Resurrection

I live within ten miles of the North Jersey coastline. No, not the Jersey Shore, the Jersey coastline. Up by me, that means the thin estuaries that wind between and among our own coastline, Staten Island and a bunch of smaller islands in between. It's complicated -- you might want to look at a map.

The Dutch, who were the first to settle in New York (and that's a cool story for another time), called the waterways the Kill Van Kull and Arthur Kill. "Kill" means, more or less, 'deep trench between steep banks,' or a navigable estuary. The word is a fairly common part of many places in the region, particularly in the Hudson Valley of New York. Plattekill and Fishkill are just a few examples.

The old line about the Arthur Kill and Kill Van Kull is that they were aptly named because the condition of the water there would kill anything that attempted to make either one a home. Located, as they are, in a very industrial part of the state, the waterways became dumping grounds for all manners of chemicals and trash. And more than a few people who crossed La Cosa Nostra slept with the fishes there, if any fish were there to begin with. Adding insult to injury, refineries downstream befouled the water with oil spills periodically. Cost of doing business, eh, Exxon?

I'd heard that things were on the upswing and that birders were actually seeing some notable waterfowl at a new park off of Elizabethport. Grabbing the camera, cell phone and binocs, I was on my way, with a vague idea of how to get there.

After wandering through an industrial area full of ancient factories, I came upon a small parking area leading to a short pier looking out into the Kill. A clutch of Hispanic men were standing around, eating lunch, salsa music blaring from their cars.Beyond the pier, a paved walkway stretched alongside the water, so I took a stroll down a bit. What struck me was the smell: that briny odor that comes from salt water and seaweed. No putrefaction, no funky industrial stench. Seagulls and ducks plied the waters; the geese that are omnipresent in New Jersey were surprisingly absent. In the distance was the Bayonne Bridge, the Newark skyline and the container cranes of Port Newark. The worst thing I could say was that the phragmites had choked out any spartina that might have been there.






Still, I was a little freaked out about the lack of people around, and I noticed that a couple of well, Tony Soprano-looking guys were milling around the pier area, so I made my leave.

A bit farther down the road, there was a larger parking area and marina next to a new development of market-rate townhouses. Traffic was a bit denser and friendlier; a Slavic man posed his wife and recalcitrant son on the boardwalk to take their picture against the backdrop of the remote reaches of Staten Island.

The small marina nearby was tidy, with a few craft still in the water and more in dry storage. Apparently, boating on the Kill was a real option, as most of the boats didn't look as if they were cut out for seafaring. Perhaps the future residents of the new townhomes would have their chance to motor out on the waters to enjoy a nice evening cocktail and watch the sun set over Elizabeth.


They certainly wouldn't be fishing. While the blue crab and some fin fish have returned to the Kill, it's unclear whether they're still picking up the residue of the nasty chemicals that were dumped there for so many years. It's a shame, too. Judging from the warning signs in Spanish and Portuguese, the locals have been fishing off the piers. It'll be quite some time before they'll be able to bring dinner home from a day at the Kill.

Damaged goods

About a year and a half ago, I had a bit of a scare. When I went in for my annual mammogram, the radiologist saw an irregularity on the films for my left breast. A set of enlarged images were inconclusive; an ultrasound was ambiguous, so the doctor gave me a referral for an MRI at the hospital. I joked that they'd taken enough pictures that they could spare one for me to post on my refrigerator door, but when I left the place, I fell apart. I thought, this kind of stuff doesn't happen to me, as if I should somehow be exempt.

When I had a couple of hours to reason it through, I concluded that being referred for an MRI didn't mean I had cancer. People get them for hangnails these days, for Pete's sake. My logic told me that if I didn't have good insurance, the radiologist would have just told me to come back in six months for another round of uncomfortable squashes.

I had to wait about ten days to have the MRI, which, of course, gave me plenty of time to think, read up and rehearse all of the worst case scenarios. I figured that even if it came to cancer, they'd caught it early enough, I'd make it through okay and had plenty of years ahead of me. It was other stuff that got to me.

I wasn't very concerned about potentially losing the breast or having disfiguring surgery, despite the fact that many men have made much of that specific part of my anatomy. One of my friends long ago had even referred to the line made famous by Teri Hatcher in an episode of Seinfeld -- "they're real, and they're spectacular." I considered that there was a serious possibility that the statement would become only half true, but okay, that just meant that I'd have another funny line to toss out there from time to time.

I did worry about becoming damaged goods if the worst case scenario came to be. People I mentioned it to immediately assumed that it was about body image, but it wasn't. I wondered if anyone would want to be with someone who'd have the needs I'd have. I wasn't in a relationship at the time, and I doubted that anyone would want to get involved with someone who needed to be taken care of the degree I envisioned. Heck, I have a hard time asking a boyfriend to bring over a carton of orange juice when I have a cold. Who'd sign up to hold my hair back while I vomited from the chemo treatments?

Some people are actually seek out the prospect of being involved with someone who is in need of care. I find it both creepy and demeaning that someone would find me more attractive because I was sick or handicapped. I don't need a hero. Besides, I'd always suspect that it wasn't me they wanted -- it was the feeling of rescuing someone. And let's face it: that could be anyone.

And, I guess, I was looking at it from the other perspective. Until fairly recently, I've never been all that great about 'being there' for sick friends; I think I've always assumed that I'd be imposing on them, that I wasn't close enough to insert myself into such a private situation. Pretty selfish of me, huh? I suspect I might have actually lost a friend because of it.

