the parks if they were actually dangerous. What happened next? Let's just say that the safer Frenchman went home alone.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Friends...
Today marks four years since my cat, Hattie, came home to live with me.
It still kind of amazes me that she's been with me so long. Sometimes it amazes me that she's with me at all. I'd wanted a cat on and off for many
years -- since childhood, actually -- but I had myself convinced that I wouldn't be a proper caretaker for another living being who depended on me for sustenance. But I'd been volunteering at a shelter with a man I was dating, and I came to realize that the love I was giving the dogs there might actually mean that I could take care of a little furry creature at home. A dog clearly wasn't an option, though there was one I would have taken home in a heartbeat. Also, when the boyfriend and I started at the shelter, I made him promise he wouldn't let me bring a new little friend home, and he took that promise seriously.
Eventually, the boyfriend and I broke up, and I found myself spending a lot of time at the shelter, working with the dogs. Maybe it was the need for unconditional love, or maybe it was just a way to keep myself occupied with something productive that made a difference for someone. In any case, I guess it helped me work out my feelings a bit.
It was kitten season, and opportunity kind of hit me in the face. The shelter was looking for foster homes to take in a few at the point when the need was greatest: late spring and early summer. While I knew I couldn't care for a bunch of little guys just a few weeks old, I told myself it would be just as helpful to foster a grown cat. The shelter would have more space, and I would be able to "test drive" being a cat caretaker, so to speak. If things didn't work out, I could bring the feline back without feeling like a complete jerk.
On one of my regular volunteer nights, July 3, I told one of the shelter officers I'd been thinking of fostering, and she was ready to have me take home a cat that minute. I went into the shelter as she told me the names of some of the more sedate cats who wouldn't climb the walls. She was particularly enthusiastic about one who was about as active as a sofa cushion.
I took a look around as cats walked past me, rubbing against my legs. None of them appealed to me. One of the other volunteers told me that I'd just know the right one, and if I didn't feel it that night, it might hit me in a day or two. That made sense.
While all of the crates were open and most cats were taking the chance to stretch their legs, one small gray one sat shyly inside. When I put my hand in to pet her, she started licking it. I'd never been licked by a cat before -- I didn't know they did that.
I went home that night without a cat. The next day was July 4th, and even as I went about celebrating independence, that small gray cat started rubbing against the corners of my mind. By the next morning, I knew I had to go get Hattie.
It was a really hot day, and I remember bringing her home with the AC blasting in my car, telling her we were going to be great friends. She meowed concerns, I sang to her. As soon as we got to my house, I set up the litter box and let her out of the carrier, at which point she promptly holed up in a nook in my bathroom. I knew it was best to let her come out when she was comfortable, but I'd go in from time to time to speak gently to her.
Later that evening, I went into the bathroom to visit her, and she wasn't there. As I returned to the living room, I found her waiting patiently by the sofa. I laid down, and she jumped up onto my chest, did a rhythmic milk tread for a few moments, settled down to nestle against me and began to purr loudly.
Something about the trust of that small gray ball of fur, and the contented purring, and the closeness, brought me to tears. After several weeks of being alone, it was a relief to feel that someone, even a cat, wanted to be close to me. The fact that she'd accepted me so quickly -- the fact she'd chosen me -- felt like such a miracle to me. The whole "foster cat" concept went out the door. She wasn't going anywhere if it wasn't with me.
We've been through a lot, which is a whole other story, and she's even gotten to meet the old boyfriend, now a friend, who's known to her as the person who's the catalyst for her and me even meeting. She's happy to see me in the morning when I wake up and at night when I come home. And she parks herself on my lap, or even my shoulders, whenever I work on this blog. Of all the constants in my life, she's one of the most pleasant, and I'm thankful for that.
So happy Gotcha Day, Hattie. You've taught me a lot, like any good friend does, and you've given me even more love than I've given you. I'm so happy you're with me.
Today marks four years since my cat, Hattie, came home to live with me.
It still kind of amazes me that she's been with me so long. Sometimes it amazes me that she's with me at all. I'd wanted a cat on and off for many
years -- since childhood, actually -- but I had myself convinced that I wouldn't be a proper caretaker for another living being who depended on me for sustenance. But I'd been volunteering at a shelter with a man I was dating, and I came to realize that the love I was giving the dogs there might actually mean that I could take care of a little furry creature at home. A dog clearly wasn't an option, though there was one I would have taken home in a heartbeat. Also, when the boyfriend and I started at the shelter, I made him promise he wouldn't let me bring a new little friend home, and he took that promise seriously.Eventually, the boyfriend and I broke up, and I found myself spending a lot of time at the shelter, working with the dogs. Maybe it was the need for unconditional love, or maybe it was just a way to keep myself occupied with something productive that made a difference for someone. In any case, I guess it helped me work out my feelings a bit.
It was kitten season, and opportunity kind of hit me in the face. The shelter was looking for foster homes to take in a few at the point when the need was greatest: late spring and early summer. While I knew I couldn't care for a bunch of little guys just a few weeks old, I told myself it would be just as helpful to foster a grown cat. The shelter would have more space, and I would be able to "test drive" being a cat caretaker, so to speak. If things didn't work out, I could bring the feline back without feeling like a complete jerk.
On one of my regular volunteer nights, July 3, I told one of the shelter officers I'd been thinking of fostering, and she was ready to have me take home a cat that minute. I went into the shelter as she told me the names of some of the more sedate cats who wouldn't climb the walls. She was particularly enthusiastic about one who was about as active as a sofa cushion.
I took a look around as cats walked past me, rubbing against my legs. None of them appealed to me. One of the other volunteers told me that I'd just know the right one, and if I didn't feel it that night, it might hit me in a day or two. That made sense.
While all of the crates were open and most cats were taking the chance to stretch their legs, one small gray one sat shyly inside. When I put my hand in to pet her, she started licking it. I'd never been licked by a cat before -- I didn't know they did that.
I went home that night without a cat. The next day was July 4th, and even as I went about celebrating independence, that small gray cat started rubbing against the corners of my mind. By the next morning, I knew I had to go get Hattie.
It was a really hot day, and I remember bringing her home with the AC blasting in my car, telling her we were going to be great friends. She meowed concerns, I sang to her. As soon as we got to my house, I set up the litter box and let her out of the carrier, at which point she promptly holed up in a nook in my bathroom. I knew it was best to let her come out when she was comfortable, but I'd go in from time to time to speak gently to her.
Later that evening, I went into the bathroom to visit her, and she wasn't there. As I returned to the living room, I found her waiting patiently by the sofa. I laid down, and she jumped up onto my chest, did a rhythmic milk tread for a few moments, settled down to nestle against me and began to purr loudly.
Something about the trust of that small gray ball of fur, and the contented purring, and the closeness, brought me to tears. After several weeks of being alone, it was a relief to feel that someone, even a cat, wanted to be close to me. The fact that she'd accepted me so quickly -- the fact she'd chosen me -- felt like such a miracle to me. The whole "foster cat" concept went out the door. She wasn't going anywhere if it wasn't with me.
We've been through a lot, which is a whole other story, and she's even gotten to meet the old boyfriend, now a friend, who's known to her as the person who's the catalyst for her and me even meeting. She's happy to see me in the morning when I wake up and at night when I come home. And she parks herself on my lap, or even my shoulders, whenever I work on this blog. Of all the constants in my life, she's one of the most pleasant, and I'm thankful for that.
So happy Gotcha Day, Hattie. You've taught me a lot, like any good friend does, and you've given me even more love than I've given you. I'm so happy you're with me.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Fiendishly brilliant
Both Bushes -- HW and W -- had truly inspired choices for vice president. Yes, they chose wisely when they selected the men who would be, as they say, a heartbeat away from the presidency.
Back in the early 80's, of course, it was Dan Quayle. Not only was he portrayed as goofier and dumber than any other choice the elder Bush could have made, his wife was truly scary. Yes, scary. On so many levels.
And, of course, the younger Bush selected Dick Cheney, the scariest man on the planet. Even scarier than Marilyn Quayle.
Now, don't both of them seem like the best insurance policies the Bushes could have? Who would take a shot at either the father or the son if the result would be Quayle or Cheney in the White House? And who would move to impeach either Bush if the result would be President Quayle or President Cheney (just the thought gives me shivers).
You have to admit: it's a pretty smart move to make your own replacement option far scarier than you. Gotta give them credit.
Both Bushes -- HW and W -- had truly inspired choices for vice president. Yes, they chose wisely when they selected the men who would be, as they say, a heartbeat away from the presidency.
Back in the early 80's, of course, it was Dan Quayle. Not only was he portrayed as goofier and dumber than any other choice the elder Bush could have made, his wife was truly scary. Yes, scary. On so many levels.
And, of course, the younger Bush selected Dick Cheney, the scariest man on the planet. Even scarier than Marilyn Quayle.
Now, don't both of them seem like the best insurance policies the Bushes could have? Who would take a shot at either the father or the son if the result would be Quayle or Cheney in the White House? And who would move to impeach either Bush if the result would be President Quayle or President Cheney (just the thought gives me shivers).
You have to admit: it's a pretty smart move to make your own replacement option far scarier than you. Gotta give them credit.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Random musings from 'boken
Okay, so I was wrong about Tony. I have to admit that I liked Chase's ending much better. In both cases, let's face it, Tony has to spend the rest of his life with eyes in the back of his head. Not a way to live a life, is it?
"The state crushes the individual."
"What, New Jersey?"
Since the end of the Seinfeld experiment, the Mets have been tanking and the Yanks have been surging. Still and all, I refuse to go back. Hmm. Ironically, that's the opposite of what I would have done in the past. Only one thing to say: "Newman!" Oh, and the Amazins have to take two of three this weekend. Please.
Hoboken, once the land of drunken post-college frat boys, appears to have become an Aprica stroller showroom. From public vomiting and urination in the street, the scene has evolved into dirty diapers and spitting up on a bib. I expect that in another 20 years, those who are soiling the Huggies will be back to barf on the sidewalk after the bars close. The cycle of life, indeed.
Okay, so I was wrong about Tony. I have to admit that I liked Chase's ending much better. In both cases, let's face it, Tony has to spend the rest of his life with eyes in the back of his head. Not a way to live a life, is it?
"The state crushes the individual."
"What, New Jersey?"
Since the end of the Seinfeld experiment, the Mets have been tanking and the Yanks have been surging. Still and all, I refuse to go back. Hmm. Ironically, that's the opposite of what I would have done in the past. Only one thing to say: "Newman!" Oh, and the Amazins have to take two of three this weekend. Please.
Hoboken, once the land of drunken post-college frat boys, appears to have become an Aprica stroller showroom. From public vomiting and urination in the street, the scene has evolved into dirty diapers and spitting up on a bib. I expect that in another 20 years, those who are soiling the Huggies will be back to barf on the sidewalk after the bars close. The cycle of life, indeed.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Tony Soprano gets it in the end
With the last episode of The Sopranos ready to air tomorrow night, many theories on Tony's fate are being floated in the media and at office water coolers.
Last week's episode ended with an ominous scene: Tony laying down on a bare mattress in a safe house, bringing to bed a shotgun whose business end he positioned -- just for a moment -- eerily close to his mouth. One had to wonder - if his intent was self-protection, why wasn't the gun pointed at the door? Did he intend to protect himself by shooting murderers bursting through the door, or was he ready to beat them to the punch by offing himself?
With the last episode of The Sopranos ready to air tomorrow night, many theories on Tony's fate are being floated in the media and at office water coolers.
