American culture pervades yet again...

It's a practice as old as war: occupation forces tend to impress their cultures on the the 'host' community, either intentionally or inadvertently. Consider, for instance, the broad appeal of SPAM in certain sectors invaded during World War II, and the bizarre cargo cults that still expect Jon Frum to return with washing machines and Coca Cola.

Most recently, the ultimate kitch has arrived in the Persian Gulf, as I discovered while shopping online for lawn ornaments. As you'll see here, pink flamingos have made it to Iraq.

Now, I have to admit that I have been the proud owner of a pair of pink flamingos since college, when a friend and I conspired to litter the university president's lawn with them. For years, they held a place of honor in my bathroom, but more recently they've been nesting in my garage. I never once thought they could migrate to the Middle East as a morale builder for the troops. They're not really desert birds, after all --they subsist on shrimp and shellfish.

I wonder: what must the Iraqis be thinking of this? Do they curse the pink plastic birds, or do they honor them? Do they secretly covet them? Will the troops take them home when the US packs up, or will some of the petroleum Phoenicopteridae remain as invasive species? And the scariest question of all: will more flamingos start appearing in front of Iraqi homes?

And then what's next? Garden gnomes?

It doesn't pay to be crabby.

Incidentally, tomorrow, September 19, is Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Arrrrrrrrrr!

Nobody ever died for dear old Rutgers

(Okay, a little corny, but it's actually a song from a Broadway musical!)

Walter Seward, Rutgers class of 1917, passed away earlier this week. Check out the story in the Rutgers Daily Targum. More to come from me later this week. Bottom line, you've gotta love a guy who can sing all the old school songs.

Tell us how you really feel.

One of the things I like about working a job with 'global' responsibilities is the figures of speech you learn along the way. For someone with an ear for language, it can be a real treat.

At the outset, you have to remind yourself to assume positive intent. Take, for example, the Irish, who, when you say something favorable, will respond with a hearty "brilliant!" Having lived in the highly sarcastic New York area my whole life, I was inclined to believe the person was making fun of me, because what I'd said wasn't especially creative, ingenious or original. Then I realized that the same person would exclaim, "brilliant," if I said I'd call them back in five minutes. So I let it go.

The Australians, appealing as their culture is, have especially colorful expressions, many of which you can't reason out for yourself, between the accent and the mix of what must be some sort of aboriginal-based slang. But they're generally nice enough to explain. Obviously, you have to be really careful, and if you're a little confused, it never hurts to ask for a little clarity. Though I did learn that it is definitely not a good idea to tell a British person that someone is walking around with a puss on their face. No, not good.

I can't imagine how many people I've confused with my habit of spouting spontaneous analogies. Seems the more frustrated or wound up I get, the more I'm inclined to come up with colorful ways to describe it. A lot of times, it's one a lot of people know, say, "Don't piss in my face and tell me it's raining." Others are a little more unique:

• "Like wearing a ballgown to a barn raising" -- putting way too much fuss into a task that requires little attention and will generate little return.
• "Being given crayons to paint the Sistine Chapel" -- being woefully underequipped to complete a mammoth task successfully and creatively.

Wow, now I forget the others. Anyway, when you're on a roll, it's hard sometimes to stop and explain to people for whom English is a second language. One of my coworkers once got a call from another colleague who was on a conference call with the both of us and got the full treatment. "What is this barn raising," he asked her, "and am I expected to dress up?" Oh, boy.

Hey Pacific Islanders....

Tell me where I should visit and what I should do if I do go to Micronesia in March!

Putting some distance between...

I've had an off-again, on-again desire to go to Micronesia for many years now, since I heard of the remote group of islands way, way west of Hawaii. I'd first learned about them when the PR firm I worked for started representing Continental Airlines, the operator of the only scheduled flight service to the region. Continental Micronesia does an island hop from its Guam hub to Chuuk, Kosrae, Pohnpei, Yap and Palau a couple of times a week. It's not like I was getting any travel out of the job -- just that it got me thinking, and reading. Then I found out that Yap has stone money, and that just made it even more intriguing. I've made trips for more ridiculous reasons than that, though this would be the farthest, distance wise.

