Is she kidding? (Please tell me she's kidding.)

So, the latest New Jersey political circus is the three-ring divorce suit between former governor and self-proclaimed gay American Jim McGreevey and his estranged wife, Dina Matos.

For the record, I was shocked by his proclamation four years ago. I'd always thought he was Canadian. In all seriousness, anyone who'd had any view into the state's political community knew it all along. Nobody really cared, and certainly few thought it was reason to resign. We all knew that it was more about the shady political dealings of his friends, and that they were coming dangerously close to his doorstep. And we didn't like him because he had a sense of entitlement that led him to honestly believe that, for example, he was right for spending state money on personal things like having his parents accompany him on an official/sightseeing tour of Ireland.

Apparently Dina got the entitlement in the custody battle. She's suing him for upwards of $10,000 or more per month in alimony and child support, stating that she wanted to maintain the lifestyle of a first lady, which he'd taken away from her by resigning and maintaining a private life with a wealthy gentleman friend. They both claim to be broke, though both Jim and Dina wrote tell-all books and did high-profile promotional tours, visiting Oprah, Jon Stewart and Larry King, among others.

This whole thing smells weird. I understand she's angry, though I find it incredulous that she could have been the only person in New Jersey who didn't know he was gay. I understand why she wants to put the screws to him. But for five figures a month?

She justifies the sum by stating it cost her that much to maintain the first lady image when Jimbo was governor. Apparently she did so many public appearances that she'd have to change her outfit three times a day as not to be seen in the same clothes twice. As if there is so much media interest in New Jersey's first lady that anyone would notice. And as if there's so much interest in her as a private citizen that she has to uphold that image. Hey, lady -- Talbots makes good quality, classically-styled clothes. Keep wearing the ones you have.

Maybe she's suing the wrong party. I guess we should all be happy she's not looking to get a state salary as official clothes horse. Then again, maybe more of us should have gone out to buy those books, instead of surreptitiously reading them at Barnes & Noble and putting them back on the shelf. Perhpas if they'd made a little more money there, they wouldn't be bothering us with all this silliness.

Funny what you remember ...

When I was a little kid my family went to Montreal on summer vacation. My parents always seemed to find places that nobody in my school had gone to or heard of. Then again, if it wasn't Florida or the Jersey Shore, chances were that the place was unknown to my classmates.

When we went to Montreal, we went to Man and His World, and the amusement park next door, La Ronde. Both were leftovers from Expo 67, the 1967 World's Fair. Like virtually every other world's fair, this one had had exhibits and pavilions for various countries and industries: the United States building was a big Buckminster Fuller geodesic dome. There was even a model Habitat 67, an experiment in economical apartment living. Several of the buildings stayed open after the fair closed, thus becoming part of Man and His World.

It was pretty cool for us as kids and as Americans. Given that this was during the Cold War, it was fascinating to go into the USSR pavilion and see actual Russian stuff without all of the anti-Communist propaganda. I can recall getting a couple of souvenir wooden toys there, including a carved bear on a platform that appeared to wash his hands when you swung the attached ball beneath the platform. It had Cyrillic lettering on the bottom, and I remember that my mom was concerned that we'd be stopped at the border and questioned about it. Needless to say, we didn't stop by the Cuba pavilion for cigars, either. There's a great site here with information and photos of most, if not all of the attractions.

As much as I remember the exhibits and the incredibly fun rides and playground, what still sticks in my mind is the deserted part of the park. While the operators had continued to run most of the place as a going concern after the fair closed, several of the buildings were shuttered, and a whole area of concessions, restaurants and so forth was closed up behind fences. For the most part, it wasn't visible at ground level, but you got an eyeful if you used the minirail or gondola ride to get from one end of the park to the other. I can remember fanciful buildings -- something very Seussian in nature, very futuristic.

I don't know if the rides went over the closed area during the day, but I can vividly remember gliding over it at night. The area was darkened but for a few safety lights, and even at the age of seven or eight, I was fascinated by the idea of this formerly vibrant and even festive-looking area being shut down. Even as that young child, I felt the sense of having missed something by not being there when it was open. What was it like? While we had fun, it must have been delirium when everything was operational.

Man and His World eventually closed in the mid '70s, and LaRonde is still open as a Six Flags amusement park. The islands on which the Expo took place are now a public park, and at least some of the buildings were removed to the countries they'd represented. The futuristic apartment complex is still open, and a much desired place to live in Montreal.