I had the MRI (not the most comfortable experience, but tolerable), and it turned out everything was okay. In fact, my next mammogram was totally normal, and I'm half convinced it's due to a healing chod I attended, performed by Buddhist monks. (or as the radiologist joked, "Boobist.")

Still, though, it's made me think more about the concept of damaged goods, and the implications. Some people's grave limitations are visible in a handicap. Others don't manifest themselves until you've gotten to know the person well and you come to realize he or she has a serious emotional or mental problem. Having limitations and being able to attract others -- as I feared I wouldn't be able to -- is all in how quickly and easily other people can see the problem.

The irony of it all is that many times the people with the physical limitations are the healthier ones, the more positive ones, the ones who aren't going to create all kinds of head games.

Credit where credit is due

Anyone who's gone to school or had a job has had the nasty experience of someone else trying to take credit for their work. I can remember it happening as early as the third grade, when one of my classmates took my work out of the teacher's in-basket, erased my name and scribbled their own in its place. As if.

Apparently this phenomenon may be deeply rooted in animal instinct.

A friend tells me that when she was a child, her mom regularly walked their mutt Lady with a neighbor, who was absolutely nuts about her poodle Pierre. The purebred couldn't do anything without being praised to the sky, including, uh, taking a dump. He'd dutifully trot to the curb to do his business, and as he squatted, she'd kvell over him as if he'd just won the Nobel Prize. My friend's mom never commented on anything Lady did. It was enough to give the poor dog a complex.

At a point, though, Lady caught on. Desperately seeking approval and praise, she would stoop over other dogs' droppings whenever she found them. She'd look up with pleading eyes, waiting for someone to notice and lavish her with kind words. It never worked, because the droppings were usually old and dessicated. In fact, if her human were convinced they were Lady's, the poor dog would have been in for an enema.

So, what's the point of the story? Well, I guess it's that if you're going to stoop over someone else's poop, all you're going to get credit for is shit. If that.

Change?

I'm reminded lately of the presidential inauguration in 1993, when the keys to the White House went to the other party for the first time in 12 years. Being that we worked for Democratic lobbyists/fundraisers who were hobnobbing in Washington that day, my coworkers and I figured we had carte blanche to watch the swearing-in on the boardroom TV.

Sitting in the room with us was our lone Republican lobbyist, a major fundraiser for the elder Bush. He was a good guy (for a lobbyist, at least) but obviously wasn't in the jolliest mood, so we stepped lightly around him that day. As the bunch of us scanned crowd shots to see if we could find our bosses, one of the guys said to the Republican, "Look at the bright side, Bill. You guys had a good run. It was just time for a change."

Another of the junior staff chimed in: "Yeah. Presidents are like bedsheets. After a while you have to change them, or they get moldy."

Who knows. If things get weird enough in this election, you may actually see that on a bumper sticker.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

Mondays I usually have an appointment after work and don't feel much like cooking dinner. Tonight was no exception, so I called my local Chinese take-out on the way home.

The place where I go is always in disarray. The kitchen looks clean, but the small customer dining area is overrun with soda crates and cardboard boxes. Thus, there's nowhere to sit and read a paper while you wait. Usually I just zone out, but tonight I noticed some folding red tissue dragons hanging from the ceiling. Ah, it's that time of year -- Chinese New Year!

After three or four minutes, the counter girl came up with my order and we transacted our business. As a parting note, I wished her a happy new year.

You'd have thought I told her she won a million dollars. "You know my holiday?" she exclaimed, smiling.

"Yes, of course! Who doesn't?" And off I went, smiling.

That had me grinning from ear to ear all the way home and halfway through my shrimp chow mein. Sometimes it doesn't take much.

An open letter to Victoria's Secret

There's no need to send me more catalogs.

Seriously.

Especially three times a week. I really don't need to replace my underwear often enough to warrant that kind of barrage. I only have two breasts and two butt cheeks. And it's not like I'm going to Tom Jones concerts on a regular basis.

Also, there are no men in my household looking for soft-core porn, if you're intending your mailing to serve as that.

So, please stop. Really.

Poultry perambulations

I grew up in a town that was once mostly farmland, as a lot of New Jersey was before World War Two. Yes, even areas within a 25 mile radius of New York City were pasture or fields of corn, tomatoes, whatever produce you'd find in the supermarket. Over time, especially after the war, the farms were replaced by suburban neighborhoods. Nonetheless, a few produce stands and even some small farms are still around today. They sell mostly shrubbery, trees, flower plants and other stuff you'd use to spruce up your landscaping.

One such stand is on a busy street in my old hometown. While the farmland long ago disappeared under tract housing, the stand lives on. In fact, the owners kept a cranky old rooster, who strutted around the property and pecked at anyone he didn't like.

My bank had a branch a half block down and across the street from the place. A few years ago, I was driving there when I saw the ornery rooster standing on the center line of the street, frantically turning his head back and forth, perplexed. Not a sight you often see these days in suburban New Jersey.

Aloud, I asked myself, "Why is that chicken crossing the road?"

I started laughing so hard that I had to pull over.

Fast forward a few years. On a lark, I submitted the rooster encounter to the New York Times for the "New Jersey Diary" they used to carry. It appeared a few weeks later with a kicker from the editor: "Why did the chicken cross the road? To open a chicking account."

I swear, it's all absolutely true.

How many miles to the gallon?

In a 1987 find only publicized recently, scientists in Uruguay discovered the remains of a rodent the size of a small car, along the country's coast. The 1-ton creature is believed to have been 3 meters in length and 1.5 meters tall, and is a precursor to the guinea pigs that so many of us had as kids. (Well, not me, but you get the point.)