Last week's episode ended with an ominous scene: Tony laying down on a bare mattress in a safe house, bringing to bed a shotgun whose business end he positioned -- just for a moment -- eerily close to his mouth. One had to wonder - if his intent was self-protection, why wasn't the gun pointed at the door? Did he intend to protect himself by shooting murderers bursting through the door, or was he ready to beat them to the punch by offing himself?A lot of people think he'll get whacked by the rival New York family, with Paulie ending up as boss of a much weaker Jersey crew, which would be a lame finish to what's been a groundbreaking and widely analyzed drama.
I don't think Tony comes to a fatal end -- at least not from the corporeal sense. What, for him, would be a fate worse than death? Here's my thought on the closing scene of the final episode:
Reprising an oft-used scene, we see Tony's slippered feet once again walking down a macadam driveway, stopping to pick up a newspaper at his feet. This time, however, it isn't the Newark Star-Ledger (the Newspaper for New Jersey), but The Journal-Star, (Lincoln, Nebraska's News and Information Source). The same dingy white bathrobe loosely opened to reveal his boxer shorts and guinea tee, he opens the paper to read the headline: "Nebraskan Anderson Soars in Space Shuttle." A resigned look on his face, he turns to walk back to the house, a suburban split level ranch house.
Tony Soprano is dead, replaced by Kevin Finnerty. No good capicola (gabbagool), no bracciole, no strip clubs, nobody to drive him around, and no wife wearing expensive clothes and an array of guilt-induced gift jewelry.
The question David Chase leaves us with is: What would be worse -- getting whacked by the New York crew, or a life without the spoils of a life of intimidation and brute force? Is Agent Harris' solution any better for Tony than Phil Leotardo's?
Then again, it wouldn't be half bad if Tony were to get a job at an animal shelter. Maybe getting some unconditional love would do him some good. That is, if he didn't go after the people who abused or neglected the shelter animals in the first place. We all remember what happened to Ralphie Cifaretto when he had Pie-O-My's stable torched.
(And gee, I just realized this makes two consecutive posts featuring TV characters played by balding, middle-aged guys from Jersey. Actually, three, if you count Joe Pantoliano. I promise I'll stop.)
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
Photos
I often travel on my own, which sometimes opens up opportunities to chat with people or have experiences I probably wouldn't have if I were with someone else. You know the way it is: a lot of the time, it's far easier to approach one person than it is to go up to a pair or a trio or more.
One thing I notice -- and this started when I worked near Rockefeller Center in New York -- is that people find it easier to ask you to take a picture of them and their friends in front of some famous site or other. I don't mind doing it. In fact, I often volunteer my services as a photographer to groups of people so everyone can be in a photo together. I've gotten more confident about it with the advent of digital photography. Now I can look at the photo and know with certainty that they won't go back to Sweden or whereever and curse the American who cut off Uncle Bjorn's head in the picture at the Statue of Liberty.
Anyway, I thought this same thing was happening during my last sightseeing visit to San Francisco. I'd hiked my way across the Golden Gate Bridge and back, ending up at the scenic overlook where they'd thoughtfully put a parking lot and a souvenir stand. (They knew what they were doing when they built that bridge.) It was the last thing on my list of to dos in the city, and it was my last day on vacation, so I was feeling good, and accustomed to being asked to take photos for people.
So... I wasn't all that surprised when a pair of young Japanese men (boys, really) came up to me with a disposable camera and motioned to me that they wanted a picture. They pointed to each other and then to me.
Okay, no problem. I nodded and reached for the camera, and the one holding it shook his head no as the other put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward him. Oh boy. Before I knew it, my new friend was holding his other arm out triumphantly, giving a big thumbs up for the camera. The picture taken, they both smiled broadly and nodded their thanks. Then they walked away.
It all happened so quickly I didn't realize until later that at least one of them wanted to look as if he was, uh, successful on his trip to the States. Probably now half of Nagoya thinks he got lucky with this red-haired American woman. Unless, of course, his friend gave me the same photo-blunder fate as I once feared would befall Uncle Bjorn at my hands.
One can hope.
I often travel on my own, which sometimes opens up opportunities to chat with people or have experiences I probably wouldn't have if I were with someone else. You know the way it is: a lot of the time, it's far easier to approach one person than it is to go up to a pair or a trio or more.
One thing I notice -- and this started when I worked near Rockefeller Center in New York -- is that people find it easier to ask you to take a picture of them and their friends in front of some famous site or other. I don't mind doing it. In fact, I often volunteer my services as a photographer to groups of people so everyone can be in a photo together. I've gotten more confident about it with the advent of digital photography. Now I can look at the photo and know with certainty that they won't go back to Sweden or whereever and curse the American who cut off Uncle Bjorn's head in the picture at the Statue of Liberty.
Anyway, I thought this same thing was happening during my last sightseeing visit to San Francisco. I'd hiked my way across the Golden Gate Bridge and back, ending up at the scenic overlook where they'd thoughtfully put a parking lot and a souvenir stand. (They knew what they were doing when they built that bridge.) It was the last thing on my list of to dos in the city, and it was my last day on vacation, so I was feeling good, and accustomed to being asked to take photos for people.
So... I wasn't all that surprised when a pair of young Japanese men (boys, really) came up to me with a disposable camera and motioned to me that they wanted a picture. They pointed to each other and then to me.
Okay, no problem. I nodded and reached for the camera, and the one holding it shook his head no as the other put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward him. Oh boy. Before I knew it, my new friend was holding his other arm out triumphantly, giving a big thumbs up for the camera. The picture taken, they both smiled broadly and nodded their thanks. Then they walked away.
It all happened so quickly I didn't realize until later that at least one of them wanted to look as if he was, uh, successful on his trip to the States. Probably now half of Nagoya thinks he got lucky with this red-haired American woman. Unless, of course, his friend gave me the same photo-blunder fate as I once feared would befall Uncle Bjorn at my hands.
One can hope.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Number one with a bullet!
Happened to mention the words "Shellpile" and "my blog" (independently -- not referring to one as related to the other) to a friend, and he later told me he'd found the blog. Seemed a little scary until I Googled to find... when you type in "Shellpile," the first reference is to... THIS BLOG!
Although, maybe that's just on my computer or something. Check it out, let me know...
Happened to mention the words "Shellpile" and "my blog" (independently -- not referring to one as related to the other) to a friend, and he later told me he'd found the blog. Seemed a little scary until I Googled to find... when you type in "Shellpile," the first reference is to... THIS BLOG!
Although, maybe that's just on my computer or something. Check it out, let me know...
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
The consequences of free speech
There's been a lot of back and forth lately about free speech. What can a radio personality say and get away with? What's defamatory or racist language, and what's a mere expression of thought, either serious or intended as a joke?
As a Rutgers alumna I heard more than my share of the recent tsimmis about Imus and his comments about the RU women's basketball team. What he said was ill advised and stupid, and the team was well within its rights in being upset that they'd be disrespected that way.
I'm not going to get into opinions on whether Imus deserved to lose his job over the comment; plenty's been said on both sides by people more qualified than I. What I'm fascinated by is the free speech argument.
Those who defend Imus say that he has the right to free speech, just like anyone else, and that he shouldn't be fired for exercising that right. I agree with the first point, but I think the second one doesn't account for a certain reality.
There's an old saying about yelling fire in a crowded movie house (or shouting "movie" in a crowded firehouse, but that's another story). You cause a riot, you get arrested. That's the consequence of that free speech. Bottom line, you have the right to say whatever you want, but then you have to accept that there's a cost attached.
There are countless examples of people being fired for making objectionable statements. In fact, broadcasters of some shock jocks budget for the inevitable FCC fines, figuring they're the cost of doing business.
Imus surely was aware of the fines, bad press and firings his compadres have experienced. He had the choice to say what he said, or to hold his tongue or say something tame. By reasonable person standards, it wasn't surprising that he got called on the carpet.
It all comes down to two simple guidelines. If you have no problem with the consequences of your words, speak away. When you're at risk of losing something that matters to you, think about it before you spew.
There's been a lot of back and forth lately about free speech. What can a radio personality say and get away with? What's defamatory or racist language, and what's a mere expression of thought, either serious or intended as a joke?
As a Rutgers alumna I heard more than my share of the recent tsimmis about Imus and his comments about the RU women's basketball team. What he said was ill advised and stupid, and the team was well within its rights in being upset that they'd be disrespected that way.
I'm not going to get into opinions on whether Imus deserved to lose his job over the comment; plenty's been said on both sides by people more qualified than I. What I'm fascinated by is the free speech argument.
Those who defend Imus say that he has the right to free speech, just like anyone else, and that he shouldn't be fired for exercising that right. I agree with the first point, but I think the second one doesn't account for a certain reality.
There's an old saying about yelling fire in a crowded movie house (or shouting "movie" in a crowded firehouse, but that's another story). You cause a riot, you get arrested. That's the consequence of that free speech. Bottom line, you have the right to say whatever you want, but then you have to accept that there's a cost attached.
There are countless examples of people being fired for making objectionable statements. In fact, broadcasters of some shock jocks budget for the inevitable FCC fines, figuring they're the cost of doing business.
Imus surely was aware of the fines, bad press and firings his compadres have experienced. He had the choice to say what he said, or to hold his tongue or say something tame. By reasonable person standards, it wasn't surprising that he got called on the carpet.
It all comes down to two simple guidelines. If you have no problem with the consequences of your words, speak away. When you're at risk of losing something that matters to you, think about it before you spew.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Bandaging the scar
RayPod recently posted about memories that come to mind while walking down the Hudson River walkway in Manhattan.
It led me to think about the World Trade Center site itself, my own feelings about what happened there, and what is happening now. Over the past couple of years, I've found myself drawn to Lower Manhattan ... for the history of New York's earliest years. More often than not, I take the PATH train in from Newark to the WTC site.
The PATH predates the WTC by many years; it was originally the Hudson & Manhattan railroad, leading to Dey Street, and was taken over by the Port Authority in the early 60s. When the world's tallest buildings were erected, the PATH station was included in the plans and ultimately was relocated to the basement mezzanine level. The tracks swept underneath the outer borders of the WTC property, just skirting the streets above.
That station was closed temporarily after the attacks; when it reopened, riders saw an unusual site -- glimmers of outside light poking into the tunnel below the building that was no longer there. Over time, the tunnel itself was taken down, so you could see directly into the pit that used to be the building basement. For the dollar fifty you spent for the train ride, you got a ground floor view of the remnants of tragedy. You could see the metal ties that anchored the building to the concrete foundation and walls; the ground seemed almost totally swept clean of dirt and, sadly, human remains. There were few pieces of construction ... or demolition... equipment for a year or more as officials wrangled over the future of the new "Freedom Tower" to be built there. Like everything else in New York, it couldn't materialize without some controversy to delay the inevitable.
Every time I rode into that station along the perimeter of the pit, I would fall silent in contemplation of that day, what happened there, the ghosts that remain and the fact they'd just been there to work another mundane day at their jobs. Any tourists on the train would murmur remarks to each other, some pulling out cameras to preserve the sight. Though I'd come to take photos of my roamings, I felt that it's inappropriate to treat it like a tourist destination. The only thing I ever photographed was the street-level entrance to the station which, though temporary, is an appropriate sign of rebirth, of life in the face of tragedy.