And as I did a little research to get information for this post, I was once again hit by how amazing the passage of time is. Thinking about that young child who imagined the world that had been there that she missed, I'm struck by the fact that that part of me hasn't changed much. Likewise, I know she would have found it so cool that more than 30 years later, she'd be able to summon up a bunch of stuff about it on a screen sitting in her living room, just by typing a few words into a box.

Sometimes when I remember places like Man and His World, I consider going back to see what's there now. Somehow I think it's better just to check it out on the web. Less chance for disappointment.

If cats get communion, what's the sacrament?

With the visit of Pope Benedict XVI to New York, we've been treated to a wealth of data about him and his pre-election life, including some of his hobbies, likes and dislikes.

As it turns out, the Pope is an animal lover with a specific fondness for cats. While in his previous Vatican job, the former Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger cared for the cats in his neighborhood, who often walked him to work in the morning. In fact, following his election to popehood, his housekeeper worried about who would take care of the kitties after he moved to the papal apartment.

Unfortunately, even if you take the travel and time-consuming nature of his job out of the equation, the Pope can't have cats now. Interestingly enough, he suffers the same restrictions of so many other apartment dwellers: no pets allowed. Forget about the strays in the courtyard; he couldn't bring his two indoor cats with him, either.

What's that all about? I mean, he's the Pope. Doesn't he have the right to change the rules? I sincerely doubt that God put a 'no cats' clause in the lease. And what happens if he breaks the rule? Does he get kicked out of papal housing? Does he get fired?

You have to wonder if maybe this whole pet restriction thing has played into papal elections in the past. There's been a great deal of conjecture over the secret discussions that take place, so the potential is there. Imagine it: the College of Cardinals takes the vote and informs the winner that he was selected by his peers to get the big job with the big hat. And the lucky cardinal turns it down when he finds out he can't take Fluffy and Purr Purr with him. Who knows? Maybe that's what it would take to get the rule changed.

I have to believe this rule is a fairly recent phenomenon. Turns out that Pope Paul VI was so crazy about his cat that he once dressed the feline in Cardinals' clothes. Perhaps Felix Cardinal Catus got defrocked after missing the litterbox once too often, or for breaking the rules of celibacy. One bad apple spoils it for the whole barrel.

You've got to be kidding

In the movie High Fidelity, John Cusack, as the music snob/record store owner Rob Gordon states, "It's what you like, not what you are like. Books, records, films, these things matter. Call me shallow, it's the fuckin' truth."

I have to admit it -- I agree. I've shut down matches on eHarmony who claim the last book they read and enjoyed was The daVinci Code, just as I have turned men down who think 'alot' is one word that means 'many.' In fact, several (but not 'alot') of them have been offenders on both fronts, which makes it even easier. I've been called a snob for it, but, to quote, "these things matter."

I fear I've been judged similarly, but perhaps more benignly. Having learned that I majored in English, my neighbor, a retired English professor, regularly invites me to plays I have no interest in, and I'm too ashamed to admit that I don't really like Shakespeare all that much. She's a very nice person, and I'm sure she wouldn't think less of me for my tastes, though she did lament once that one of our otherwise intelligent neighbors preferred Harlequin romances to literature. And despite her kindness, when she called to see if she could borrow a copy of George Eliot's Middlemarch, I couldn't tell her I'd never read it -- nor wanted to.

The funny thing is that no matter how well versed any of us are, we're all subject to others' snobbery. While one person feels that anyone who reads and understands Ayn Rand is a genius, another may think the person is a poseur.

Sometimes it's almost laughable, like a noted tome sitting on a bedside table, never read. Is it meant to be some sort of turn on? 'Wow, this guy's deep.' I thought we were supposed to have gotten past this in college.

And why does it seem that the most indecipherable foreign film gets five stars in Time Out New York while something like Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle gets panned? All of that got thrown out the door for me in early adulthood, when one of the biggest snobs I've ever worked with insisted that I had to see Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure because it was her favorite movie.

I could never figure out the pecking order. I still snicker when I hear the Smiths on the radio, recalling the "Morrissey is God" grafitti in the bathroom stalls at Douglass College. Silly girls, Clapton is God. Get it straight. But who trumps whom -- a guy who learned how to play guitar from Buddy Guy, or some British dude whose songs all sound the same?