Lest you get too freaked out, remember that in nature, there's usually a predator around who's at least as big, if not bigger, than any given creature wandering around the wild. Apparently prehistoric South America really was not the place to be if you were smaller than a Volkswagen. Those studying the remains believe that the bulked-up rodent might have roamed the earth during the same period as saber-toothed tigers, the bodega cats of their day. Kinda gives you a sense of perspective about the Taco Bell rats and all of that.

What really freaked me out was that the first article I read about these giant rodents said nothing about WHEN they'd inhabited the earth. Maybe I should have assumed that they were long gone, but the way the story was written, you couldn't be too sure. Way to go, Time.com! Y'all know what happens when you assume...

Travel 50 miles for a dog and fries?

Despite the stereotype of overcrowding, traffic jams and overall bedlam, there are parts of western New Jersey where you could swear nobody lives. It's most surprising when one of those traffic-clogged retail-zoo-of-a-highways shrinks to a two-lane back road to nowhere. U.S. 46 is one of them, which I discovered only a few years ago. Its westernmost leg in Warren County rambles through small towns where there are more falling-down houses than there are occupied ones.

Buttzville is one of those communities, except for one tiny part. Much the way the population of the small town of Park City, Utah, swells exponentially during the Sundance Film Festival, a tiny corner of this tiny town becomes the most densely populated place in New Jersey when Hot Dog Johnny's is open.

The roadside stand does a brisk summertime business, having stood between the scenic Pequest River and U.S. 46 for 60 years. While there are places with better hot dogs much closer to where I live (Galloping Hill Inn, for one), none of them compares to Hot Dog Johnny's setting. You can enjoy your meal at picnic benches near the river while the kids play on the swingset, or just sit on the hood of your car, watching the Harley riders kick up gravel as they pull into the lot. It seems like everyone within 20 miles gravitates to the open-air counters to order up hot dogs, fries and root beer in frosty mugs. In other words, it's packed.

Today, I took a wrong turn onto 46 in Hackettstown and figured what the heck, may as well check out Johnny's. Chances were that they wouldn't be open, or at least business would be slow. Nobody would be fishing in the Pequest in the below-freezing weather, nor would most pleasure riders be out on their motorcyles.

Boy, was I wrong. The sign read "open all year," and the gravel parking lot was full. They'd installed wooden walls to create a vestibule around the counter area, which was packed. Service was brisk and friendly, as always, and there was nowhere to sit in the enclosed dining area. It was way too cold to sit by the river, so back to the car it was.

I'm not quite sure why there were so many people there. A gaggle of teenagers was debating how many logoed t-shirts to get, so maybe it was the tourist trade after all. Johnny's is on the hot dog circuit for devotees of the tube steak, so that could account for some of it.

Nonetheless, I do kind of wonder if these people come out of the woodwork when I get there, the way the fabled 'satan cults' just happen to be on the same desolate road where some teenager's car breaks down. Or maybe everyone gets the itch the same time I do to drive an hour for a dog fried in peanut oil.

Ranger Envy

I don't know what it is, but every time I go to one of the National Park Service sites, I have fantasies about becoming a park ranger. Not one of those Ranger Rick types who keep Yogi away from the pic-i-nic basket, though the nature stuff is very cool. I'm more into the stories behind the places.

Rangers have the enviable privilege of showing people the finer points of historic places, and sometimes, if you let on that you're as fascinated by history as they are, they'll clue you in on some stuff they don't ordinarily share. It might be a fact few people know, or they might let you into a room others don't get to see. In any case, I sometimes wonder if they get the urge to lie from time to time. Nothing very big, like there being a basement in the Alamo. Just something relatively plausible.

I've visited the Thomas Edison historical site in West Orange, NJ several times. It's about 20 miles from Menlo Park, where he and his 'muckers' invented the light bulb (and the town was renamed Edison in his honor). The West Orange site was where his manufacturing facility was, and where his famous research and development labs were. Touring that site, your head spins with the massive number of things invented and conceived of there, many of which are just now being reconceptualized, like the electric car. More on that another time.

After moving operations to West Orange and marrying his second, considerably younger wife Mina, he bought a house close to the office, in Llewellen Park, a still-tony and magnificent enclave of homes for the wealthy. Mina basically ran the house, which was called Glenmont; Edison himself usually slept on a cot in his library at the lab and when he was home he wasn't exactly the life of the party.

When you visit Glenmont, some of the rangers will take you beyond the usual living room/conservatory/study/bedrooms tour and let you see the inner workings of the household. That's how I got to see the cook's kitchen on a small tour. Besides me and the ranger, two folks from Ohio or somewhere were on the tour, and they kept asking ridiculous questions that only proved they hadn't been listening. You know, stuff that's so anachronistic that you have to laugh, like did Jesus ride a dinosaur, or something like that.

Well, we get to the kitchen, and the ranger points out the stove. Edison, he noted, was rarely home in time for dinner, and it was a real hassle for the help to keep a coal-fired stove going so he could have a warm meal whenever he got around to coming home. Not wanting her dear Tom to eat a cold dinner, Mina had installed the very first gas-fired stove in all of West Orange.

Somehow, the Ohio visitors weren't making the connection, so I helpfully added, "you know, that was before Edison invented the microwave oven." They nodded in acknowledgment. Ah, now it makes sense. The ranger just looked at me, raised his eyes heavenward and went on with the tour, noting that Mina lived in the house well after her husband's death in 1931.