The region also has a huge World War II history and is a renowned diving destination, given the sheer volume of wrecked warships. On land, several of the islands still show signs of habitation by military during the conflict -- old buildings, transport equipment rotting in place and so forth. I've always been fascinated by the use of these islands as strategic hopping points during the war. Who doesn't remember the stories of the old Japanese soldiers hiding in the jungles for years past the war, not knowing of the surrender? A couple of years ago, at the Millville Airport down Jersey, I came upon an old transport plane marked Kwajalein Atoll -- pictured here.

What's more, the culture, while influenced by the West, like everywhere else, is still going pretty strong, from what I understand. In any case, it's bound to be a lot different from New Jersey. And the wanderlust always seems to bring me back to who I really am, as opposed to who I find myself having to be far more often than I'd like. Gotta do something about that. Not that I have any illusions about going native, selling my wool coats, packing up the cats and heading to the Pacific. It's just getting away from the corporate thing. And being in an environment where random people are friendly, as a rule.

Being several hours (and the dateline) west of Hawaii, it's one of those places you'd better make the most of while you're there. Chances are you aren't going to go back anytime soon, at least from the mainland US. To get a sense of how air travel works in the region, take a look at this post from a fellow blogger who lives in the Marianas and chronicled an experience taking the Island Hopper.

Anyway, I finally decided that I want to take a couple of weeks off (at once!!!) in the spring and make a real trip someplace off the beaten track. This seems to do the trick, though I still have to seriously work out the timing of the travel and whether my aging body can manage the inevitable disorientation caused by a series of long flights and time zone leaps. After all, it would be a real bitch to get all the way there, end up with a weariness-induced migraine and nowhere to buy Motrin.

Hey, worst case scenario, I do ten days in Hawaii, and get to Molokai and Midway this time. If that's the consolation prize, I'm doing pretty well.

What's changed?

Over the past few days we've seen a lot of history: the nomination of the first African American presidential candidate by a major political party and the first time the Republicans have selected a woman to run for vice president.

The thing that has really struck me, though, is that it's the first time that people of my generation have taken the national stage at this level. Barack Obama's just a few years older than I, Michelle Obama and Sarah Palin are my age. Somehow I find it amazing, given that I'm still grappling with the fact that I'm a grownup. It reminds me how little I've achieved, but that's another story.

Michelle Obama, especially, struck me. I first realized it a few months ago when there was all that tsimmis about the senior thesis she wrote at Princeton. She'd studied minority alumni of Ivy League schools and theorized that they tended to diverge from their ethnic communities following graduation. In reading about this, I found that when she was at Princeton, black students accounted for just about four percent of the population. There were 94 black students in her class. I was stunned: I was at Rutgers during those same years, and I saw that many black students on an average visit to the dining hall. What do you gain from being in an environment where everyone looks like you?

Even more shocking, her white roommate's mom had lobbied the deans to get her a new housing assignment. And what's disturbing now: the current Princeton student population is only about four percent black, though there is a higher percentage of students labelling themselves as 'other' on the question. So has anything really changed? You'd think that by now, an Ivy League school would be all about creating a learning environment that exposes students to different points of view and different backgrounds. You'd think.

I'm still trying to parse out my feelings on all of this, and I'm not especially eloquent on them. But I guess we're of a generation now where people don't care so much that a successful person is black. They might notice it, but it doesn't have the same impact it once did. And maybe to a point, it's gotten to where a successful black person isn't accused of playing white just because he or she has gotten somewhere in life. The old guard who, by necessity, had to fight harder because they were black, are now being succeeded by the people who were children then and are now benefitting from their elders' hard work.

We've seen the same thing with women; I get the feeling most of the time that the successful 20 and 30 somethings never even considered that they 'weren't supposed to' have what they have. Some would see that as ungrateful. I see it as progress. And to get elected, women don't have to wave the feminist flag and a liberal agenda. It's kind of cool to not vote for the woman because she's too conservative for your liking. That, my friends, is progress.

So getting back to the thesis here, it feels good that my age peers are making it to the top. Whether I agree with their politics is irrelevant. The fact that it's more about their stands than their gender or race is what makes me happy.

In tatters ....