This differs from the quirkiness I brought up in a post last year, but it has a similar impact when used as criteria for who you let into your life. Some of us are just more selective than others, or maybe we just have odd ways of being selective.

Then again, I guess the real test is what you do when you find out a longtime friend never actually read whatever it is that you consider to be a requirement of everyone you have in your life. Do you ditch them?

Man, that would be shallow.

Forty years

Today is the 40th anniversary of the day Rev. Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis, and as expected, there were scores of remembrances, rallies, speeches and news reports to commemorate the civil rights leader's life and work.

What's always struck me about remembrances of Dr. King -- his birthdate, specifically -- is the tendency to categorize them as 'black' or 'African American' events. Yes, he did tremendous good for the black community, that's undeniable. But I think that restricting our thoughts to what he did for one part of the population is rather limiting.

It occurs to me that when inequities are brought to light and corrected, we all benefit. Well, except for the people who perpetuate the discrimination. It's often been said that society wins when smart, caring and talented people are given their just opportunity to contribute regardless of background or ethnicity. Yes, a woman or a black man or Asian or whoever should be able to be president just as a white man can. However, I'm thinking much more locally -- the ordinary people in our lives.

I'm just glad to have the opportunity to know people and like or dislike them on the basis of who they are as individuals, and not let irrelevant factors get in the way. I think about the people I've met and built relationships with that I might never have met if we lived in a world that had never had people like Dr. King. Those folks aren't necessarily doctors or teachers or other authority figures. They're friends, classmates, coworkers, "ordinary" people who have made a difference somehow in my life. Some of them have been people I didn't necessarily like, but then I've found that often you learn the most from the people you like the least.

Our lives become enriched when we get to know people different from us. It's that simple. Our eyes get opened a little farther, and hopefully we can learn from what makes us different and see what we have in common. And maybe we can have some fun and enjoy each other's company. How about that?

With fans like these...

As most people in New Jersey know, James Gandolfini of The Sopranos fame is a proud alumnus of Rutgers University. In fact, his buddy Mario Batali used to be a line cook at one of my favorite lunch places in New Brunswick, Stuff Yer Face. I still have this weird fantasy of going to Babbo and asking for an Emily Boli and a Molson on tap.

Anyway, I found this poster on a great blog called Where is the Line Between North & South Jersey?

Click on the image and take a look at what it actually says. Needless to say, Don Imus would think twice...

In Memorium

I was saddened today to hear of the death of Dith Pran, the New York Times photojournalist whose escape from his native Cambodia was portrayed in the movie The Killing Fields. He was 65 and suffered from pancreatic cancer.

I had the pleasure of meeting Dith a few years ago, when he was reporting on an open house at the Edison Labs in West Orange. His kindness and the lightness of his presence struck me, especially given the sheer horror of inhumanity he'd witnessed and been victim to during the Khmer occupation of Cambodia. He had every reason to be angry and bitter, but he just didn't seem to be the type to waste his energy on resentment.

Apparently that was just the way he lived life. In an obituary today, his friend and fellow journalist Sidney Schanberg said, "His gift was his ability to handle extreme situations and never lose his balance. He didn't let horror change him. He kept looking for the good in people." And he spent much of his free time working to convince people not to let the horrors happen to anyone else, ever again. (The Times ran an informative obit in today's paper, which you can read here.)

It's funny - for some reason he came to mind the other day, and I recalled that he'd mentioned we might run into each other again sometime, maybe in the park near my home, where he liked to take pictures. I wish we had.

May he rest peacefully.

ce n'est pas une maison de deux familles

Somewhere in downtown New York. I wish I could remember where. Broadway, I think?

Ya gotta wonder what happened here. Product of a family dispute? A bad divorce settlement?

Or perhaps Rene Magritte is having some fun with us.

Peep? Peep?

Okay - I'll admit it. I'm a fan of Marshmallow Peeps. You know -- those marshmallow treats shaped like little chicks. Well, not eating them -- they're too sugary. But the concept of them.

Of course, when I was a kid, they were one of the staples in the Easter basket, along with the jelly beans and foil-wrapped chocolate eggs. Inevitably, the plastic Easter basket grass would become stuck to the Peeps scar where they'd been separated and raw marshmallow remained. And it goes without saying that they were stale five minutes after the Easter bunny left them.