I don't know if I feel that way about what's going on there now. Now the train ride is more like a tram ride through a Disney exhibit. A few weeks ago I rode into the station and found a true construction site: a beehive of activity, equipment and the germination of a skyscraper. You can't look straight across the pit anymore: your view is now obstructed by beams and rebar and concrete.
I guess it's progress, but I can't help but feel they're desecrating hallowed ground. But, as the hackneyed expression goes, New York's always reinventing itself. It rebuilt itself over the ashes of great fires in the days of the Dutch colony. It's torn down history wantonly and erected skyscrapers in its place. It's evicted working class people and torn their homes down for highways.
But until now it's never made such a grandiose gesture to build over a fresh, deep, aching wound. Maybe it's good - maybe it is the salve to heal an unspeakable tragedy. But I can't help but think that it's way, way too early to move to replace what was there and what was lost.
RayPod recently posted about memories that come to mind while walking down the Hudson River walkway in Manhattan.
It led me to think about the World Trade Center site itself, my own feelings about what happened there, and what is happening now. Over the past couple of years, I've found myself drawn to Lower Manhattan ... for the history of New York's earliest years. More often than not, I take the PATH train in from Newark to the WTC site.
The PATH predates the WTC by many years; it was originally the Hudson & Manhattan railroad, leading to Dey Street, and was taken over by the Port Authority in the early 60s. When the world's tallest buildings were erected, the PATH station was included in the plans and ultimately was relocated to the basement mezzanine level. The tracks swept underneath the outer borders of the WTC property, just skirting the streets above.
That station was closed temporarily after the attacks; when it reopened, riders saw an unusual site -- glimmers of outside light poking into the tunnel below the building that was no longer there. Over time, the tunnel itself was taken down, so you could see directly into the pit that used to be the building basement. For the dollar fifty you spent for the train ride, you got a ground floor view of the remnants of tragedy. You could see the metal ties that anchored the building to the concrete foundation and walls; the ground seemed almost totally swept clean of dirt and, sadly, human remains. There were few pieces of construction ... or demolition... equipment for a year or more as officials wrangled over the future of the new "Freedom Tower" to be built there. Like everything else in New York, it couldn't materialize without some controversy to delay the inevitable.
Every time I rode into that station along the perimeter of the pit, I would fall silent in contemplation of that day, what happened there, the ghosts that remain and the fact they'd just been there to work another mundane day at their jobs. Any tourists on the train would murmur remarks to each other, some pulling out cameras to preserve the sight. Though I'd come to take photos of my roamings, I felt that it's inappropriate to treat it like a tourist destination. The only thing I ever photographed was the street-level entrance to the station which, though temporary, is an appropriate sign of rebirth, of life in the face of tragedy.
I don't know if I feel that way about what's going on there now. Now the train ride is more like a tram ride through a Disney exhibit. A few weeks ago I rode into the station and found a true construction site: a beehive of activity, equipment and the germination of a skyscraper. You can't look straight across the pit anymore: your view is now obstructed by beams and rebar and concrete.
I guess it's progress, but I can't help but feel they're desecrating hallowed ground. But, as the hackneyed expression goes, New York's always reinventing itself. It rebuilt itself over the ashes of great fires in the days of the Dutch colony. It's torn down history wantonly and erected skyscrapers in its place. It's evicted working class people and torn their homes down for highways.
But until now it's never made such a grandiose gesture to build over a fresh, deep, aching wound. Maybe it's good - maybe it is the salve to heal an unspeakable tragedy. But I can't help but think that it's way, way too early to move to replace what was there and what was lost.
Friday, March 30, 2007
What's a quirk, and what's intolerable?
An episode of Seinfeld focused on the totally shallow reasons why some people choose to end relationships. You know, things like "he picks the green marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and leaves the rest," or "she doesn't know the theme song from The Brady Bunch." A story in today's New York Times offered another dimension: being repulsed by the stuff your prospective honey may have in his apartment or home that is slightly scary, like a real stuffed seal or a set of aged and fading cartoon print bedsheets. Someone who's downright attractive on paper suddenly looks like a freak.
I found this article very timely, as I recently started dating someone who warned me, before I went to his home, that his place doesn't reflect "him." He'd moved there really quickly for family reasons and thus didn't want to be judged or assessed by it. Well, the place seemed perfectly reasonable to me, but somehow it seemed to make him feel uncomfortable.
To me, this was ironic. What he didn't realize was that since date one, said date has truly been testing my own shallow criteria. Great guy, but wrong favorite ball team, wrong vehicle, wrong music, wrong pre-sets on the car stereo, you name it. I keep wondering when I'm going to totally lose it and go off on him for all of these things that don't really matter.
I have been trying really hard not to blow off potential relationships due to surface stuff. Maybe I've been much too picky in the past, and focused on my own too-exacting standards, to notice that there are some pretty nice guys hiding behind those one or two minor shallow "flaws" I find so objectionable. I have no illusions that I would be able to wean someone off of an addiction to the early years of Full House, but maybe I could tolerate the obsession. At some point, you need to compromise, but somehow I can't seem to find the golden mean. How much must one person compromise?
In the interest of full disclosure, same date noted that I have three litter boxes in one room, for one cat, about three feet apart. I fully admit that it's quirky, but not any more so than my rubber duckies, is it?
An episode of Seinfeld focused on the totally shallow reasons why some people choose to end relationships. You know, things like "he picks the green marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and leaves the rest," or "she doesn't know the theme song from The Brady Bunch." A story in today's New York Times offered another dimension: being repulsed by the stuff your prospective honey may have in his apartment or home that is slightly scary, like a real stuffed seal or a set of aged and fading cartoon print bedsheets. Someone who's downright attractive on paper suddenly looks like a freak.
I found this article very timely, as I recently started dating someone who warned me, before I went to his home, that his place doesn't reflect "him." He'd moved there really quickly for family reasons and thus didn't want to be judged or assessed by it. Well, the place seemed perfectly reasonable to me, but somehow it seemed to make him feel uncomfortable.
To me, this was ironic. What he didn't realize was that since date one, said date has truly been testing my own shallow criteria. Great guy, but wrong favorite ball team, wrong vehicle, wrong music, wrong pre-sets on the car stereo, you name it. I keep wondering when I'm going to totally lose it and go off on him for all of these things that don't really matter.
I have been trying really hard not to blow off potential relationships due to surface stuff. Maybe I've been much too picky in the past, and focused on my own too-exacting standards, to notice that there are some pretty nice guys hiding behind those one or two minor shallow "flaws" I find so objectionable. I have no illusions that I would be able to wean someone off of an addiction to the early years of Full House, but maybe I could tolerate the obsession. At some point, you need to compromise, but somehow I can't seem to find the golden mean. How much must one person compromise?
In the interest of full disclosure, same date noted that I have three litter boxes in one room, for one cat, about three feet apart. I fully admit that it's quirky, but not any more so than my rubber duckies, is it?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
The deconstruction of Asbury Park
They've started the "renovation" of one of the iconic structures on the Asbury Park boardwalk: the Casino.
Shellpile readers will remember a post last summer where I described my experience walking into the small bit of the Casino which was open to foot traffic. It was a corridor linking the Asbury Park boardwalk to the neighboring town of Ocean Grove, and it offered just an indication of a building that had sat idle for close to 20 years. The portion of the building that stood over the beach was decrepit and inaccessible; trees growing inside the building could be seen through the broken windows and holes in the roof.
Now, that expanse over the beach is no more than a pile of milled rubble. The eeriness of the structure has dissipated in the brisk ocean winds of late winter. And the sound of demolition equipment surrounds the area; it's the most activity that particular bit of beach has seen in quite some time.
They've started the "renovation" of one of the iconic structures on the Asbury Park boardwalk: the Casino.
Shellpile readers will remember a post last summer where I described my experience walking into the small bit of the Casino which was open to foot traffic. It was a corridor linking the Asbury Park boardwalk to the neighboring town of Ocean Grove, and it offered just an indication of a building that had sat idle for close to 20 years. The portion of the building that stood over the beach was decrepit and inaccessible; trees growing inside the building could be seen through the broken windows and holes in the roof.
Now, that expanse over the beach is no more than a pile of milled rubble. The eeriness of the structure has dissipated in the brisk ocean winds of late winter. And the sound of demolition equipment surrounds the area; it's the most activity that particular bit of beach has seen in quite some time.
Though the building is partitioned away by temporary fencing, I could see into the corridor I'd walked through last summer. The sign for the Casino Skating Palace is gone; with any luck it's being preserved along with an old chandelier they found in the building. I wonder where the ghosts have gone -- the screams from the haunted house, the laughter from the roller rink, the clandestine pleading from the Tunnel of Love.
Last I heard, the people who bought the Casino are rebuilding it to look exactly as it looked in its heyday. They'd wanted to preserve the structure but found it was unsound. Allegedly they are working to keep as much standing as possible, but I don't know. Those things tend to stray from plan, especially in New Jersey, where they take every renovation project as an opportunity to tear down what's there and replace it with McMansions. I guess we'll see.
Asbury Park Casino: May 6, 2006
Asbury Park Casino: March 10, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Jehovah's Witnesses Go Postal
These days, it's truly unusual for me to get a handwritten envelope in the mail. None of my friends are Amish, so I tend to get most of my correspondence by electronic means. Even my mom, in her mid 70's, has started sending me birthday cards by e-mail.
Today I was a little more than surprised when I got an envelope in the mail with a cursive script address. At first I thought it was one of those computer-generated mass mailings with the fake handwriting that intends to fool you into thinking someone wrote you a letter, but it was the real McCoy. For a second I thought maybe it was my mom, sending a newspaper clipping about something I last cared about in the ninth grade. Nope, not her handwriting.
These days, you really need to be careful what you open, but I forgot that when I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note, along with a small pamphlet. The note read:
Dear Mr. ________ :
My husband and I live in your area. We do not Know You Personally, but We have some important information to share. A sample is enclosed in a tract.
We have tried in the past to contact you With No Success. We realize most people are Very busy today.
As a Bible Student We are sharing as Volunteers in a Worldwide Work being done in over 234 Lands.
If after reading the enclosed Tract you are interested, contact us at the above address.
Sincerely,
Eleanor Myers
Jehovah's Witness
This led me to wonder: have the Jehovah's Witnesses gotten so lazy that they are resorting to letter writing instead of knocking on doors? Not that I'm complaining -- I really don't want to talk about God with people who won't celebrate their own birthdays -- but come on, put a little effort into it, guys. I didn't realize that if I want to be proselytized, I have to be the one doing most of the work.
Or maybe they've finally gotten the hint? Have they gotten so weary of rejection that they're mailing out letters in the half-hearted hopes that someone will actually take the bait? Maybe it's the redemption lottery: the more letters you send, the more likely that one person will respond.
Come to think of it, there's a big opportunity here that millions of people have probably hoped for yet never had. What would Mrs. Eleanor Myers do if I showed up at her door and wouldn't leave until she accepted SpongeBob Square Pants as her personal savior?
It's tempting, but why take the chance?
These days, it's truly unusual for me to get a handwritten envelope in the mail. None of my friends are Amish, so I tend to get most of my correspondence by electronic means. Even my mom, in her mid 70's, has started sending me birthday cards by e-mail.
Today I was a little more than surprised when I got an envelope in the mail with a cursive script address. At first I thought it was one of those computer-generated mass mailings with the fake handwriting that intends to fool you into thinking someone wrote you a letter, but it was the real McCoy. For a second I thought maybe it was my mom, sending a newspaper clipping about something I last cared about in the ninth grade. Nope, not her handwriting.