Spent some time at Fort Hancock / Sandy Hook today, noting the accelerating decay of the fort's buildings. Seems every time I stroll down Officer's Row, I see another sign of benign neglect. Allegedly there's a plan in place to restore many of the buildings and make them into offices, or hospitality centers, but whoever's doing it seems to be taking their own sweet time. Meanwhile, I grow more suspicious as I see broad swaths of tar paper on roofs where the shingles have blown off.

And wooden porches continue to deteriorate to the point where they give, dangerously, when you put weight into your step as you trod on them. Probably worst of all, I'm seeing more and more windows whose panes are missing, allowing who knows what to get inside. And the upper half of one double hung window has dropped, its counterweight probably having snapped in the frame.

Kinda makes you wonder if they'll let them rot to the point where more than half of them won't be salvageable. Then, oops, well they'll have to just tear them down. The development agency that redid New Brunswick took the same approach to a host of old buildings in what used to be the wharf area of the city. Dozens of buildings that had been there since Colonial days were just shut up and left to sit until they were too dangerous to enter. They got torn down, conveniently, in favor of new townhouses. Call me cynical, but...

Meanwhile, I continue to notice things I hadn't seen before, mostly window dressing. Who moved out and left the curtains behind? And 30 years later, they still hang, faded and filmy, but still intact. I've never felt them to be haunted, but as I walk between the houses to check them out, I think about some sort of spirit peering out from behind those curtains, watching me. Watching something.

Knocking a buzzard off the proverbial wagon...

Yesterday I made a huge mistake. It all started with this video, taken at the oyster (clam?) processing plant at the piers at Bivalve, gateway to Shellpile. Watch and listen...

Now, most of the people I mentioned in the video were either at the wholesale shellfish market, or taking their boats out to the Maurice River. And I realize now that the reason I hadn't seen anyone on previous trips was because it was the dead of winter. When, by the way, the smell wasn't quite as bad, but still present.

To reach the spot where I took this video, I drove down a road whose macadam pavement surrendered to finely crushed shell. I splashed through some watery potholes along the way. And thankfully, I never got out of the car.

From there, I drove back up to State Route 49, noticing as I went along, that the smell, though faint, seemed to permeate the area. Funny, but I hadn't noticed it on the way in. Gosh, I thought -- how awful must it be to live around there with that smell! Maybe one gets used to it over time...

Route 49 is about five miles from Shellpile, and I made my usual stop at the Wawa at the corner of the Mauricetown Bypass. Getting out of the car in the crowded parking lot, I observed the smell was still present. Oy. Don't these people notice it?

Taking back roads to the Parkway, it finally dawned on me: somehow I was bringing the smell of spoiled raw shellfish with me. A rogue oyster hitching on my catalytic converter? Hmm... And then it hit me: the potholes. I'd unwittingly splashed rancid bivalve leachate all over the undercarriage of the car. The stink followed me all the way home... made a temporary home in my garage... and finally departed at the car wash this afternoon.

Living the faith

Earlier today I happened on a story on CNN.com about missionaries who are refusing to leave a Chinese airport after being stopped for bringing Bibles into the country. It seems that while the Communists are okay with you bringing in scripture (Bible, Koran, Torah, what have you) for your personal use, they have a bit of a problem with you bringing in enough to share with 300 of your closest friends. The missionaries refuse to leave till their Bibles are returned to them.

In any case, this story reminded me of a conversation I had with an innkeeper when I stayed at a nice bed and breakfast called the White Egret, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It's a small place -- just three guest rooms -- and it was off-season when I was there, so I was the only guest. That can be a little uncomfortable, as you don't know whether the innkeeper understands the boundary between friendly morning chat and being a total pest. Fortunately, Joanne knew just how much conversation was enough in the mornings.

Interestingly, in just a couple of days and a few brief conversations, I learned that Joanne is a woman of deep faith who lives by her beliefs. Very matter of factly, she mentioned that she and her husband were going to Guatemala in a few weeks to help build schools, something they and their fellow church members did often. Being a wary skeptic, I waited for what I thought would be the questions about whether I'd accepted Christ as my personal savior ... you know, the typical Bible-thumping spiel. But it didn't come. She just mentioned her good works the way you or I might mention that we went down the shore on a summer weekend. In fact, I think it came up after she expressed some wonderment that I'd drive to North Carolina all by myself, a young woman on my own.