At that time, naturally, there were only yellow Peeps (as it should be). With line extensions, Peeps are now a multitude of spring colors that honorable chicks would never choose for themselves. A few years ago, Target had the exclusive on red Peeps. And now, Peeps products are available nearly year round. You can find Valentine's hearts and Christmas trees, gingerbread men and snowmen. There are now even Peeps cats and ghosts for Halloween. Imagine that in your treat bag.

Fueled perhaps by nostalgia, the internet is rife with websites with alternative uses for Peeps. Some are purely food related. My mom, not the most whimsical person in the world, surprised us a few years ago by using Peeps as marshmallows on top of the sweet potatoes for Easter.

Others are more artistic -- like the "Peeps show" strip club. Yet more are focused on making a statement -- like the Peeps Stations of the Cross, which I can only imagine was a protest against the commercialization of the holiest day on the Christian calendar. (Easter bunny: harmless childhood icon, or godless infidel?)

A few years ago, I decided to use Peeps to make a statement about the dangers of nuclear proliferation. Here's a small part of the photo montage:

(Warning: children and those with weak hearts should go no further)

Before the carnage.

Just a brief exposure can be extremely deleterious (microwave: one minute on high)

The aftermath.

A sad commentary on the power of atomic energy, perhaps, but also yummy when combined with chocolate-covered graham crackers.

Kewl!

So after all this time of photographing the remnants of Asbury Park past, I've been afforded the opportunity of sharing my stuff with the public. My fellow blogger at Under The Sun Furnishings is displaying a couple of my Casino photos along with one from Convention Hall and another of the departed "This too shall pass" wall. Check 'em out if you're in the neighborhood. (Support your local artist, and all that.) Pretty cool stuff, if I do say so myself.

Was down there Saturday, in the wind and rain. What a trip. Stopped by the boardwalk first, to find it was both spooky and active. Workers were busily continuing the demolition work on the concession buildings, yet the fog and rain made the entire scene eerie. You literally couldn't see more than about 20 feet beyond. About equidistant from the Casino and Convention Hall, I jumped out of the car to see if I could get some photos from the boardwalk. Couldn't see either building, and the beach beyond the railing was a blanket of fog. I could just barely hear the ocean roar above the wind and rain. Scary stuff. Would have been really cool to get some pics of the Casino in that weather, but I was a little afraid for my camera and even more freaked about the fog inside the building. Spoooooky!

On a trip up Asbury Ave, I found the Metropolitan torn down in earnest. All that stood at that point was the newer, Howard Johnson-looking addition and a fireplace from the original part. Through the chain link fence, and especially in the driving rain, the scene looked like Dresden after the bombing. I mean, that day, the world outside looked like one of those black and white war documentaries. I half expected to see some bombed-out refugees picking through the rubble. If my car weren't red, I'd have been convinced I'd stepped into 1942.

I stopped the car next to the fence and put on the hazard blinkers so I could jump out for a few snaps, and as I did, I saw an older gentleman across the street in his car. He made some random comment about these crazy girls taking pictures of wrecks, or something like that. Hey, but the photos look like Dresden after the bombing! Well, with a '60's era high rise in the background. In any case, you've gotta get it while you can. Tomorrow it won't be there. Literally.

More open doors ...

With so many distractions this week, I never did get back to the rest of last Sunday.

Took the long way home from Asbury Park, up the coast to Sandy Hook. The last time I was there, you'll recall, I saw a host of open doors, open gates, entries to places I wasn't supposed to go. This time, when I drove down Officers' Row, all of the front doors were secured. However, when I drove on the service road behind the homes, I saw a young couple coming down the stairs from the back entrance of one of the houses. I'd have thought they were just walking down from looking through the window in the door, but the young man was clearly pulling the door shut behind him.

Now here's a possibility, I thought. The couple looked a little surprised, and maybe worried, that someone had seen them leaving the house, so I kept driving slowly, pulling into the driveway of the house two doors down. I made a point to look as if I was interested only in looking at the disintegrating curtains in the windows of the next house over. Then I slowly walked over to the open door house.

To me, the appeal of the closed houses is more about the mystery of the lives that inhabited them than actually seeing the construction or the layout. One of the houses has already been turned into a museum, so I know what the first and second floors look like. I wonder more about the scraps of things people forgot to take with them when they moved out, why they forgot to take the curtains down, and about the faces that peered back at themselves in those bathroom mirrors.