Open gates, open doors

I've been visiting Sandy Hook for at least 10 years now, and I pretty much figured that I'd found everything there is to explore. When I started off on my jaunt today, I figured this visit would be dedicated mostly to walking the tideline and maybe spending a half hour or so on the birding platform on North Beach. When I grabbed the binoculars from my closet, I also pulled out the camera and my new videocamera, figuring that I could get some shots of the tide or something.

Little was I to know that I'd run into several open doors.

Driving in, I stopped by the Nike exhibit -- a fenced in Nike Ajax and sample operations trailer like the one inside the base down the road. It's actually across the road from the launch facility. While the launch area was off limits, the gate in the fence around the exhibit wasn't locked, so I was able to get some close-ups of the trailer interior, albeit from the outside. I made a quick stop at the base, too, to do a quick video travelogue of the buildings and equipment one can see from outside the fence.

A little farther up the road, I stopped, for some reason, at another narrow parking area, and found that a wooden gate across the far end of the driveway was open. Seeing nobody around and no signs warning to the contrary, I drove through to find several picnic areas I'd never known were even there. They reminded me of the camping areas at national parks out west -- sheltered picnic benches, a grill and maybe a water spigot. Pictures of Boy Scouts cleaning up the Nike base were posted on a nearby bulletin board. That made me wonder if I could hike from there to the edge of the base. I parked the car beyond the gate and walked on in.

All I found was a clearing with some sort of structure surrounded by railroad ties. When I got back to the road, someone had shut and padlocked the gate I'd driven through earlier. That was a close call.

At the very tip of the hook, I stopped by Nine Gun battery, a massive artillery staging structure built in 1902 and now decaying in the ocean air. It's probably about a quarter-mile long, stretching along North Beach. Long ago the Park Service encircled it with a five-foot fence and posted signs warning explorers to stay out, but I'd heard stories of people finding ways of getting in to wander the corridors.

Oddly enough, I came upon another gate, much like the one for the backyard of my childhood home. No lock, no blocking of any sort beyond the sign reading "EXTREMELY HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS AREA CLOSED." I checked the latch, which moved easily in my hand. I could just nudge it open, push the gate forward and walk right in. The doorways and stairs of the battery invited me in, but I thought better of exploring solo. My luck, I'd get swallowed up by it all.

My last destination was a quick ride along Officers' Row, the gorgeous old housing that's mostly been left to decay on the bayshore side of the Hook. One of the buildings has been made into a 40's era home museum, and some of the smaller ones house non-profit organizations focused on environmental issues. The others are simply sealed shut, inviting the curious to climb the rickety porches to peer in at the peeling tin ceilings and plaster walls.

Out of habit, I gazed at the houses as I passed each in turn. Then I saw an open front door. Temptation.

I pulled around to the service road and parked behind one of the houses. After a short walk I found the open door. It blew open with a passing gust, and then fell back, inviting me to approach, but I was a bit apprehensive of what might be inside, and that the porch would cave under my weight. Besides, now that the door was open, I could see from the sidewalk that it only led to a vestibule. The inner door was most likely locked, anyway.

Like a good scout, I took note of the house number and reported the situation at the Park Ranger office. Some invitations may be best accepted at a later time, when conditions have improved.

Campaign cease fire: an idea whose time has come

Columnist Fran Wood, in today's Newark Star-Ledger, gives voice to what we're all thinking: with nearly a year before we elect a new president, most voters are already weary of the campaign. And perhaps the candidates, in their own ways, feel the same way.

Fran goes on to note that Rudy Giuliani's recent run to the hospital was just the result of his body saying "enough already." Hey, I know what it's like to go full tilt for days or weeks, only to wake up one day with a crushing headache that won't let me leave my bed. It's the body's way of saying, "hey, bonehead, slow down!" Fran opines that maybe sleep deprivation isn't the best thing to encourage in the future leader of the free world, whoever he or she may ultimately be.

So, we're weary of them, they're probably weary of the campaign but won't admit it. Why don't we all take a vacation?

Hey: it could work. After, say, ten days of campaigning, all of the candidates could call a two-day cease fire. Nobody makes personal appearances. Nobody does media interviews or issues announcements. Nobody takes cheap shots at anyone else. The media caravan reports on something else for two days, like the celebri-trash of the moment. The news shows won't have any problem filling the airtime. As one of the news directors at the Rutgers student radio station used to say, if you can't find any news, go make some up.

Everyone comes back relaxed -- tan, rested and ready for the next phase. Ultimately, the time off might give everyone the chance to think a bit more about what's being said and what we all really believe in. At the very least, we'll get some relief from the constant, incessant buzz.

TΔH
"Courage is more exhilarating than fear, and in the long run it is easier. We do not have to become heroes overnight."

- Eleanor Roosevelt

What's old is new again

Seen at the FDR Presidential Library in Hyde Park, NY. A bit ironic, don't you think?

Are you playing square, W?

Happy Festivus...

Seen in Times Square on Christmas Eve. One could only hope they didn't intend what this looks like.

Asbury Park, again

Dark, cloudy day today -- one of those days when you sense it could start raining any minute. What better time to go down the shore?

Choices were Avalon, Shellpile, Sandy Hook and Asbury Park. So I took AP, wondering how far the resurrection of the Casino had progressed since my last visit in September. Oh, and I was wondering if the Metropolitan Hotel had met the wrecking ball yet.

The Metropolitan is one of those old high-class seaside hotels, 180 sleeping rooms, a nice restaurant, lounge with entertainment, the whole nine yards. Like much of the rest of historic Asbury Park, it's fallen into hard times, having its share of failed renovation attempts, blocked by corrupt, bribe-seeking local politicians.