These days, you really need to be careful what you open, but I forgot that when I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note, along with a small pamphlet. The note read:
Dear Mr. ________ :
My husband and I live in your area. We do not Know You Personally, but We have some important information to share. A sample is enclosed in a tract.
We have tried in the past to contact you With No Success. We realize most people are Very busy today.
As a Bible Student We are sharing as Volunteers in a Worldwide Work being done in over 234 Lands.
If after reading the enclosed Tract you are interested, contact us at the above address.
Sincerely,
Eleanor Myers
Jehovah's Witness
This led me to wonder: have the Jehovah's Witnesses gotten so lazy that they are resorting to letter writing instead of knocking on doors? Not that I'm complaining -- I really don't want to talk about God with people who won't celebrate their own birthdays -- but come on, put a little effort into it, guys. I didn't realize that if I want to be proselytized, I have to be the one doing most of the work.
Or maybe they've finally gotten the hint? Have they gotten so weary of rejection that they're mailing out letters in the half-hearted hopes that someone will actually take the bait? Maybe it's the redemption lottery: the more letters you send, the more likely that one person will respond.
Come to think of it, there's a big opportunity here that millions of people have probably hoped for yet never had. What would Mrs. Eleanor Myers do if I showed up at her door and wouldn't leave until she accepted SpongeBob Square Pants as her personal savior?
It's tempting, but why take the chance?
Monday, February 19, 2007
The hazards of equality
When first named to lead Hewlett-Packard, Carly Fiorina was asked what it felt like to be the first female CEO of a major high tech company. "I don't know," she famously said. "I don't know what it's like to be a male CEO." Admirably, she downplayed the impact of her gender on her role, acknowledging that she had been raised with the belief that she could achieve whatever she wanted. Her upbringing had been tempered neither with the message that she was held back from some things because she's female, nor that she had to work and fight all that much harder because she's a woman. If she worked hard, she could succeed. She confronted her share of discrimination along the way, but she faced it and overcame it, as any ambitious person would.
When Carly ran into difficulties at HP and ultimately was very publicly relieved of her duties, some pundits opined that she never really fit in because she was a woman in a male-dominated industry. Never mind that HP has quite a good track record of promoting and hiring on merit, regardless of gender. Never mind that she showed immediate and persistent disdain for the company's much heralded consensus-based culture. And never mind that her own substantial hubris had kept her from adapting her strategy when it proved unworkable.
It led me to think: we've achieved equality only when we have the chance to fail equally as spectacularly as we want to succeed. If women are to be judged on their own merits, we have to take the bad with the good. If we want a fair opportunity to succeed, we have to be willing to suffer the consequences of failure. To expect otherwise is to ask for preferential treatment -- just the thing feminists fought against when it was granted solely to white men.
If people in a business - or a society - expect to be treated fairly in a meritocracy, it seems to me that they'd want to be judged solely on what they achieve and the talents they bring to the table. They wouldn't want to be granted a mulligan after they err. If you insist on swinging from the mens' tees, you can't demand the womens' handicap when your shot misses the hole by five feet. Yes, it stinks to fail, and yes, it really stinks to lose something you've worked so hard and so long to gain. But that's what makes it so precious to win in the first place.
Said another way, "They wouldn't let me succeed because I am a woman" is the flip side of "they only gave me a chance because I am a woman." No ambitious person - male or female, Caucasian or otherwise - wants to be judged that way.
Maybe history doesn't remember those who come in second place, or the people who fail. At the same time, it does remember those who recover and go on to win. (Just look at the '69 Mets) I think that the real prize of equality is getting the opportunity to bounce back from failure or setbacks.
Here's to more second acts. And more chances to risk spectacular failure.
When first named to lead Hewlett-Packard, Carly Fiorina was asked what it felt like to be the first female CEO of a major high tech company. "I don't know," she famously said. "I don't know what it's like to be a male CEO." Admirably, she downplayed the impact of her gender on her role, acknowledging that she had been raised with the belief that she could achieve whatever she wanted. Her upbringing had been tempered neither with the message that she was held back from some things because she's female, nor that she had to work and fight all that much harder because she's a woman. If she worked hard, she could succeed. She confronted her share of discrimination along the way, but she faced it and overcame it, as any ambitious person would.
When Carly ran into difficulties at HP and ultimately was very publicly relieved of her duties, some pundits opined that she never really fit in because she was a woman in a male-dominated industry. Never mind that HP has quite a good track record of promoting and hiring on merit, regardless of gender. Never mind that she showed immediate and persistent disdain for the company's much heralded consensus-based culture. And never mind that her own substantial hubris had kept her from adapting her strategy when it proved unworkable.
It led me to think: we've achieved equality only when we have the chance to fail equally as spectacularly as we want to succeed. If women are to be judged on their own merits, we have to take the bad with the good. If we want a fair opportunity to succeed, we have to be willing to suffer the consequences of failure. To expect otherwise is to ask for preferential treatment -- just the thing feminists fought against when it was granted solely to white men.
If people in a business - or a society - expect to be treated fairly in a meritocracy, it seems to me that they'd want to be judged solely on what they achieve and the talents they bring to the table. They wouldn't want to be granted a mulligan after they err. If you insist on swinging from the mens' tees, you can't demand the womens' handicap when your shot misses the hole by five feet. Yes, it stinks to fail, and yes, it really stinks to lose something you've worked so hard and so long to gain. But that's what makes it so precious to win in the first place.
Said another way, "They wouldn't let me succeed because I am a woman" is the flip side of "they only gave me a chance because I am a woman." No ambitious person - male or female, Caucasian or otherwise - wants to be judged that way.
Maybe history doesn't remember those who come in second place, or the people who fail. At the same time, it does remember those who recover and go on to win. (Just look at the '69 Mets) I think that the real prize of equality is getting the opportunity to bounce back from failure or setbacks.
Here's to more second acts. And more chances to risk spectacular failure.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Meet me halfway, dude: dress the part.
What's the deal with Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? I'm not going to get into politics ... we all know the guy is both deranged and evil. I'm talking about his image:
Why can't the guy wear a tie?
In every picture I've seen, he's wearing a sport jacket and a dress shirt with one or two buttons unbuttoned. It's not a bad look, but come on. The guy seems to think that it's casual Friday every day. Isn't it reasonable to expect this guy to find a respectable outfit befitting an evil despot?
Every self-respecting dictator or deranged leader puts some thought into an evil costume -- a look he makes his own. It's like the villains in Batman or Superman. Think about it: Kim Jong Il has that weird hair. Castro has made the rumpled fatigues look his trademark. Khadafi has had two distinct looks: when he was an axis of evil guy, he had that snappy army uniform with a bit too much ornamentation. Now, as a man of peace, he's got the Arab getup.
You dress as any one of them (or someone worse, as Prince Harry discovered) for Halloween, and people immediately know who you are. Dress like Ahmadinejad, and people assume you had to work late and didn't have the time to change before you came to the party. You look like that guy on the NJ Transit train who had a rough day, pulled off his tie and started drinking beer out of a can smuggled in a paper bag. Let's face it - it's one step better than the lame "let me cut a few eyeholes in a sheet and I'll go as a ghost" costume.
Now, I have nothing against the casual, no-tie look. Most men can pull it off. But does it command respect? Does it engender fear? I'd say no. For a lot of guys, it wouldn't even get them a date at a singles dance. So Ahmadinejad thinks it's going to ensure him permanent status in the Axis of Evil? Seems mighty doubtful.
What's funny is that Katie Couric recently noted the mnemonic she uses to remember the pronunciation of his name: "I'm a dinner jacket."
What's the deal with Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? I'm not going to get into politics ... we all know the guy is both deranged and evil. I'm talking about his image:
Why can't the guy wear a tie?
In every picture I've seen, he's wearing a sport jacket and a dress shirt with one or two buttons unbuttoned. It's not a bad look, but come on. The guy seems to think that it's casual Friday every day. Isn't it reasonable to expect this guy to find a respectable outfit befitting an evil despot?
Every self-respecting dictator or deranged leader puts some thought into an evil costume -- a look he makes his own. It's like the villains in Batman or Superman. Think about it: Kim Jong Il has that weird hair. Castro has made the rumpled fatigues look his trademark. Khadafi has had two distinct looks: when he was an axis of evil guy, he had that snappy army uniform with a bit too much ornamentation. Now, as a man of peace, he's got the Arab getup.
You dress as any one of them (or someone worse, as Prince Harry discovered) for Halloween, and people immediately know who you are. Dress like Ahmadinejad, and people assume you had to work late and didn't have the time to change before you came to the party. You look like that guy on the NJ Transit train who had a rough day, pulled off his tie and started drinking beer out of a can smuggled in a paper bag. Let's face it - it's one step better than the lame "let me cut a few eyeholes in a sheet and I'll go as a ghost" costume.
Now, I have nothing against the casual, no-tie look. Most men can pull it off. But does it command respect? Does it engender fear? I'd say no. For a lot of guys, it wouldn't even get them a date at a singles dance. So Ahmadinejad thinks it's going to ensure him permanent status in the Axis of Evil? Seems mighty doubtful.
What's funny is that Katie Couric recently noted the mnemonic she uses to remember the pronunciation of his name: "I'm a dinner jacket."
Friday, February 09, 2007
The new social disease
You carry it without knowing. After staying out all night. Even in the best hotels.You can never tell who's afflicted. Sometimes they don’t even know, until the embarrassing hives and itching appear.Herpes? The clap? No (well, maybe, but not here). It’s bedbugs.
Yes, bedbugs, the scourge of tenements and, well, the 18th century, are back. Bedbugs (or bed bugs) are small nocturnal insects of the family Cimicidae that live by hematophagy, feeding on the blood of humans and other warm-blooded hosts. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Resurgent due to increased global travel and the banning of DDT, they’re showing up all over the place, and they’re remarkably insidious. From a health standpoint, they’re pretty much harmless, except for the aforementioned itching and hives. Oh, and their uncanny ability to drive their host into a spiral of madness.
I had the unfortunate privilege of bringing these tiny hitchhikers home from an August trip to Ireland, a country which, as you know, has had reasonable sanitary standards for quite some time. Roaming the countryside of County Kerry, I assumed I was running the risk of picking up some sort of sheep scourge from all of the scat I stepped in, but I never expected bugs.I stayed in five different hotels, all of which seemed nice and clean. There was no reason to believe that they harbored any insects that wanted to come home with me.Then again, one of my college roommates said the same thing about one of her Friday night hookups, and that one required a visit to the health center after a few days. (Itching and rash, oddly enough.)
Anyway, all seemed fine through September. I attributed a few small itchy spots to a stray mosquito that might have made its way through a window screen somehow. Then came the onslaught.By the time I found them in October, I had a nice rash of bites on my back, arms and legs. I discovered a bunch of sated bedbugs on the underside of my spare bed pillow, deceased after happily engorging themselves on my blood. Yeech.
If you're unlucky and took months to determine the cause of your misery, the little fu- I mean suckers -- will have totally infested all of your bedroom furniture and perhaps the cracks and crevices of the walls and floorboards and... well, you get the picture. I had a relatively minor case, which I determined had come in from the luggage I'd brought to Ireland and stored underneath my bed.