I really have to get over the creepies I feel every time I go someplace old and decayed. They were starting to come on even as I was looking into the bathroom window of the next-door house, imagining that I'd suddenly see a face looking out of the medicine cabinet mirror. Walking up the back stairs of the open house, the pit of my stomach ground just as it did when I skydived. What am I walking into?

Peering in through the back door window, I saw falling-down peeling paint, cellar door ajar and the hint of a really bad yellow vinyl-covered stool. From a visit to the museum house, I knew the kitchen was to the right. I noticed that the door was unlatched, and when I pushed it a little, it cracked open.

I still couldn't go in. The door opened easily, but I couldn't take that first step in. Instead, I gently pulled the knob toward me to close the door. It still wouldn't fully nest back into the door jamb, having expanded in the salt air. Maybe it was trying to make me think twice about passing up the opportunity. Who knows.

Four bucks a pound, Tony: Asbury Park, part three

Lots of stories came out of this visit to New Jersey's least-used boardwalk.

On the drive down on Sunday, I considered grabbing some lunch at the boardwalk restaurant right next to the Casino. Last time I was there, the place was basically empty, and the menu looked decent, but I'd stopped at the Windmill for a hot dog on the way down. Imagine my surprise this time to find that not only was the restaurant gone, so was most of the building. I didn't expect that, nor had I heard it was in the plans. A similar concession building a little farther down is in the process of being torn down, too.

If you've watched The Sopranos, you know the ones I mean. They're squat, basically nondescript brick buildings with wide windows facing the boardwalk. Some used to have second floor balconies that jutted over the entryways to the stores. In fact, one of those balconies featured large in one of Tony's dreams, where Sal 'Big Pussy' Bompensiero appeared as a talking fish packed in ice along with other fishes that were, uh, sleeping. The balconies were pulled down a few years ago, along with a footbridge that traversed the boardwalk. In any case, it kinda sucks that the buildings are being demolished. They're unremarkable by architectural standards, but at least there were some shopkeepers making a go of it. They build things quickly these days, but I doubt they'll get new buildings up in time for the start of the season at the end of May. Where will one get a hot dog or a slice of pizza?

Looking at the developer's website, it appears they're big builders of those higher-end malls you see at tourist destinations. Banana Republic and its brethren, as if I have to go down the shore for that. I hope it doesn't come to pass that way. I'd rather have a ton of cutesy-named boutiques than a monster Gap (I admit I shop there, but they're so ubiquitous that if there's a mall in Hell, you know there's gotta be a Gap in it).

In any case, work continues at a snail's pace at the Casino. There's a new green metal roof on the Carousel House; it looks so authentic that it took me a good minute to notice it was new. Inside the Casino, my camera finally cooperated to give me a shot of the House interior, still far from finished, but coming along. The heavy construction equipment is gone, so maybe they're getting ready for the finer work.

Shellpile Under the Sun .... Asbury Park, part two

Yesterday I had the rather pleasing experience of meeting a fellow blogger who'd posted a quick note on one of my other Asbury Park posts. The proprietor of Under the Sun Furnishings had left a quick hello with a suggestion to visit, and given that I was in town, I stopped by.

Turned out her place is in the Shoppes at the Arcade on Cookman Avenue, right across from Flying Saucers, the place where I found the Two Guys memorabilia back in December. There's some pretty neat stuff in that building, if you're into unique and/or vintage items. Good vibe.

I found a cool reproduction print of one of those vintage "Greetings from Asbury Park" postcards, which will go very nicely with some of the black and white prints I've done of boardwalk architecture. Pretty soon I'm going to need to rethink my hangings -- my 'gallery' hallway is pretty much covered now.

In any case, how cool is it to meet a fellow blogger? I have to admit I felt a little weird asking, "hey, did you post a comment on my blog? I'm Shellpile!" Kinda reminded me of my Uncle Floyd Show-watching days in high school, when someone would stop me in the hall to ask if I was the one who kept getting pictures on the wall (long story for another time). I don't advertise this site, beyond a few friends and acquaintances, so whenever someone stumbles on it and admits to it, I'm relieved if they're normal. Thankfully, it was the case this time.

Kitty's back in town... (ooh, what can I do?)

Today's Asbury Park trip had more than the usual purpose. First, there was a cat show to check out at the Convention Center. Second, I wanted to stop by a shop whose proprietor had left a comment on one of my AP posts. Given how friendly the shop owners tend to be in town, I figured I'd check it out.