What really threw me, though, was when she mentioned that she'd done some missionary work in China when she was younger. I'd say she was in her mid-fifties, so this would have put it back in the 60's or so. She and a friend packed some Bibles in their suitcases and somehow found their way to China. They were detained by guards at the border.

As matter-of-factly as she talked about China, she mentioned that she and her friend were beaten by the guards for daring to bring religious materials into the country. I can't remember how they got out, but I do recall the pure equanimity she displayed in relating the story. She clearly wasn't telling me for shock value or sympathy, and if she harbors any resentment, she sure didn't show it. Nor did she express any of that hyperbolic, holier-than-thou "oh, I pray for their heathen souls" crap. It seemed she'd made peace with the situation, and that's all she needed to do. It was just something that happened in her life, while she was following her calling.

Again, here was another regular person who does extraordinary acts and had suffered for doing the right thing, but you'd never know it. In a world where so many people demand a parade when they give a dollar to charity, it's always remarkable to meet someone who's done so much and asked nothing in return. I guess that's what true faith and true humanity really is.

Avon calling.....

The new bennies

There's a group organized on the Jersey Shore called Benny Go Home, Benny being the derogatory term for partying summer rental people in shore communities. The line is that the name comes from the initial letters of the cities they come from: Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark and New York -- but the term has been pinned more loosely on anyone who lives north of the Raritan River.

The Benny Go Home people eschew the geographic qualifications in favor of assessing potential Benny-tude by attitude. In other words, the real Bennies are those who disrespect the shore communities and their residents by treating the towns like their own personal playpen -- and shitting all over it.

Ken Pringle, the mayor of shore town Belmar, recently got into trouble for profiling the unfortunate Benny subspecies, the Staten Island Guido, in his Belmar Summer Rental News. During his long tenure, Mayor Pringle has moved to turn the town from a raucous 24 hour party to a more family-oriented destination, and a nice place for year-rounders to live. It's a worthy goal, but he should know better than to use his own press to malign the only place on the East Coast that's more misunderstood than New Jersey. His wife was PR flack for Jim McGreevey, so maybe that says something.

All that said, I've been noticing my own form of Benny -- those coming from Manhattan on the Sandy Hook ferry. For a while, they only came for the clothing optional Gunnison Beach, so I never ran into any of them unless that beach was overcrowded and they deigned to keep their pants on. But now that more people have heard about the beach and the nice boat ride, they seem to be all over. Unfortunately, my favorite beach in the park is the one closest to the ferry landing, so I get an earful. You can see the Brooklyn skyline and the Verrazano-Narrows bridge, which I've heard referred to as Manhattan and the George Washington Bridge, respectively.

Now, I don't have anything against people coming from the city to ride their bikes or hang out on the beach (well, as long as they're not sitting too close to me). I do take issue with those who act as if the place didn't exist before they first heard of it. An apt analogue is the Ugly American who goes to another country and marvels when they find their hosts have running water, electricity and pizza.

Last week, I was treated to the prattling of two couples with kids, including an eight-year-old boy who was allowed to run around naked. They seemed surprised that there was a nice beach in New Jersey. I overheard one of the women telling the other adults, "Oh, there used to be medical waste washing onshore all the time. Then they cleaned it up and built all of this a few years ago, and started running the ferry from New York, and people started coming here." Typical hipster New York thinking -- everything was shit before you discovered it. The medical waste issue was for a few months something like 15 years ago. Gateway National Recreation Area was opened in 1974, thank you, and Sandy Hook was a state park before that.

Maybe I'm not being tolerant, but it seems to me that if you're at someone else's house, you treat it with respect and don't impose your ignorance and superiority on it. It led me to wonder if Pringle's Staten Island Bennies and the Manhattan Bennies were really all that different. Which, of course, would probably mortify the Manhattanites. Who don't realize there are some nice beaches in Staten Island, too, and the ferry to get there is free.

Hmm....

Huzzah! Blog the Blogger!

Every once in a while I check Google Analytics for a sense of the traffic Shellpile gets. I think we've topped out at about five or six hits on a given day, only a few that stay for more than a few seconds. It's fun to see we've gotten repeat visits from as far away as South Korea. Needless to say, I'm not in it for the traffic, but it's great to get the occasional affirmation from a stranger who stumbles on the site.