My exploring buddy and I had had loose plans to check out the exterior a few weeks ago, when I'd read about the impending demolition, but the trip never came to be. I honestly expected the place to be reduced to rubble, so I was a bit surprised to see it still standing.

Given that the ominous weather and general desolation of the place made me a bit nervous, I just took a few shots from the car. Check out this site for much better photos than I was able to get.

Despite everything, the boardwalk was a bit creepy, too, and the wind off the ocean was cutting, so I didn't stay too long. Looks as if they're still doing work inside the carousel house, but nothing is going on within the rest of the Casino property. Weirdly enough, the pedestrian walkway is still open; in fact, lamps have been installed to up-light some of the architectural detail of the interior plaster.

Only a few people were on the boardwalk, and all but one of the storefronts were shuttered. A newish restaurant next to the Casino has limited hours over the winter but is still open for the hearty folk who walk or run the boards for exercise. Business wasn't very good today.


After strolling the boardwalk and taking pictures for about ten minutes or so, I decided enough was plenty and went back to my car.

I stopped in the revitalized shopping district on Cookman Avenue, which consists largely of antique stores and cutely-named restaurants and coffee houses. There were a few people window shopping, more having lunch, but still, I wondered how the establishments were holding up financially.

I found a place that has, among other things, a vintage framed Two Guys bag for sale, plus some fun tchotchkes, tableware, etc. Chatted a bit with the shopkeeper, who told me that foot traffic is kind of uneven but promising. I mentioned that I visit Asbury periodically to take pictures of the Casino, and on his asking how the boardwalk was today, I replied, "Creepy."

"Well, that's what you're looking for, right?"

Gotta love a kindred spirit.

A working class cat is a fine thing to be (be bop)

An article in today's New York Times chronicled the phenomenon of bodega cats, the blue-collar felines who keep their shops free of vermin. As anyone who's lived or worked in a large city knows, where there's food, there's inevitably a rodent, so a good mouser is worth his or her weight in gold. And when compared to the cost and inconvenience of exterminators, the investment in kitty litter, veterinary care and some canned food is minimal. Felix comes in, rats disappear. It's that simple.

The New York Department of Health feels otherwise. Apparently, where they're concerned, having a cat in a corner market or a restaurant is as bad as having rats. Fines for having any kind of animal range from $300 to $2000 or more.

I can understand some of the reluctance to have a free-range cat in a restaurant kitchen or behind the deli counter, but the bodega issue doesn't make sense to me. The equations are simple:

Food = rats, inevitably

Food + exterminators = rats that crawl off and die in inconvenient places

The question isn't whether there are rats, it's where are they and how long will it take them to return between pest control visits. No matter what you do, they're a fact of life for anyone who runs a food establishment in New York.

So the choices seem to be:

1. Ban the cats and constantly deal with rats gnawing at food packages and leaving God knows what around to spread disease.
2. Let the cats do what comes naturally.

Anyone who's seen the video of the Greenwich Village Taco Bell rat infestation knows the answer. There, the rats looked about as big as cats and scurried around freely after the store closed for the night. One might wonder what three or four felines would have been able to accomplish there. Fast food franchisees might even want to consider rotating crews of cats to patrol their stores once a week or so.

I don' t know about you, but given the option of seeing a cat in a restaurant, or a mouse, I'll always choose Morris over Mickey. So maybe the Department of Health can come up with a compromise: let the cats stay, but require them to be tested on a regular basis for the disease and parasites rats carry. Their inspectors can check the cat's health records when they come to rate the establishment. And perhaps it will get a few more homeless animals out of the shelters and off the streets.

Help! I'm being held captive in a forced-labor Chinese fortune cookie factory!

Calling Sister Bertrille!

Apparently the latest extreme sport is flying. Like Batman, but without the Batcopter. Just a winglike jumpsuit, helmet and a parachute for a smooth landing.

My exploring buddy sent me a video of guys doing this ... saying I should give it a try. And the very next day, the New York Times runs a story on it, featuring a practitioner of the sport who is planning to do a flight sans parachute, landing on his belly. Two mentions in 24 hours. Must be something to it.

Now, is it just me, or do these guys look like the Flying Nun? You remember her. She was the 90 pound novitiate who discovered that the wacky wimple of her order had special aerodynamic qualities. It would explain why Sally Field is hawking osteoporosis meds: gotta have strong bones to land on your feet from an altitude of 500 feet.

In the interest of disclosure, I've done some skydiving, and had one ill-advised hang-gliding experience, and while the experiences were very, uh, interesting, I think I can say with some certainty that the best thing about having done both is that I can now say I've done them. After the third jump, I decided that I'd tempted fate enough, and maybe I should move on to something else meaningless and stupid. Like sailing from Portmagee to a speck of an island in the Atlantic in a 20 foot fishing boat.

But flying without a chute -- or real wings -- is going way far over the edge. Literally and figuratively. Unless your name is Rocket J. Squirrel.

Some would say that any of it is a bit reckless, but in the hierarchy of foolhardiness, skydiving doesn't even rank. First, it has some useful applications, i.e. surviving a plane wreck, landing behind enemy lines. In practice as an extreme sport, it has its advantages: you know you're headed in one direction -- down, more or less -- and the chute is just there to slow your descent. The necessary skill is the ability to slow down enough from terminal velocity to land without creating a crater.