As you can read in the Wikipedia entry, the next step involves basically boiling all of your bed clothes, all of the clothes in the furniture anywhere close to your bed, and then vacuuming the living daylights out of your bedroom. Then you get the pest control guy in. I say "pest control" instead of "exterminator" because he or she can't do it all. Even when they reach every living bedbug during a visit, it's not over. You end up becoming a partner in the eradication, vacuuming and boiling clothes and changing your sheets almost obsessively. While the poisons or enzymes or whatever the professional used are good, they still won't kill the eggs, so you have to wait for them to hatch and then murder the nymphs. I guarantee you'll be seeing your new best friend, the pest control guy, at least once again. Fortunately they include a second and third visit in their fees. They know.
Oh, and they'll encase your newly treated mattress and boxspring in vinyl covers so the bugs that are in the bedding can't get out. You've got to leave the covers on for a minimum of a year until the bugs all die off (yes, they can live that long without another meal). I chose to look at the positive side: if I ever start wetting the bed, at least I won't wreck the mattress.
Unluckily for me, all of this happened during a very hectic and stressful time at work, when I was working longer hours and coming home totally exhausted. I was in no state to change the sheets, boil the crap out of them and vacuum like June Cleaver on speed. I had no time to have the bug control guys come back for the second visit, so when the bugs reappeared, I did the best I could with the enzyme solution the pest guys left me. I smoothed cortisone cream over the hives to control the itching.
And meanwhile, I was going absolutely mental at work with the stress of my job and the anguish of these little fuckers literally sucking my lifeblood out of me when I didn't have the strength to do anything about it. Not fun. I bought a few six packs of Guinness, not just to appease the Irish bedbug gods, but to get absolutely plastered to forget them for a while.
You really start wondering why they chose you, of anyone, to come home with. What, were they expecting to sleep with me and get their little green cards? This country is so set on keeping terrorists out of the country that they're harassing perfectly innocent people, when they could be sending these #*$&@^ to Guantanamo instead.
But I digress.Back to the social disease aspect. If you're dealing with a bedbug issue, you have to be careful who you tell, because you're apt to be classified as a moron or as someone in deep denial. Or maybe a hypochondriac. Very few people know about them and that having them is not an indication of poor hygiene or sleeping around in fleabag motels. Many people will tell you that you should have the pest control guys show up day after day after day and bomb the place. They'll tell you to throw out the mattress and boxspring and maybe the whole bed. When you tell them that those options won't help (and often mean that you'll pay good money for a new bed that will eventually get infested, too), they'll look at you like you're delusional. Everyone's an entomologist.
I couldn't do much at work but suffer the anger of my boss for all of the fuck-ups I was committing on some major projects. No way was I going to go chapter and verse into my angst-inducing infestation. Maybe I should have, but I figured it wasn't worth looking both incompetent and delusional.
The social life suffers, too. Forget about inviting overnight visitors over. Imagine the conversation:
"Uh, before you come over with your toothbrush and a change of clothes, there's something I have to tell you."
"Oh, boy. Do you have herpes? Hey, it's okay, I'll wear a condom or three."
"Uh, no, I have bedbugs."
"Good God!" *noise of screeching tires as the guy can't get away from you quickly enough*
Let's face it, no condom is big enough to cover the whole body. Well, unless the guy is really, really small, in which case he has enough problems to deal with.
So, bottom line, you've gotta be careful. The world is divided into two types of people: those who've had bedbugs, and those who will. The only solace is to remember that they were pretty much ubiquitous before the invention of DDT. Our ancestors survived them just fine. Except they were really, really itchy.
You carry it without knowing. After staying out all night. Even in the best hotels.You can never tell who's afflicted. Sometimes they don’t even know, until the embarrassing hives and itching appear.Herpes? The clap? No (well, maybe, but not here). It’s bedbugs.
Yes, bedbugs, the scourge of tenements and, well, the 18th century, are back. Bedbugs (or bed bugs) are small nocturnal insects of the family Cimicidae that live by hematophagy, feeding on the blood of humans and other warm-blooded hosts. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Resurgent due to increased global travel and the banning of DDT, they’re showing up all over the place, and they’re remarkably insidious. From a health standpoint, they’re pretty much harmless, except for the aforementioned itching and hives. Oh, and their uncanny ability to drive their host into a spiral of madness.
I had the unfortunate privilege of bringing these tiny hitchhikers home from an August trip to Ireland, a country which, as you know, has had reasonable sanitary standards for quite some time. Roaming the countryside of County Kerry, I assumed I was running the risk of picking up some sort of sheep scourge from all of the scat I stepped in, but I never expected bugs.I stayed in five different hotels, all of which seemed nice and clean. There was no reason to believe that they harbored any insects that wanted to come home with me.Then again, one of my college roommates said the same thing about one of her Friday night hookups, and that one required a visit to the health center after a few days. (Itching and rash, oddly enough.)
Anyway, all seemed fine through September. I attributed a few small itchy spots to a stray mosquito that might have made its way through a window screen somehow. Then came the onslaught.By the time I found them in October, I had a nice rash of bites on my back, arms and legs. I discovered a bunch of sated bedbugs on the underside of my spare bed pillow, deceased after happily engorging themselves on my blood. Yeech.
If you're unlucky and took months to determine the cause of your misery, the little fu- I mean suckers -- will have totally infested all of your bedroom furniture and perhaps the cracks and crevices of the walls and floorboards and... well, you get the picture. I had a relatively minor case, which I determined had come in from the luggage I'd brought to Ireland and stored underneath my bed.
As you can read in the Wikipedia entry, the next step involves basically boiling all of your bed clothes, all of the clothes in the furniture anywhere close to your bed, and then vacuuming the living daylights out of your bedroom. Then you get the pest control guy in. I say "pest control" instead of "exterminator" because he or she can't do it all. Even when they reach every living bedbug during a visit, it's not over. You end up becoming a partner in the eradication, vacuuming and boiling clothes and changing your sheets almost obsessively. While the poisons or enzymes or whatever the professional used are good, they still won't kill the eggs, so you have to wait for them to hatch and then murder the nymphs. I guarantee you'll be seeing your new best friend, the pest control guy, at least once again. Fortunately they include a second and third visit in their fees. They know.
Oh, and they'll encase your newly treated mattress and boxspring in vinyl covers so the bugs that are in the bedding can't get out. You've got to leave the covers on for a minimum of a year until the bugs all die off (yes, they can live that long without another meal). I chose to look at the positive side: if I ever start wetting the bed, at least I won't wreck the mattress.
Unluckily for me, all of this happened during a very hectic and stressful time at work, when I was working longer hours and coming home totally exhausted. I was in no state to change the sheets, boil the crap out of them and vacuum like June Cleaver on speed. I had no time to have the bug control guys come back for the second visit, so when the bugs reappeared, I did the best I could with the enzyme solution the pest guys left me. I smoothed cortisone cream over the hives to control the itching.
And meanwhile, I was going absolutely mental at work with the stress of my job and the anguish of these little fuckers literally sucking my lifeblood out of me when I didn't have the strength to do anything about it. Not fun. I bought a few six packs of Guinness, not just to appease the Irish bedbug gods, but to get absolutely plastered to forget them for a while.
You really start wondering why they chose you, of anyone, to come home with. What, were they expecting to sleep with me and get their little green cards? This country is so set on keeping terrorists out of the country that they're harassing perfectly innocent people, when they could be sending these #*$&@^ to Guantanamo instead.
But I digress.Back to the social disease aspect. If you're dealing with a bedbug issue, you have to be careful who you tell, because you're apt to be classified as a moron or as someone in deep denial. Or maybe a hypochondriac. Very few people know about them and that having them is not an indication of poor hygiene or sleeping around in fleabag motels. Many people will tell you that you should have the pest control guys show up day after day after day and bomb the place. They'll tell you to throw out the mattress and boxspring and maybe the whole bed. When you tell them that those options won't help (and often mean that you'll pay good money for a new bed that will eventually get infested, too), they'll look at you like you're delusional. Everyone's an entomologist.
I couldn't do much at work but suffer the anger of my boss for all of the fuck-ups I was committing on some major projects. No way was I going to go chapter and verse into my angst-inducing infestation. Maybe I should have, but I figured it wasn't worth looking both incompetent and delusional.
The social life suffers, too. Forget about inviting overnight visitors over. Imagine the conversation:
"Uh, before you come over with your toothbrush and a change of clothes, there's something I have to tell you."
"Oh, boy. Do you have herpes? Hey, it's okay, I'll wear a condom or three."
"Uh, no, I have bedbugs."
"Good God!" *noise of screeching tires as the guy can't get away from you quickly enough*
Let's face it, no condom is big enough to cover the whole body. Well, unless the guy is really, really small, in which case he has enough problems to deal with.
So, bottom line, you've gotta be careful. The world is divided into two types of people: those who've had bedbugs, and those who will. The only solace is to remember that they were pretty much ubiquitous before the invention of DDT. Our ancestors survived them just fine. Except they were really, really itchy.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
American culture creep manifests itself in weird ways.
Indigenous cultures around the world have a variety of religions and faiths, having escaped the incursion of missionaries spreading the various flavors of European and American Christianity. The South Pacific island chain of Vanuatu, however, persists in an American-influenced, yet not-Christian religion: the cargo cult of Jon Frum.
The natives of these islands saw their first white man and their first glimpse of modern convenience during World War II as the Allies hopscotched their way
through the Pacific. In their airplanes and ships, these visitors brought jeeps and canned food and a host of other mysterious and alluring items that must have seemed otherworldly to the natives.
Then the war ended and the visits from the white (and black) men stopped. The desire for their gifts, however, did not. When weeks and months passed without further gifts from the skies and seas, a legend, and then a faith emerged. The white man would come from his otherworldly place, with gifts of Spam and Coca-Cola, and maybe even a washing machine. Jon would come Frum America, his heavenly home. The Vanuatuans even built airstrips to ease his return, specifically on the island of Tanna. They also created a Jon Frum flag of a red cross on a white background. Not to denote Christianity, of course, but to represent the flag so many of the white men worked under.
Lest you think that this is some sort of materialistic, possession-based culture, consider one of the basic tenets of the cult. As a sign of faith, members are encouraged to throw away all money and let their land go to seed. They believe that Jon Frum will provide all. Eventually.
Over the years, some Vanuatans claimed to have a special gift that enabled them to hear Jon Frum from deep in the earth. These seers claim that Jon will be coming soon... yet he never does.
Their provider's reticence, however, doesn't stop the islanders. In fact, it only provokes more devotion. Every February 15, they celebrate Jon Frum Day, the expected
date of his return to Vanuatu. Members of the Tanna Army (a tribute to the US Army, created on Frum's behalf) conduct a parade, with "USA" painted on their bare chests and carrying crudely-fashioned US flags.
Weird, yeah, but when you look at it, it's not that much different from any other religion -- salvation, gifts for the believers, an unseen provider. Most faiths, however, aren't based on the delivery of fresh C-rations.
Anyway, there's also a Prince Philip cult somewhere in the Hebrides, but that's a different story.
Indigenous cultures around the world have a variety of religions and faiths, having escaped the incursion of missionaries spreading the various flavors of European and American Christianity. The South Pacific island chain of Vanuatu, however, persists in an American-influenced, yet not-Christian religion: the cargo cult of Jon Frum.
The natives of these islands saw their first white man and their first glimpse of modern convenience during World War II as the Allies hopscotched their way
through the Pacific. In their airplanes and ships, these visitors brought jeeps and canned food and a host of other mysterious and alluring items that must have seemed otherworldly to the natives.Then the war ended and the visits from the white (and black) men stopped. The desire for their gifts, however, did not. When weeks and months passed without further gifts from the skies and seas, a legend, and then a faith emerged. The white man would come from his otherworldly place, with gifts of Spam and Coca-Cola, and maybe even a washing machine. Jon would come Frum America, his heavenly home. The Vanuatuans even built airstrips to ease his return, specifically on the island of Tanna. They also created a Jon Frum flag of a red cross on a white background. Not to denote Christianity, of course, but to represent the flag so many of the white men worked under.