So, I just checked and found that my July 4 post on the Morristown celebration had gotten a few hits over the past few weeks. That's great, but I wondered why -- I hadn't promoted it or linked to any other sites. Doing a little detective work through Analytics, I discovered that the Morristown Green section of NJ.com had quoted directly from that page! How cool is that?

Everybody's got a story ... but maybe not a home

Surely you've seen the 44 pound cat who made the news last week. Not only tragically obese but a victim of foreclosure, Powder the cat hit the media jackpot when he ended up in the animal shelter in Camden County, NJ. After CNN, NBC and a ton of other media outlets ran his story, hundreds of people contacted the shelter to adopt him. The shelter is now evaluating candidates and expects to have Powder in his new home in a week.

This is a common occurrence: a stray dog has an unusual experience, or a cat hoarder's home is raided, and people come out of the woodwork to adopt them. And, of course, the Katrina dogs and cats were a hot commodity for a while. The common theme is that it seems people are compelled to adopt that one dog or cat. Okay, maybe that's too cynical; perhaps they were truly moved by the circumstances and want to help that particular animal. In any case, you have to wonder if they'd be just as adamant about adopting one of the many anonymous cats and dogs who languish in our nation's shelters.

Each stray has his or her own story, their own little tragedy. The shelter where I volunteered was fortunate to have someone who wrote great profiles for each animal's Petfinder.com page. Nonetheless, I sometimes wondered if it might do the animals some good if we, well, elaborated on their circumstances just a tad.

What about that litter of kittens? Maybe they're all named after cities because they were born in a FedEx truck on the Turnpike.

Or how about that pit bull in the corner crate? He stopped a bank robbery!

If it finds them a good home, what's the harm? What, after five years is the dog going to fess up that the war stories are all BS? It's not like he's going to run for president. And even if he did, it wouldn't make a difference.

Will there be cookies?

I've had it with interminable, pointless business meetings. I'm not talking about the ones where there's an actual problem that needs to be solved. I'm talking about the ones where one person is so frightened of being held accountable for a decision he came to independently that he has to get a half dozen people involved. These are the meetings where the talk goes on and on and there's usually a need for a follow-up meeting -- at which no decision will be made.

If you've worked in corporate America, you know what I mean. They're the meetings where the "team" is supposed to come up with a recommendation, but it's useless because no-one in attendance has the power or budget to make any real decisions.

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and attend. Other times you can try to come up with a reason to skip it. It usually helps if you can invoke the name of someone important who conveniently needs your attention at just the time the meeting is being held. But sometimes when you get the invitation, you can't quite tell if the topic is legit or bogus.

I've decided that from now on, I'm using my own criteria to decide which meetings are truly necessary.

Will there be cookies?

This is an infinitely fantastic criterion. With corporate budgets being cut to the bone, the chance of there being refreshments is remote. If the person is desperate enough to have you there, he'll make the accommodation, at which point you can up the ante: Will there be Pepperidge Farm cookies? I really like those Milanos.

No? Oh, well, I'll have to catch up with you later.

It's a no-lose situation. Maybe people get you the Milanos, and they think you're crazy, but heck, you have good cookies to distract you during the meeting.

An aside: at my last job, there was one week in which I only had two meetings. I thought I'd gotten away with something until around 4 p.m. that Friday, when I got stuck in an elevator. For 15 minutes, I was stuck between the ninth and tenth floors, waiting for maintenance to open the doors for me. I came to realize: if you didn't have enough meetings in a given week, they'd force you to have one with yourself.

And no, there were no cookies.

Never fear...

The porkroll and cheese sandwich has returned to the Asbury Park boardwalk. I grabbed one at Mayfair this afternoon.











Just beware of the five dollar soda.

I hope I get it...

Another weekend jaunt had me on the train to New York with no set destination in mind. I let my gut draw me to the Theater District. I'd figure out what show to see when I got there.

It had been a while since I'd seen a Broadway show. I think the last time was in September 2001, when my friend Ingrid took me to see Chicago for my birthday. Just three weeks after the attacks, New York felt very fragile, and the usually mundane hop into Manhattan felt like an act of bravery.