The actual horizontal-type flying is a bit more dangerous, because you take gravity out of the equation. In other words, wings are there to keep you airborne. The potential for hitting something has just grown to include things you can fly into as well as things you could fall down onto. Danger in 3-D. How appetizing.

Having been affixed to a giant wing and towed to 2000 feet by an ultralight plane (read: giant wing with lawnmower engine and beach chair attached), I have a little insight into what it's like to fly at bird level and see the landscape for miles. It's pretty cool, if the thermals haven't kicked up for the day.

Flying over and next to cliffs is a bit different. Way too much opportunity to do a Wile E. Coyote into a cliff wall. And this guy wants to do it without a parachute, landing belly-first on the ground like a plane with malfunctioning landing gear.

Sorry - I'll pass. Even the video makes me a little oozhy.

It does remind me, though, that I have to schedule something stupid. It's been too long.

My turn en pointe

Shortly after the New Jersey Performing Arts Center (NJPAC) opened in Newark, the American Ballet Theater staged a series of holiday season performances of Cinderella. As is customary, they put the call out for supernumeraries - extras - to fill the stage at the needed times. Since those roles require no dance skills, the troupe saves the cost of paid performers and takes walk-ons. I'm not a big ballet aficionado, but since I was working in Newark, anyway, I went to check it out.

The "audition" was little more than lining up in height order. The children needed to demonstrate a little grace since they'd be on stage as the Seasons, but beyond that, we adults had no idea what criteria we were being judged on. I Hope I Get It, indeed.

I was chosen as an "extra super" (an extra extra, as it were) who would participate in performances only if one of the other adults didn't show up. We were required to be there for several rehearsals and were expected to arrive an hour before each performance, regardless of when we appeared in the program. Most of us appeared only in the wedding scene, the last three minutes of the show. That meant a lot of waiting around in the large group dressing room upstairs, watching the show on closed-circuit TV.

Being backstage was a pretty cool experience. I got an up-close view of the dancers' athleticism and the hard work they put into their craft. It was also fun to watch the reactions of the little girls who were chosen to be the Seasons in the show. Looking up to the dancers with awe, they went totally over the moon when some of the ballerinas gave them their battered toe shoes.

One of the things I learned was that traditionally, the wicked stepsisters in Cinderella are played by men, I guess to ensure that they're ugly women. The dressing room for those dancers was right next to ours, so we'd clear the way for them in the hall when they'd run between scenes to change costumes. They were pretty nice guys, happy to chat with the ballet groupies among the extras.

On the Sunday of the show's run, we had three or four hours between performances, and while several of the supers went home for an early dinner, I chose to hang out at the PAC. As I sipped my clam chowder, I suddenly heard random shouting and groans, and then progressively louder audio from a football game. Sticking my head out the dressing room door, I found the wicked stepsisters watching a playoff game on the closed-circuit TV in the hallway. That would have been fine, but it was just a little weird to see two extraordinarily ugly "women" wearing heavy rouge and stripped down to their bloomers, cursing the referee. I've seen a lot of weird things at football games, but that one takes the cake.

Anyway... ultimately, I appeared in about a dozen performances since one of the "regular" supers decided she was too good to show up at the appointed hour before the curtain rose. For ten days, once a night and twice on each weekend day, I stood two people away from the Fairy Godmother during the wedding scene. I never got up the nerve to ask her to help me find my prince charming, but then, glass slippers tend to cause blisters.

Under the pre-text

A recent article on Slate.com bemoaned the death of e-mail in favor of text messaging. When you consider that e-mail as a medium has been around for over 20 years now, I guess it's not surprising. Nevertheless, I posit that we've still got some time to go before it goes the way of 8-track tapes.

People are apt to say that this is another one of those youth-driven trends. However, I've been noticing with greater frequency that middle-aged folks are doing it, too. It became most evident to me when I started dating again. At first I thought it was something the men had learned from their teenagers, but then I got a number of texts from a man with no kids. Come to think of it, he had the maturity level of a 17 year old, so it made sense.

Though I do text at times, I'm still trying to reason the whole thing out. Yes, texting is useful when you're in a place where it would be rude to talk on the phone: business meetings, funerals, group therapy sessions. It's also helpful for quick reminders: "pick up milk," "meet me at 8," or, in the case of a text a former boyfriend got from his ex-wife, "you continue to be a complete asshole." It does have a sense of immediacy that's lost when you step away from your PC, but I just don't see it totally replacing e-mail as a mode of communication. You can't really get a good story across in 150 characters or less (well, the ex's ex did). And those little buttons are tough on your thumbs.

Going the next step, I'm totally mystified as to why some people have entire conversations by text. For God's sake, they have a phone in their hands! They could just dial the number and talk, which is much quicker than the back and forth with thumbs flying. And texting while driving brings it to a new level of absurdity. Potentially lethal absurdity. If it's really that important, pull over and make the call.

So what is it that people are avoiding? If we're so loathe to actually talk, or to share more than a dozen words at a time, maybe we need to reconsider our relationships.

Spy vs. Spy

A squadron of nuclear weapons ringed major U.S. cities during the Cold War, undetected by the vast majority of Americans. Until the development of intercontinental ballistic missiles in the early 70's, the last defense America had against Soviet incursion was the Nike Ajax missile, and then the nuclear-tipped Nike Hercules. And many Nike bases were located in suburban neighborhoods, not always or entirely known by the residents of the split-level ranches nearby.

Most of the bases have been dismantled, but there's still one in pretty decent shape at Fort Hancock on Sandy Hook in New Jersey. It's within the Gateway National Recreation Area, which was created in 1974 after the Department of Defense decommissioned it and transferred ownership to the National Park Service.