The cat show was what cat shows usually are: weird. As a rule, I find the concept of breeding to be a bit much, given how many really great strays there are out there, prime for adoption. That's not to say that I don't appreciate a great feline, regardless of pedigree, and I know several very nice people who have purebred companions. But hey, if you want to pay $700 for a cat, I know plenty of shelters that would be happy to oblige you.

To their credit, the show organizers held a pet food drive, had some adoptable strays and held a non-breed-specific household cat competition. And, of course, there were the crazy cat ladies. 'Nuff said. I stayed about 90 minutes, enjoying the kitties.

(At this point I should say something about the vintage Convention Center, but that's for another time.)

As I headed south on the boardwalk, I saw a sign for the AP Boardwalk Rockin' Cats. Now, I've seen a stray or two there on my visits, and there's a Cat Crossing sign across the street from the old Howard Johnson's restaurant, but I didn't know they had organized friends. I didn't realize there were so many as to warrant a fan club of protectors.

The development company that's building condos and renovating the Casino apparently has a soft heart. They've made some space available to the organization at their offices on the boardwalk about a half block from the sign. I expected that their showroom might have a couple of crates, kind of like the adoption centers at PetSmart, and as I neared their building, I saw about a dozen people standing in the middle of the boardwalk, looking up to the second floor.

Looking back down at us: a host of cats, orange, black, white, brown, striped. I guess that's where they're living while they wait for homes. You'll see them in the picture above, if you study it carefully. (Click on it to enlarge for a better view.)

I'll tell you: I'm tempted, though it would break my 'one lap, one cat' rule. How cool would it be to have an orange cat named Sandy? Or a mackerel tabby named Madam Marie? Or maybe a tortoiseshell called Rosalita ("... jump a little lighter..."). Stay tuned.

The romance of flight

For some cockeyed reason, I still enjoy flying. Even when I'm crammed in like a sardine on one of those huge buses with wings, the little kid in me can't help but grin when I look down from the skies and see the earth in miniature. Taxi-ing around the tarmac, I'm drawn to the most mundane inner workings of a busy airport. I wonder whether those guys who guide the planes to the jetways get a secret thrill at edging huge aircraft into their parking spots just minutes after they've crossed the continent or the Atlantic.

That's not to say I enjoy the process of getting to the plane, or dealing with nasty people or any of that. I love the concept of flight, and the romance of it. When I can block out the garbage, I can mentally drift away to a time and place when air travel was still kind of exotic and people wore nice clothes to get on the plane. Don't get me started about prop planes -- make me climb up into the cabin on a drop-down staircase, and I know I'm itching for an adventure.

Despite myself, I get nostalgic at some of the older airports. Lindbergh Field (a.k.a. SAN, San Diego) looks nothing like its past but was the home field, of sorts, to the Spirit of St. Louis. The couple of times I flew into Washington National (DCA, now Reagan) I half expected to see Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith, striding purposefully down the corridor.

Now, Newark (EWR): that was a glamorous airport. Once the East Coast terminus of the Air Mail, it was the busiest landing strip in the United States for a time in the late '20s and early '30s. It eventually had a beautiful WPA-style terminal and administration building with an observation deck where you could watch the planes take off and land. And it was a regular stop for the pioneers of aviation as they traveled to other places. Names of fallen flyers like Earhart and Post are memorialized by some of the access roads within the airport fences.

Needless to say, the airport's gotten a lot bigger over the years, and virtually all of the vestiges of its early glory have been obscured. Unless you know where to look, that is.

Years ago, as my plane taxied to its gate at Terminal A, I gazed down at the tarmac to see the word LINDY in bold yellow letters outlined in black. Charles Lindbergh had taken off and landed at Newark many times, so I assumed that history-minded airport workers had painted his name on the pavement. For whatever reason, perhaps the tradition still persists.

What I never noticed was the other tribute. If you take a close look at this photo, pulling the image up so you can see what's beyond the bottom edge of the original frame, you'll see two lighter strips of pavement, with planes parked on them. On the right one, you'll see "LINDY," clear as day; another is obscured by the plane parked above it. On the left, you'll see the name "AMELIA" painted twice, for Amelia Earhart. While her aviation skills are still in dispute, it's pretty neat to think that someone's keeping the faith.

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.