Regardless of the circumstances, stepping into a Broadway theater always brings nostalgia and a sense of unrealized ambition to me. For a time in adolescence, I'd wanted to be a stage actress, and I can't help but identify a little with the actors, singers and dancers in the shows. How incredible must they feel, to have realized their dreams!

These days, there seems to be a wealth of good shows to choose from, and with the revival of A Chorus Line closing in five weeks, it seemed like the logical choice. Despite the legendary 15-year run of the original production and the supposed parallel to my own ambitions at the time, I hadn't seen it.

The opening minutes of the show's audition scenario brought me back to a forgotten episode of my life. My junior high school acting-fever days coincided with the first few years of the show's original run, and my friend Heather shared my desire to be on stage. She was an avid Backstage reader, especially the back pages where the open call notices were printed.

One night she called me to report that A Chorus Line was having an open call that weekend, Actors Equity card not necessary. Did I want to go with her? The New York bus stopped on her corner and went almost directly to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, just a few blocks from Times Square and the audition studio. It was that easy.

Every concern I brought up was answered: Uh, I can't dance. "That's okay, they show you the steps before the audition. You can follow everyone else." Don't you need a resume and a headshot? "You were in the Summer Music School production of Oklahoma! That counts for something! And you can bring your yearbook picture." Well, okay, let me see if I can go.

My mom blew a gasket when I asked. She'd denied many more reasonable requests; this one was the Triple Crown winner of the bad judgement derby.

• Take the bus with your friend from school? (I don't know her mother -- she must be evil!)
• To the Port Authority? (and this was before it was cleaned up)
• Walk through Times Square? (This was Travis Bickle's Times Square, not Disney's)

Needless to say, I didn't go, even though Heather suggested ways we could get to the city and back without Mom knowing. After some initial pouting, I wasn't all that broken up about it. It just didn't make sense to me to audition for a singing/dancing role I didn't have the skills for. I knew what I was good at, and I knew my limitations.

My memory is a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure that Heather went. Naturally she didn't get a part -- she was only 14 and didn't have the singing or the dancing -- but I give her credit for getting that far. Sometimes you do have to go for it.

Myself, I'd rather have the character shoes and the headshot first, thanks.

Visiting the Big House

Too much to do, too little time. Too much time, can't think of what to do.

Past several days, I've been off from work, doing one of those lovely "staycations" (a.k.a. 'holi-stays'). I could have swallowed hard and spent a ton of money on an airline ticket to elsewhere, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Instead, I decided to stick close to home and do some day trips, go down the shore, make a trip into the city.

Today I came up blank. The weather’s been changeable since Friday, so the beach was out. I considered a trip to Salem and maybe Shellpile, but I just wasn’t up for it. I needed to go somewhere, so I checked my file.

I keep two folders of places, things and stuff that looks interesting. One is a literal folder, for stuff I clip from the newspaper. The other is a virtual folder of bookmarks in Internet Explorer. Today the paper file didn’t cut it, so I checked online and found Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia.

Eastern State is one of those great, scary places that's notorious among the cult of urban explorers. Built in the 1820s as a model penitentiary on the outskirts of Philadelphia, it stands fortress-like, with castle turrets and thick, thick walls. Eventually it became overcrowded and run down, even as the city grew outward to envelop it. More than 100 inmates escaped over the 150 years the prison was in operation, which, surely, was a major factor in the decision to shut it down. It was home, however briefly, to men and women, both obscure and famous, like Al Capone and Willie Sutton. (Capone's reconstructed, plushly-furnished cell is shown at the end of the video below.)



The initial concept was that each prisoner would have his or her own small cell and an adjoining outdoor 'exercise' area; they would see no-one, allowing time for significant contemplation of the wrongdoing that put them there. Cells were organized along cellblocks that intersected at a central point, like the legs of a spider. As the prison grew to accommodate a growing number of criminals, the individual exercise yards were eliminated in favor of new cells, and prisoners were doubled up.

Today, the prison is dungeonlike in atmosphere: a sea of peeling paint, falling-down plaster and dripping leachate from holes in the roof. During my visit, a sudden burst of rain reverberated through the cellblocks, making the already humid atmosphere even clammier. It's hard to believe that just 40 years ago, it was heated, wired for light and had running water... and that there was paint and plaster on the walls to make it habitable.