I had the opportunity to check out the base a few weeks ago. There's just one missile on display, unarmed, and the golfball-shaped covers aren't on the radar platforms anymore, but the control centers are still there. About the size of a small Ryder rental truck, they could easily be pulled up and trucked to another location, just like an old-time diner. Oh, and they're incredibly ugly and depressing inside, kind of like a submarine.

The Park Service is allegedly working to stabilize and restore the base, but right now they're letting visitors check out the trailers and other parts of the base in their current, crappy condition. Though the electronics have been removed, you can still get a sense of the technology that once tracked and controlled nuclear weaponry. It's pretty wild to think that there's more powerful circuitry in my pocket PC than there was in that whole set up. In fact, our guide pulled out a huge floppy disc, the older, bigger brother to the 5-1/4 floppies I remember from my early computing days. Oh, and while there are still plenty of switches and dials on the control panels, someone thoughtfully removed "the button." I guess you can never be too careful.

I also got a kick out of an old phone booth on the base. It still had a rotary phone with a 201 number, though that area code hasn't been accurate in nearly 20 years. It seemed weirdly out of place, a relic of normalcy in a kind of surreal doomsday environment. My thoughts turned to the scene in the satirical Dr. Strangelove , when the one sane officer left on the base is reduced to using a pay phone to contact the Pentagon during an attack ... and Ma Bell won't spot him the 55 cents for the long-distance call. You have to wonder if the Fort Hancock phone booth is there for the one sane officer left... And, of course, there's always Maxwell Smart and the secret entrance to CONTROL. In any case, the Park Service is keeping it there for eventual restoration.

As I took a few snapshots, I realized that had I gotten into the base with a camera 40 years ago, I'd have landed in a military jail. Now photos of the equipment are posted here, for all to see, without any penalty to me. Maybe some Russian blogger like me has posted photos of nuke base phone booths, too. Glasnost.

The frost is on the pumpkin...

... the long pants are on the UPS delivery guys.

Well, the shorts had a good, long run this year.

Partly cloudy with a chance of shorts

It's been unusually warm lately in New Jersey. Not freakishly warm, just enough to mean you don't need a jacket most of the time, sometimes even at night. That's kind of strange for mid October.

At the same time, I've noticed that UPS drivers are still wearing their famous brown shorts at this late date. Now, as a much referenced article in the Onion joked a few years ago, many people believe that the start of spring is heralded by the first set of bare UPS knees they see.

Conversely, perhaps autumn is ushered in by the disappearance of said knees beneath a pair of trusty brown trousers. This year, though, it doesn't seem to be happening.

I've often wondered if there's some sort of corporate policy, an annual memo, perhaps, that tells the drivers to change from long pants to short. Maybe the memo didn't go out this fall. Or, maybe there's something more sinister going on.

Not to belabor this global warming thing, but in recent years we've seen and heard much about the indications of an environment in peril. Usually it's the polar ice cap. Sometimes it's tropical sea animals showing up in northern climes. Maybe now it's the UPS guys.

Maybe they know something we don't.

Why not do it anyway?

Al Gore winning the Nobel Peace Prize will certainly add more fuel to the global warming debate. You know, the war between the people who say it's going on and there's something we can do about it, and those who say it's all a bunch of hooey and climate change is all a part of the cycle of the earth's environment.

The thing that strikes me is that even if it is just a cycle (and I don't think that's the case), there's no harm in reducing pollution and conserving resources. No private citizen has a vested interest in having more pollution in the air. Major polluters, well, you can see that it costs them more to run clean operations than dirty, but that even seems a bit short sighted. After all, you gotta figure that your customer base will shrink a bit when you can buy shorefront property in Utah.

Don't just do something ... sit there!

My cat, like all cats, spends a lot of time virtually motionless. She'll either just lay on the living room windowsill, or curl up on the recliner or my bed. Sometimes she sprawls out on the parquet floor. And a lot of the time, she stares quite intently at some unknown spot in the distance.

Cats, more than most creatures, and certainly more than humans, don't have a need to be busy or occupied. They're perfectly happy to find a cozy spot or a nice sunbeam to lay within, and just let life pass until something (like a bird), gives them a reason to spring into action. Sometimes I like to think that they're trying to reason out some sort of Zen koan: where does the human go when she walks out the door?

In many ways, Hattie reminds me that we all need to stop and contemplate, just as much as we need to have activity and meet our daily obligations. In other words, sometimes those obligations need to include inactivity. We get so caught up in having to do something that doing nothing seems wasteful and unproductive, except maybe when we schedule it as part of a vacation. Many of us beat ourselves up about it. But sometimes maybe our bodies -- and our psyches -- force the rest time.

Other times it's the cat who forces us to slow down and just sit there. Sometimes they plant themselves in your lap and just won't get up.

Gives you pause.

Earlier today a friend and I were IM-ing about some work issue or another, and as we digressed, she mentioned that she'd volunteered at Ground Zero yesterday, helping families preserve cherished items their loved ones had left behind that fateful day. Gave her pause, she said. For one thing, it really put into perspective the budget cutting stuff we were talking about. Put in context, a few bucks for a multi-billion dollar corporation didn't mean squat. Definitely isn't one of those things that you'd put in your obituary.

Now, I guess that's not all that surprising to hear. Life and death being more important than business -- it's a fairly common sentiment, any day of the year. Nonetheless, it got me thinking.