Lest you think that this is some sort of materialistic, possession-based culture, consider one of the basic tenets of the cult. As a sign of faith, members are encouraged to throw away all money and let their land go to seed. They believe that Jon Frum will provide all. Eventually.
Over the years, some Vanuatans claimed to have a special gift that enabled them to hear Jon Frum from deep in the earth. These seers claim that Jon will be coming soon... yet he never does.
Their provider's reticence, however, doesn't stop the islanders. In fact, it only provokes more devotion. Every February 15, they celebrate Jon Frum Day, the expected
date of his return to Vanuatu. Members of the Tanna Army (a tribute to the US Army, created on Frum's behalf) conduct a parade, with "USA" painted on their bare chests and carrying crudely-fashioned US flags.Weird, yeah, but when you look at it, it's not that much different from any other religion -- salvation, gifts for the believers, an unseen provider. Most faiths, however, aren't based on the delivery of fresh C-rations.
Anyway, there's also a Prince Philip cult somewhere in the Hebrides, but that's a different story.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Monday, December 25, 2006
The Holidays
A few thoughts on holidays and merriment:
I live in a part of the country where the population is very diverse. Jew, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, Bahai, and every denomination of Christian. You name it. Thus, around this time of year, you hear a lot of "happy holiday" greetings, and not a lot of "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," and so forth.
Now, I'm all for inclusiveness and consideration, but I'm struck by how silly all of this can get. After all, the day is what it is. In my mind, they're all an opportunity to party and have fun, and can't we all use more of that?Do we not say "happy new year" on January 1, despite the fact that the Chinese and Jews and the Bahai, among others, celebrate the new year on other dates? Let me tell you, the Chinese know how to throw a new year's party, so why not have two new year's parties and celebrate with them. I mean, with this agnostic logic people are throwing around, no-one would say "happy birthday" to anyone but themselves or someone else who was born on the same date. So, really, what's wrong with saying 'happy whatever' on the right day?
Another thing: Santa Claus. Around this time of year, you inevitably hear some psychologist on the TV or radio talking about the right time to tell a child the truth about the jolly fat man. Should a parent tell the child before classmates do? How do you tell them?
So many questions, and so much tsimmis. Seems to me that the answer to the Santa question is simple. Who's questioning a stranger who leaves you presents with no expectation of the
favor of a return gift? Sure, he sneaks into your house, but who cares, as long as he doesn't walk off with your Playstation? What's so bad about letting kids believe in that as long as humanly possible? There's a Jewish saying about one of the highest forms of charity being a gift where the recipient doesn't know who the giver is. Seems to me that the concept of Santa Claus helps perpetuate that concept. It's a pretty darn nice one, I think you'll agree.
Parents will tell you they might as well fess up because their kids are smart and will easily figure out that it's Mom and Dad who are leaving the toys under the tree. I submit that those are exactly the kids who are going to keep the faith in Santa for as long as possible in the hopes of getting more and more interesting stuff from the jolly fat dude. I mean, why question it? It's just more fun to keep up the charade.
And it also means that you get it all for the price of putting out some cookies and milk. Not a bad deal.
A few thoughts on holidays and merriment:
I live in a part of the country where the population is very diverse. Jew, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, Bahai, and every denomination of Christian. You name it. Thus, around this time of year, you hear a lot of "happy holiday" greetings, and not a lot of "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," and so forth.
Now, I'm all for inclusiveness and consideration, but I'm struck by how silly all of this can get. After all, the day is what it is. In my mind, they're all an opportunity to party and have fun, and can't we all use more of that?Do we not say "happy new year" on January 1, despite the fact that the Chinese and Jews and the Bahai, among others, celebrate the new year on other dates? Let me tell you, the Chinese know how to throw a new year's party, so why not have two new year's parties and celebrate with them. I mean, with this agnostic logic people are throwing around, no-one would say "happy birthday" to anyone but themselves or someone else who was born on the same date. So, really, what's wrong with saying 'happy whatever' on the right day?
Another thing: Santa Claus. Around this time of year, you inevitably hear some psychologist on the TV or radio talking about the right time to tell a child the truth about the jolly fat man. Should a parent tell the child before classmates do? How do you tell them?
So many questions, and so much tsimmis. Seems to me that the answer to the Santa question is simple. Who's questioning a stranger who leaves you presents with no expectation of the
favor of a return gift? Sure, he sneaks into your house, but who cares, as long as he doesn't walk off with your Playstation? What's so bad about letting kids believe in that as long as humanly possible? There's a Jewish saying about one of the highest forms of charity being a gift where the recipient doesn't know who the giver is. Seems to me that the concept of Santa Claus helps perpetuate that concept. It's a pretty darn nice one, I think you'll agree.Parents will tell you they might as well fess up because their kids are smart and will easily figure out that it's Mom and Dad who are leaving the toys under the tree. I submit that those are exactly the kids who are going to keep the faith in Santa for as long as possible in the hopes of getting more and more interesting stuff from the jolly fat dude. I mean, why question it? It's just more fun to keep up the charade.
And it also means that you get it all for the price of putting out some cookies and milk. Not a bad deal.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Coincidence... or Karma?On September 25, 2005, Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama visited Rutgers University, speaking to a capacity crowd at the school's football stadium.
Three months later, the Rutgers football team was invited to play in a bowl game for the first time in 27 years.
This year, Rutgers football is among the top 15 in the nation, standing at eight wins, no losses to date.
Coincidence? Even considering the dharma of peaceful nonviolence, you have to wonder. Is the Dalai Lama a Rutgers fan, and did he leave some special karma on the Banks of the old Raritan?
UPDATE: I am becoming even more convinced there is some sort of karmic thing going on here. Miraculously, Rutgers won against third-ranked Louisville on November 9, on a field goal in the final seconds of the game ... after missing a first field goal that was declared a do-over when the opposing team committed an offside. The goalposts? Standing in the end zone where the Dalai Lama's stage had stood.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Ghosts of Halloweens Past
When I was a kid, I never got to celebrate Halloween, or at least it seemed. My parents have home movies of me and my sister in costumes made from Butterick patterns – Jean was a witch with orange yarn hair hanging from her pointy black felt hat, while the four-year-old me was a ghost with a great big black “BOO” sewn across my front. The next year, I was a bride, and being in first grade, I was eligible to march in the elementary school Halloween pageant. I barely made it through that day at school, and by the time afternoon trick-or-treating came around, I was home in bed with a fever.
That was the start of the sick streak. Like clockwork, I’d come down with the flu, or a cold, or general malaise, during the fourth week of October. Like clockwork, I’d beg my mom to let me go trick or treating nonetheless, and like clockwork, I’d be stuck in bed, listening forlornly as other kids came to ring our doorbell and shout gleefully for treats.
It wasn’t so much the loss of candy that frustrated me. It was the loss of an opportunity to be creative. Every fall, I’d come up with a great costume idea, only to be disappointed, betrayed by my own body. But one year was different.
As the U.S. was starting to get Bicentennial fever, I found the perfect costume idea. I’d be Sybil Ludington. Who didn’t know Sybil? She was the teenager who, in 1777, basically pulled a Paul Revere to organize the militia after a British attack on Danbury, Connecticut. I already had a tri-corner hat from a visit to Philadelphia, and my mom had made me a cape the year before. Conveniently it was made of red, white and blue fabric.
All I needed was a horse. Hmm. Inspiration struck in the form of brown trash bags, some old boxes and a roll of masking tape. After a bit of engineering, I had my horse, complete with a hole in the middle so I could slip it over my head down to my waist. I was set for Halloween!
Then, as the date approached, I felt the flu coming over me. I fought it as much as I could, but on October 31, I had to concede. I was weak and weary, and there was no way I could go to school. It was hopeless.
I was resigned to having all of that good work go to waste, but I still half-heartedly petitioned my mom to let me go trick-or-treating for a half hour, just to take the horse out for a trot. I knew there was no chance; she was the type of parent who firmly believed the truant officers would see me out gallivanting and would send HER to reform school as punishment. A stickler for the rules, she was, and heavily motivated by shame.
Imagine my surprise when she took pity on me and said, sure, go out. Just be careful, and if you start feeling sick, come home. I didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. Faster than you could say “The British are coming,” I donned my cape, hat and horse and was out the door.
The truant officer wasn’t on the street, but some of my classmates were, jibing me for trick-or-treating when I didn’t go to school, as if they wouldn’t have done the same. Despite my declining energy, it was great to be out there, knocking on doors and collecting candy. Countless times I told people no, I wasn’t Paul Revere, and educated them about Sybil Ludington. And several nice people gave me a candy bar for me, and another one for my horse. Not a bad deal all together.
Looking back, I don’t think I lasted 15 minutes before I started feeling queasy, so it’s a good thing I had the horse to increase my draw of loot. Unlike my costume’s inspiration, I might have gotten three blocks or so in my route, but as I walked home, I felt as if I was on the victory lap. I’d finally gotten to go trick or treating, and I’d spread the word on Sybil Ludington, a significant footnote in American history.
The funny thing is that after that year, I was healthy every Halloween, just as I was getting too old for trick-or-treating, anyway. I guess that’s the breaks.
When I was a kid, I never got to celebrate Halloween, or at least it seemed. My parents have home movies of me and my sister in costumes made from Butterick patterns – Jean was a witch with orange yarn hair hanging from her pointy black felt hat, while the four-year-old me was a ghost with a great big black “BOO” sewn across my front. The next year, I was a bride, and being in first grade, I was eligible to march in the elementary school Halloween pageant. I barely made it through that day at school, and by the time afternoon trick-or-treating came around, I was home in bed with a fever.
That was the start of the sick streak. Like clockwork, I’d come down with the flu, or a cold, or general malaise, during the fourth week of October. Like clockwork, I’d beg my mom to let me go trick or treating nonetheless, and like clockwork, I’d be stuck in bed, listening forlornly as other kids came to ring our doorbell and shout gleefully for treats.
It wasn’t so much the loss of candy that frustrated me. It was the loss of an opportunity to be creative. Every fall, I’d come up with a great costume idea, only to be disappointed, betrayed by my own body. But one year was different.
As the U.S. was starting to get Bicentennial fever, I found the perfect costume idea. I’d be Sybil Ludington. Who didn’t know Sybil? She was the teenager who, in 1777, basically pulled a Paul Revere to organize the militia after a British attack on Danbury, Connecticut. I already had a tri-corner hat from a visit to Philadelphia, and my mom had made me a cape the year before. Conveniently it was made of red, white and blue fabric.
All I needed was a horse. Hmm. Inspiration struck in the form of brown trash bags, some old boxes and a roll of masking tape. After a bit of engineering, I had my horse, complete with a hole in the middle so I could slip it over my head down to my waist. I was set for Halloween!
Then, as the date approached, I felt the flu coming over me. I fought it as much as I could, but on October 31, I had to concede. I was weak and weary, and there was no way I could go to school. It was hopeless.
I was resigned to having all of that good work go to waste, but I still half-heartedly petitioned my mom to let me go trick-or-treating for a half hour, just to take the horse out for a trot. I knew there was no chance; she was the type of parent who firmly believed the truant officers would see me out gallivanting and would send HER to reform school as punishment. A stickler for the rules, she was, and heavily motivated by shame.