A few of the cellblocks are open for wandering, while others are closed, but you can poke your nose in from the central area or from the outside yard. Some of the cells are open to walk into. They're all pretty much the same and are all pretty creepy. One cellblock is specifically noted as being haunted. Grrrreaat.

There's also a sampling of art installed around the prison -- a Guantanamo cell set up in a cell, time lapse video of light entering and leaving a hallway, and 19 ghost cats. They're the specters of a colony of felines that took the place following its abandonment. And it's a game to find them around the grounds, adding a bit of whimsy to a scary place. The truly odd thing is that they all have contented little smiles on their faces. Never imagined that the Cheshire Cat would be staying at the Graybar Hotel.

Huzzah! Huzzah!

July 4 is one of my favorite holidays. No matter how screwed up government is these days, and no matter how frustrated I may be by current events, I'm a patriot, and I relish the chance to celebrate it. It's amazing to think about the chances our forebears took in rebelling against the great superpower of the 18th century. It's even more amazing to think that they prevailed.

Not far away from me is the Morristown National Historic Park, one of many "George Washington slept here" places in New Jersey. Valley Forge gets the press for misery, but Morristown was the site of two epic winter encampments of the Continental Army. Valley Forge had disease, but at least it was relatively warm. Morristown had disease plus persistent, sub-freezing weather and feet (yes - FEET) of snow, blowing through the flimsy soldier tents and hastily-constructed log huts. Washington and some aides stayed at the home of the sympathetic Jacob Ford, closer to the Morristown Green.

Every July 4, the Ford Mansion hosts a reading of the Declaration of Independence and a musket salute from the Jersey Blues - the third New Jersey Regiment. Far from a solemn event, the reading takes on a raucous tone, with the reenactors encouraging audience members to shout huzzahs and heckle King George during the airing of grievances. There's nothing quite like hearing the words of 1776 punctuated with a clearly 21st century "no he di-in't!" Everyone has a good time, and in the process, we all get a better view into an event and people we thought we'd already known so well.

What gets me every time is the accuracy of John Adams' vision of what the celebration of the 50th anniversary of the signing would be like. He told his wife Abigail that Independence Day "should be commemorated with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward, forever more." It's a day for fun, for celebrating what it means not to be oppressed. The pursuit of freedom.

And he was sure it would happen -- that America wouldn't be a flash in the pan. The following years would be challenging for him and for the country, but it's the belief that got him through it. And even with all of the crap that happens here -- a lot of it self-perpetuated -- that confidence is at the core of what America is. And it's what has to give us the courage to continue to hold ourselves and each other accountable to the vision.

Didn't see it coming...


Every loyal Springsteen fan knows the line from Fourth of July Asbury Park (Sandy) -- 'The cops finally busted Madam Marie for telling fortunes better than they do..." Doubtless, a lot of the people who come from far and wide to make the Stone Pony pilgrimage and take some photos of her small Temple of Knowledge on the boardwalk. Hours were sporadic, but visitors were invited to call her; she was more than willing to come over and open up shop. I was tempted a few times, myself, but never did.

Marie Castello died Tuesday at the age of 93. According to an obituary published in the Asbury Park Press and distributed in an e-mail by the folks at Weird NJ, she hadn't been sick, just wasn't feeling well lately.

While she'd closed the Temple during the boardwalk's extreme low period in the '90s, she continued to predict good things for Asbury's comeback. After yet another set of would-be saviors went belly-up in '94, she told the Star-Ledger: "I most certainly knew the developers were going to come to a bad end, but I stayed here because this is the beautifullest boardwalk in the world. Sure I could have warned people in town, but who's gonna listen to me? But I'll tell you this: Asbury Park is gonna come back bigger, I mean much, much bigger than even before and it's gonna happen in the next three years. Trust me, I know these things."

Her timeline was more than a little off, but maybe she's right, and maybe the Castellos will be able to get their share. When I was down there last weekend, I noticed they'd hung a new red and white striped awning on her Temple of Knowledge. Apparently her great-granddaughter has taken up the family business. The joint venture partners who are renovating the boardwalk buildings lowered the Convention Hall flag to half staff, so you can be sure they won't be taking down her shack anytime soon.

Requiat in pace, Madam Marie.