I've sat in countless business meetings where people avoid the really difficult dilemmas in favor of picking apart and "solving" the easier stuff. You know -- rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. It's a very human tendency that makes us feel more in control. The big issue, well, nobody could have fixed that, but at least we decided what color to paint the hallway!

When you think about it, though, even the toughest of the business dilemmas are a lot easier to suss out than the really important things in life. Maybe that's why so many people get so out of whack and lose balance in their lives.

Consider it. Figuring out how to shave a half million dollars off a billion dollar budget is a hell of a lot easier than finding the one true love of your life. And all of the chair swapping of some pointless office decentralization is phenomenally less messy than figuring out what you're meant to be doing with your life. And really, anything you run into during a typical day at the office is a lot simpler than living each day as honestly, ethically and authentically as you can. Perhaps that's why so many people avoid the real life stuff in favor of work.

I know I'm not saying anything all that profound, and certainly there are others who could say it a lot more powerfully than I. We've all heard the bromides about living each day to the fullest, and how many of us pledged to see September 11 as a lesson or a message to live more authentically? But six years later, how many of us truly have?

I guess it all comes down to courage. It's a lot easier to be the person some company pays you to be for 50 hours a week, or the person that your family or your friends or teachers say you should be, rather than the person you were born to be. It's sure a lot easier to adopt someone else's mistaken view of who you are, versus trying to discover for yourself.

Then again, maybe we need to be kinder to ourselves when we're trying to work it out. Growing takes time, and it does take courage: courage that often doesn't come easily. Stop making pronouncements and just be.

And hope for the best.

Does Al Gore approve?

A recent Newsweek article outlined Honda's plans to outpace the iconic Toyota Prius with a new generation hybrid rumored to be the world's most fuel efficient car when it arrives in 2009.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit that I own a Honda and have never owned another brand. Love 'em to death. They're reliable, they're low-emission, and they just make sense. And Honda engineers never stop trying to solve long range challenges that other manufacturers haven't yet conceived of. You have to appreciate that.

The interesting thing is that Honda had really bad timing when it came to hybrids. A few years back, they stopped making the CRX coupe and replaced it with the 60 mpg Insight. I checked one out -- it made my own bare-bones CRX look like a loaded Jaguar by comparison -- but you had to give them credit for the effort. They were first out of the gate in the US, and the Insight had a truly unique body profile. People, namely the automotive press, said it just looked weird. They didn't sell very many. It was truly a car ahead of its time.

Then they pulled back and decided to focus on hybrid-izing the Civic and Accord. They even built an Accord whose electric/gas engine combo was designed not to improve gas mileage, but to add punch to the acceleration. (Personally, I think they were having a little fun with us on that one.) Meanwhile, Toyota introduced the rather distinctive and nicely appointed Prius.

Fast-forward a year or two to Hurricane Katrina, $3.50 a gallon gas and global warming. All of a sudden the average affluent Joe wants to look like a tree hugger and save a few bucks in the process. Does he go out and buy a Civic Hybrid? No -- he buys the car that tells everyone he drives a hybrid without him having to point out a small label under the model badge.

So, basically, the most fuel efficient car company in the world got its clock cleaned. (Not that I have an issue with Toyotas. They're good cars. They're just not Hondas.)

Now, of course, Honda is working on its own distinctive hybrid. I'd be happy enough if they'd just make a Civic hybrid coupe. Preferrably red. Right now you can get a sedan with a choice of colors restricted to white, silver, black, silver blue and gray. So not only are you a tree hugger, you're phenomenally boring. At least the Insight came in red. Dang. Shoulda gotten one.

On another note, Honda's new entry-level car is the cute and economical Fit. Nice car, but I can't conceive of owning one. I mean, imagine the dinner party conversation:

"So, what kind of car do you have?"

"I have a Fit."

"I understand. I had a fit when my mechanic couldn't fix my transmission. Now, what is it you drive?"

(Still, it's nowhere near as bad as the Ford Probe. Who came up with that name? A Ford exec who just came back from the proctologist?)

Dad's away ... let's have a party!

Friends in Australia tell me that Friday, September 7 has been declared a holiday in Sydney because George Bush is visiting the city. They don't like him, either, but they appreciate the day off.

One wonders: if he's left the country, why aren't we the ones partying?

Have fun dressing George for his visit!

Making air travel safe, one ridiculous restriction at a time.

On a recent visit to San Francisco, I dropped by Ghirardelli Square for one of their amazingly good hot fudge sundaes (containing, of course, the vanilla ice cream they're famous for). A sign caught my eye: Transportation Security Administration rules prohibit air travelers from bringing Ghirardelli's hot fudge on board as a carry-on item.

One might question this. If there are terrorists out there who are using fudge sauce as a weapon, well, now, that's terror. What's the strategy: fatten up the passengers so they can't get out of the plane?

In all seriousness, you have to wonder: why chocolate sauce? A quick glance at the TSA website suggests that it's permissible if it's carried in a three-ounce container. Now, I ask you, is that anywhere enough chocolate to satisfy a traveler on a cross-country flight? Haven't these guys ever heard of PMS?

I mean, really. On this most recent flight, they served a choice of cheese steak or cream of asparagus soup. Doesn't it seem like hot cheese whiz or a steaming bowl of creamy soup would do a lot more damage than some room-temperature fudge sauce?

Ya gotta wonder.

(Interestingly, while Googling "TSA," I discovered it's also the acronym for the Tourette Syndrome Association. Just coincidence, or a sly reference to the spontaneous swearing heard at airport security?)

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.

A wall in Asbury Park that's no longer there.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.