Imagine my surprise when she took pity on me and said, sure, go out. Just be careful, and if you start feeling sick, come home. I didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. Faster than you could say “The British are coming,” I donned my cape, hat and horse and was out the door.
The truant officer wasn’t on the street, but some of my classmates were, jibing me for trick-or-treating when I didn’t go to school, as if they wouldn’t have done the same. Despite my declining energy, it was great to be out there, knocking on doors and collecting candy. Countless times I told people no, I wasn’t Paul Revere, and educated them about Sybil Ludington. And several nice people gave me a candy bar for me, and another one for my horse. Not a bad deal all together.
Looking back, I don’t think I lasted 15 minutes before I started feeling queasy, so it’s a good thing I had the horse to increase my draw of loot. Unlike my costume’s inspiration, I might have gotten three blocks or so in my route, but as I walked home, I felt as if I was on the victory lap. I’d finally gotten to go trick or treating, and I’d spread the word on Sybil Ludington, a significant footnote in American history.
The funny thing is that after that year, I was healthy every Halloween, just as I was getting too old for trick-or-treating, anyway. I guess that’s the breaks.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Purell, anyone?
A front page story in today's New York Times notes that many contemporary politicians are taking special steps to reduce their exposure to germs during the customary pressing-of-the-flesh during campaign season. In fact, the wife of a Kansas congressman recently went as far as to squirt sanitizing gel on the hands of people who were waiting to shake hands with Vice President Cheney when he was campaigning for her husband.
No word on whether those same people were looking for Purell to sanitize their hands after shaking hands with Cheney. God only knows what kind of plague they picked up from that bodily contact.
A front page story in today's New York Times notes that many contemporary politicians are taking special steps to reduce their exposure to germs during the customary pressing-of-the-flesh during campaign season. In fact, the wife of a Kansas congressman recently went as far as to squirt sanitizing gel on the hands of people who were waiting to shake hands with Vice President Cheney when he was campaigning for her husband.
No word on whether those same people were looking for Purell to sanitize their hands after shaking hands with Cheney. God only knows what kind of plague they picked up from that bodily contact.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
?????
Today's New York Times Magazine featured a Q&A with former Attorney General John Ashcroft, who's apparently shilling his new book Never Again. As I read the interview, I had one of those "huh?" realizations that gave me one brief, glimmering moment of hope.
One of the questions read, in part, "Would you still defend the president's willingness to disregard the Geneva Conventions in the treatment and torture of suspected terrorists?"
Ashcroft's response: "I think there is a very sound argument for saying that those who violate the Geneva Conventions should not benefit from its provisions."
Now, wait. One could take that as him saying that if we violate the Geneva rules, we can't expect that our soldiers will be treated humanely if they are captured. Am I reading correctly? Is John Ashcroft -- Bush's former attorney general -- agreeing with those who disagree with Bush on torture? Say it ain't so!
Well, folks, sorry to disappoint you , but it ain't so, as the rest of the interview made abundantly clear. Well, at least the part that didn't talk about his beliefs as an evangelical Christian.
Today's New York Times Magazine featured a Q&A with former Attorney General John Ashcroft, who's apparently shilling his new book Never Again. As I read the interview, I had one of those "huh?" realizations that gave me one brief, glimmering moment of hope.
One of the questions read, in part, "Would you still defend the president's willingness to disregard the Geneva Conventions in the treatment and torture of suspected terrorists?"
Ashcroft's response: "I think there is a very sound argument for saying that those who violate the Geneva Conventions should not benefit from its provisions."
Now, wait. One could take that as him saying that if we violate the Geneva rules, we can't expect that our soldiers will be treated humanely if they are captured. Am I reading correctly? Is John Ashcroft -- Bush's former attorney general -- agreeing with those who disagree with Bush on torture? Say it ain't so!
Well, folks, sorry to disappoint you , but it ain't so, as the rest of the interview made abundantly clear. Well, at least the part that didn't talk about his beliefs as an evangelical Christian.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
The catacombs of Paris
Beneath the streets of Paris are the famed catacombs. Originally a series of quarries built in Roman times, the tunnels were first used for the gory purpose in the late 1700's, when mass graves in standard cemeteries were blamed for the spread of disease. In the second World War, b
oth the French Resistance and the Nazis used the catacombs for their own purposes.
In current times, the catacombs have become a popular tourist destination, accessible through a rather low-key street level door. Once through the entrance visitors descend a circular stairway to the tunnels below.
The scene once you're there is both eerie and intriguing. Bones are piled against the walls, many segregated by type (arms and legs in one pile, skulls stacked in another), and all piles
labeled with a sign noting which cemetery they came from, and when. You could just reach out and touch them, but there's that feeling that a bony hand might reach out to touch you back.
Once you've walked through the open portion of the catacombs, you take another stairway up to street level. It's all rather pedestrian, except for the very end. Just before you go outside, you're stopped by two gatekeepers who stand before a sign with the international "No" symbol drawn over a crudely drawn skull and crossbones. The gatekeepers insist -- in French -- on examining your bags to see if you're trying to smuggle out a souvenir.
As if. Try explaining to the TSA what that tibia-shaped thing is that they scanned in your carry-on luggage.
Beneath the streets of Paris are the famed catacombs. Originally a series of quarries built in Roman times, the tunnels were first used for the gory purpose in the late 1700's, when mass graves in standard cemeteries were blamed for the spread of disease. In the second World War, b
oth the French Resistance and the Nazis used the catacombs for their own purposes.In current times, the catacombs have become a popular tourist destination, accessible through a rather low-key street level door. Once through the entrance visitors descend a circular stairway to the tunnels below.
The scene once you're there is both eerie and intriguing. Bones are piled against the walls, many segregated by type (arms and legs in one pile, skulls stacked in another), and all piles
labeled with a sign noting which cemetery they came from, and when. You could just reach out and touch them, but there's that feeling that a bony hand might reach out to touch you back.Once you've walked through the open portion of the catacombs, you take another stairway up to street level. It's all rather pedestrian, except for the very end. Just before you go outside, you're stopped by two gatekeepers who stand before a sign with the international "No" symbol drawn over a crudely drawn skull and crossbones. The gatekeepers insist -- in French -- on examining your bags to see if you're trying to smuggle out a souvenir.
As if. Try explaining to the TSA what that tibia-shaped thing is that they scanned in your carry-on luggage.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Keys...
Many, many years ago, I used to take short road trips with a friend named Marty. He'd come down from NJIT on a lark, pick me up at my Rutgers dorm and we'd head down Route 27, which eventually became Nassau Street and downtown Princeton.
Acutely aware of the ancient history between Rutgers and Princeton, we'd gone down there a few times at night, plotting the revival of the college rivalry which had died years before. In truth, I think we were a bit in awe of the place. We were both bright kids, good grades and College Boards and all that, but had ended up at state schools. Rutgers has its share of ivy covered walls, but it had long before cut its ties to the Ivy League, and few of its students seemed to care about tradition. I, on the other hand, knew all four verses of the Alma Mater. Marty did, too, even though it wasn't actually his school. Plus I'd just read This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald's chronicle of an angst-ridden Princeton boy. So... it wasn't out of character for us to travel the half hour distance to get some of the tradition back.
One late afternoon, in particular, we found our way down the road and began the unusual (for us) task of wandering around campus in daylight. We decided that we'd see if we could get into Old Nassau, the first building the college constructed. We'd long joked about what we'd do if we were able to break in.
Surprisingly enough, the front door opened when Marty tried the old doorknob, and we found ourselves in a large entryway with marble walls. We walked from one panel to the next, reading the names of the Princeton graduates who'd lost their lives in every American war since the Revolution. The room was quiet for a few moments, but for the footsteps of a campus policeman.
I apologized for being there, figuring we'd gone into forbidden territory, but he said it was okay. "I'm just closing up for the day." He led us out to the front step, asking us about our interest in the building. We chatted for a bit, and then he said he had to finish his rounds.
"They'd kill me if I lost this," he said, pulling a large, centuries-old key from his pocket. As the policeman inserted it into the keyhole and turned it, Marty's eyes met mine, and we shared a smile. He knew what I was thinking: at Rutgers' main building, Old Queens, they'd probably replaced the original lock with a new one. Not long ago, I checked and found it to be so.
Many, many years ago, I used to take short road trips with a friend named Marty. He'd come down from NJIT on a lark, pick me up at my Rutgers dorm and we'd head down Route 27, which eventually became Nassau Street and downtown Princeton.
Acutely aware of the ancient history between Rutgers and Princeton, we'd gone down there a few times at night, plotting the revival of the college rivalry which had died years before. In truth, I think we were a bit in awe of the place. We were both bright kids, good grades and College Boards and all that, but had ended up at state schools. Rutgers has its share of ivy covered walls, but it had long before cut its ties to the Ivy League, and few of its students seemed to care about tradition. I, on the other hand, knew all four verses of the Alma Mater. Marty did, too, even though it wasn't actually his school. Plus I'd just read This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald's chronicle of an angst-ridden Princeton boy. So... it wasn't out of character for us to travel the half hour distance to get some of the tradition back.
One late afternoon, in particular, we found our way down the road and began the unusual (for us) task of wandering around campus in daylight. We decided that we'd see if we could get into Old Nassau, the first building the college constructed. We'd long joked about what we'd do if we were able to break in.
Surprisingly enough, the front door opened when Marty tried the old doorknob, and we found ourselves in a large entryway with marble walls. We walked from one panel to the next, reading the names of the Princeton graduates who'd lost their lives in every American war since the Revolution. The room was quiet for a few moments, but for the footsteps of a campus policeman.
I apologized for being there, figuring we'd gone into forbidden territory, but he said it was okay. "I'm just closing up for the day." He led us out to the front step, asking us about our interest in the building. We chatted for a bit, and then he said he had to finish his rounds.
"They'd kill me if I lost this," he said, pulling a large, centuries-old key from his pocket. As the policeman inserted it into the keyhole and turned it, Marty's eyes met mine, and we shared a smile. He knew what I was thinking: at Rutgers' main building, Old Queens, they'd probably replaced the original lock with a new one. Not long ago, I checked and found it to be so.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Random meeting, lessons learned
On meeting people on my random wanderings around, I sometimes get perspective I didn't expect to receive.
Last year, when I went to an event at the Thomas Edison National Historic Site, my impromptu tour group included an inquisitive New York Times photographer. As we went through various aspects of the site, he continually asked questions, taking more than the usual bored reporter's interest in the subject. Later, when the park ranger was demonstrating how phonograph cylinders were recorded, the photographer practically became part of the story, wedging himself in near the musician and the phonograph technician.
Later on, I noticed him outside one of the buildings and remarked to him that he appeared to truly enjoy his job. As we chatted, I got a quick glance at his press badge and saw his name was Dith Pran. Almost on impulse, I said, "Oh, you're Dith Pran... Sidney Schanberg!"
If you've seen the movie The Killing Fields , you're familiar with their story. During the Vietnam War, Dith had worked as a freelance photographer with New York Times reporter Schanberg. When all the Americans were getting out of Cambodia, Dith was in peril because he had been working with Americans. Schanberg got kicked out of the country but couldn’t get passage for Dith, leaving him to make his way through the Cambodian wilderness for three years, trying not to be caught by the marauding Khmer Rouge. Meanwhile, a guilt-wracked Schanberg tried to find his friend and bring him to the US. Eventually they were reunited, and Schanberg helped him get the Times job.
Dith nodded at my mention of Schanberg and told me he really likes his job because he learns a lot of interesting things and meets nice people. He asked me about my interest in Edison, and where I live, mentioning that he has taken a lot of pictures at a park near my home. We chatted for a few more minutes and then parted ways, agreeing that we might cross paths again.
Food for thought. He seems like a happy guy ... taking human interest photos around New York and New Jersey for the Times, perfectly content with the direction his life has taken. I unwittingly gave him the perfect in to start commenting on the miseries of his life -- miseries that few of us could ever conceive of experiencing -- but he didn't. Kinda gives you pause about how great it is that people can come here after such horrible life experiences, and enjoy having a “normal,” mundane life.
His kindness and apparent lack of bitterness made me curious, so I Googled him to recall the whole story. What I found truly struck me. He has created the Dith Pran Holocaust Awareness Project , to bring the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge to light. I was truly awed by his directions of How you can make a difference. In addition to a call to boost Congressional awareness of the injustice of letting the genocidal maniacs get away with their reprehensible acts, he takes a truly Buddhist approach to hatred:
On meeting people on my random wanderings around, I sometimes get perspective I didn't expect to receive.
Last year, when I went to an event at the Thomas Edison National Historic Site, my impromptu tour group included an inquisitive New York Times photographer. As we went through various aspects of the site, he continually asked questions, taking more than the usual bored reporter's interest in the subject. Later, when the park ranger was demonstrating how phonograph cylinders were recorded, the photographer practically became part of the story, wedging himself in near the musician and the phonograph technician.
Later on, I noticed him outside one of the buildings and remarked to him that he appeared to truly enjoy his job. As we chatted, I got a quick glance at his press badge and saw his name was Dith Pran. Almost on impulse, I said, "Oh, you're Dith Pran... Sidney Schanberg!"
If you've seen the movie The Killing Fields , you're familiar with their story. During the Vietnam War, Dith had worked as a freelance photographer with New York Times reporter Schanberg. When all the Americans were getting out of Cambodia, Dith was in peril because he had been working with Americans. Schanberg got kicked out of the country but couldn’t get passage for Dith, leaving him to make his way through the Cambodian wilderness for three years, trying not to be caught by the marauding Khmer Rouge. Meanwhile, a guilt-wracked Schanberg tried to find his friend and bring him to the US. Eventually they were reunited, and Schanberg helped him get the Times job.
Dith nodded at my mention of Schanberg and told me he really likes his job because he learns a lot of interesting things and meets nice people. He asked me about my interest in Edison, and where I live, mentioning that he has taken a lot of pictures at a park near my home. We chatted for a few more minutes and then parted ways, agreeing that we might cross paths again.
Food for thought. He seems like a happy guy ... taking human interest photos around New York and New Jersey for the Times, perfectly content with the direction his life has taken. I unwittingly gave him the perfect in to start commenting on the miseries of his life -- miseries that few of us could ever conceive of experiencing -- but he didn't. Kinda gives you pause about how great it is that people can come here after such horrible life experiences, and enjoy having a “normal,” mundane life.
His kindness and apparent lack of bitterness made me curious, so I Googled him to recall the whole story. What I found truly struck me. He has created the Dith Pran Holocaust Awareness Project , to bring the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge to light. I was truly awed by his directions of How you can make a difference. In addition to a call to boost Congressional awareness of the injustice of letting the genocidal maniacs get away with their reprehensible acts, he takes a truly Buddhist approach to hatred:
- Don’t react to other people’s anger. When you react, it makes the situation much worse. Anger is a very powerful, negative emotion. Emotion is not the equivalent to logic so no matter how hard you try to reason with people whose minds are filled with anger, they cannot listen to you. Use your energy for something positive instead! When the situation calms down, hopefully then you can work things out.
- Have tolerance for people of different races and backgrounds. There is no benefit to dislike people just because they are different than you. You heard that wise, old saying, "United we stand, divided we fall." After all, we all share the same planet. Let’s make it a better place. Hatred is not the way.
It definitely makes you realize that, as the Buddhists say, "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is not." Dith takes peace and tolerance as his guiding principles, after all he's seen and experienced. He clearly believes in the potential of personal action, as well. As individuals, we may not be able to change the world with grand gestures, but we can make an impact on our immediate surroundings. Who knows where that can lead us?
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Where's Osama?
Five years ago, on an idyllic late summer day turned surreal and so tragic, I can remember my fear that those who attacked us just a few miles away would take everything I hold dear as an American. The attack on our native soil, the death of thousands of innocent people who were just trying to earn a living ... what would the then-unknown murderers deny us, just because of where we happened to be born? What would we have to do to protect our rights, our freedom?
As an American, I have always treasured my right to think what I want, to say what I want, and to associate with those I want to. Though it's often painful and a bit scary, I've always respected the right of others to speak their minds, however unpopular their opinions. It's part of the equation. With the right to free speech comes the responsibility to let others say what they want. Perhaps to disagree, but always to let them speak.
Patriotism isn't blind allegiance. It's knowing what's right and good about one's country, and having the courage and strength to speak up to protect it, no matter the assailant. That was both the fear and the rage that burned in me that day: rage against the enemy and fear that I would have to channel it into action.
What I never expected on that September day was that my own government would be the biggest threat to our liberties. I never expected to be told that if I disagreed with the president, I was an enemy of the state ("If you're not with us, you're with the terrorists."). I never expected that our fear would be cynically co-opted to divert our attention from the real enemy to settle a personal grudge against a despot who had nothing to do with the attack.
The hijackers hated America enough to kill themselves in the attack. Now even more people hate America with a passion, and we brought it on ourselves. What good does it do?
More people have died in Iraq in the past three and a half years than did on that September day, and it's only put us in greater danger. When will it stop?
Meanwhile the real enemy is out there. And perhaps he wraps himself in the American flag.
Where's Osama, Mr. Bush, and why don't you care?
Five years ago, on an idyllic late summer day turned surreal and so tragic, I can remember my fear that those who attacked us just a few miles away would take everything I hold dear as an American. The attack on our native soil, the death of thousands of innocent people who were just trying to earn a living ... what would the then-unknown murderers deny us, just because of where we happened to be born? What would we have to do to protect our rights, our freedom?
As an American, I have always treasured my right to think what I want, to say what I want, and to associate with those I want to. Though it's often painful and a bit scary, I've always respected the right of others to speak their minds, however unpopular their opinions. It's part of the equation. With the right to free speech comes the responsibility to let others say what they want. Perhaps to disagree, but always to let them speak.
Patriotism isn't blind allegiance. It's knowing what's right and good about one's country, and having the courage and strength to speak up to protect it, no matter the assailant. That was both the fear and the rage that burned in me that day: rage against the enemy and fear that I would have to channel it into action.
What I never expected on that September day was that my own government would be the biggest threat to our liberties. I never expected to be told that if I disagreed with the president, I was an enemy of the state ("If you're not with us, you're with the terrorists."). I never expected that our fear would be cynically co-opted to divert our attention from the real enemy to settle a personal grudge against a despot who had nothing to do with the attack.
The hijackers hated America enough to kill themselves in the attack. Now even more people hate America with a passion, and we brought it on ourselves. What good does it do?
More people have died in Iraq in the past three and a half years than did on that September day, and it's only put us in greater danger. When will it stop?
Meanwhile the real enemy is out there. And perhaps he wraps himself in the American flag.
Where's Osama, Mr. Bush, and why don't you care?
Monday, August 28, 2006
You can't escape it.
In the countryside of Southwestern Ireland, there's a huge nature refuge called Killarney National Park. Amid all of the greenery, there's a lovely set of lakes, and you can take a boat ride from one end to the castle at the other side.
The boatmen provide facts about the scenery, along with some random conversation and Irish humor. During a lull in his presentation, Dermott, the boatman, asked me where I was from. When I told him "just outside New York," he asked where, exactly, adding that he had been to New York.
"Are you familiar with New Jersey?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he replied.
"How so?" I inquired, figuring he'd tell me that like many Irish, he has family here that he visits often.
That, however, was not meant to be. "When I was in New York City, I was looking for a Sears store," he told me. "I asked around, and they told me to go to a mall in New Jersey."
*sigh*
I travel over 3000 miles, and I still can't escape the "New Jersey, land of the Malls" label.
I guess it could be worse. At least he didn't ask me if I know Tony Soprano. Or what exit I live at.
In the countryside of Southwestern Ireland, there's a huge nature refuge called Killarney National Park. Amid all of the greenery, there's a lovely set of lakes, and you can take a boat ride from one end to the castle at the other side.
The boatmen provide facts about the scenery, along with some random conversation and Irish humor. During a lull in his presentation, Dermott, the boatman, asked me where I was from. When I told him "just outside New York," he asked where, exactly, adding that he had been to New York."Are you familiar with New Jersey?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he replied.
"How so?" I inquired, figuring he'd tell me that like many Irish, he has family here that he visits often.
That, however, was not meant to be. "When I was in New York City, I was looking for a Sears store," he told me. "I asked around, and they told me to go to a mall in New Jersey."
*sigh*
I travel over 3000 miles, and I still can't escape the "New Jersey, land of the Malls" label.
I guess it could be worse. At least he didn't ask me if I know Tony Soprano. Or what exit I live at.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Monday, August 14, 2006
Some cats take their jobs way too seriously.Jack is a 10 year old cat who lives in the rural town of West Milford, NJ. He doesn't like people much and generally earns his keep by patrolling his family's yard and that of two neighboring homes.
A few weeks ago, Jack's neighbor was looking outside her back window and saw him on the ground, looking up at a treed bear. According to the Newark Star Ledger, she thought, "aw, look at the kitty staring up at the bear!" Then she noticed the bear was looking nervously down at the 15-pound cat.
The bear finally got up enough courage to inch down the tree and jump down. Jack took chase into the woods and treed the bear once again. The bear was rescued, kind of, when Jack's person called him back to the house. Reportedly, the orange tabby sauntered back home and rubbed against the amazed neighbors who'd stopped by to see what the fuss was about.
By explanation, his mom said, "He doesn't want anybody in his yard."
Just goes to show what you can do with an intimidating stare and some cojones. Jack has no claws.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Mystery door update
As Shellpile readers will recall, I've got a mysterious door in my garage that leads to who knows where. I've got a lead on a good skeleton key, but in the meantime, I noticed today that there's an industrial-grade electrical juncture-type box near the mystery door. On closer examination, it appears to have been a light switch at one time. The actual switch is no longer there, but the hole for the toggle remains. One would think that a light switch would be placed next to a door that led from inside the building to the garage.
Upon closer scrutiny of the building schematics, however, it appears the door may lead to storage space.
In any case, there's still light shining through the keyhole. Wouldn't it be weird if it led to the Asbury Park Casino?
As Shellpile readers will recall, I've got a mysterious door in my garage that leads to who knows where. I've got a lead on a good skeleton key, but in the meantime, I noticed today that there's an industrial-grade electrical juncture-type box near the mystery door. On closer examination, it appears to have been a light switch at one time. The actual switch is no longer there, but the hole for the toggle remains. One would think that a light switch would be placed next to a door that led from inside the building to the garage.Upon closer scrutiny of the building schematics, however, it appears the door may lead to storage space.
In any case, there's still light shining through the keyhole. Wouldn't it be weird if it led to the Asbury Park Casino?
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