Now, shut up and eat your clam broth.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Keys...
Many, many years ago, I used to take short road trips with a friend named Marty. He'd come down from NJIT on a lark, pick me up at my Rutgers dorm and we'd head down Route 27, which eventually became Nassau Street and downtown Princeton.
Acutely aware of the ancient history between Rutgers and Princeton, we'd gone down there a few times at night, plotting the revival of the college rivalry which had died years before. In truth, I think we were a bit in awe of the place. We were both bright kids, good grades and College Boards and all that, but had ended up at state schools. Rutgers has its share of ivy covered walls, but it had long before cut its ties to the Ivy League, and few of its students seemed to care about tradition. I, on the other hand, knew all four verses of the Alma Mater. Marty did, too, even though it wasn't actually his school. Plus I'd just read This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald's chronicle of an angst-ridden Princeton boy. So... it wasn't out of character for us to travel the half hour distance to get some of the tradition back.
One late afternoon, in particular, we found our way down the road and began the unusual (for us) task of wandering around campus in daylight. We decided that we'd see if we could get into Old Nassau, the first building the college constructed. We'd long joked about what we'd do if we were able to break in.
Surprisingly enough, the front door opened when Marty tried the old doorknob, and we found ourselves in a large entryway with marble walls. We walked from one panel to the next, reading the names of the Princeton graduates who'd lost their lives in every American war since the Revolution. The room was quiet for a few moments, but for the footsteps of a campus policeman.
I apologized for being there, figuring we'd gone into forbidden territory, but he said it was okay. "I'm just closing up for the day." He led us out to the front step, asking us about our interest in the building. We chatted for a bit, and then he said he had to finish his rounds.
"They'd kill me if I lost this," he said, pulling a large, centuries-old key from his pocket. As the policeman inserted it into the keyhole and turned it, Marty's eyes met mine, and we shared a smile. He knew what I was thinking: at Rutgers' main building, Old Queens, they'd probably replaced the original lock with a new one. Not long ago, I checked and found it to be so.
Many, many years ago, I used to take short road trips with a friend named Marty. He'd come down from NJIT on a lark, pick me up at my Rutgers dorm and we'd head down Route 27, which eventually became Nassau Street and downtown Princeton.
Acutely aware of the ancient history between Rutgers and Princeton, we'd gone down there a few times at night, plotting the revival of the college rivalry which had died years before. In truth, I think we were a bit in awe of the place. We were both bright kids, good grades and College Boards and all that, but had ended up at state schools. Rutgers has its share of ivy covered walls, but it had long before cut its ties to the Ivy League, and few of its students seemed to care about tradition. I, on the other hand, knew all four verses of the Alma Mater. Marty did, too, even though it wasn't actually his school. Plus I'd just read This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald's chronicle of an angst-ridden Princeton boy. So... it wasn't out of character for us to travel the half hour distance to get some of the tradition back.
One late afternoon, in particular, we found our way down the road and began the unusual (for us) task of wandering around campus in daylight. We decided that we'd see if we could get into Old Nassau, the first building the college constructed. We'd long joked about what we'd do if we were able to break in.
Surprisingly enough, the front door opened when Marty tried the old doorknob, and we found ourselves in a large entryway with marble walls. We walked from one panel to the next, reading the names of the Princeton graduates who'd lost their lives in every American war since the Revolution. The room was quiet for a few moments, but for the footsteps of a campus policeman.
I apologized for being there, figuring we'd gone into forbidden territory, but he said it was okay. "I'm just closing up for the day." He led us out to the front step, asking us about our interest in the building. We chatted for a bit, and then he said he had to finish his rounds.
"They'd kill me if I lost this," he said, pulling a large, centuries-old key from his pocket. As the policeman inserted it into the keyhole and turned it, Marty's eyes met mine, and we shared a smile. He knew what I was thinking: at Rutgers' main building, Old Queens, they'd probably replaced the original lock with a new one. Not long ago, I checked and found it to be so.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Random meeting, lessons learned
On meeting people on my random wanderings around, I sometimes get perspective I didn't expect to receive.
Last year, when I went to an event at the Thomas Edison National Historic Site, my impromptu tour group included an inquisitive New York Times photographer. As we went through various aspects of the site, he continually asked questions, taking more than the usual bored reporter's interest in the subject. Later, when the park ranger was demonstrating how phonograph cylinders were recorded, the photographer practically became part of the story, wedging himself in near the musician and the phonograph technician.
Later on, I noticed him outside one of the buildings and remarked to him that he appeared to truly enjoy his job. As we chatted, I got a quick glance at his press badge and saw his name was Dith Pran. Almost on impulse, I said, "Oh, you're Dith Pran... Sidney Schanberg!"
If you've seen the movie The Killing Fields , you're familiar with their story. During the Vietnam War, Dith had worked as a freelance photographer with New York Times reporter Schanberg. When all the Americans were getting out of Cambodia, Dith was in peril because he had been working with Americans. Schanberg got kicked out of the country but couldn’t get passage for Dith, leaving him to make his way through the Cambodian wilderness for three years, trying not to be caught by the marauding Khmer Rouge. Meanwhile, a guilt-wracked Schanberg tried to find his friend and bring him to the US. Eventually they were reunited, and Schanberg helped him get the Times job.
Dith nodded at my mention of Schanberg and told me he really likes his job because he learns a lot of interesting things and meets nice people. He asked me about my interest in Edison, and where I live, mentioning that he has taken a lot of pictures at a park near my home. We chatted for a few more minutes and then parted ways, agreeing that we might cross paths again.
Food for thought. He seems like a happy guy ... taking human interest photos around New York and New Jersey for the Times, perfectly content with the direction his life has taken. I unwittingly gave him the perfect in to start commenting on the miseries of his life -- miseries that few of us could ever conceive of experiencing -- but he didn't. Kinda gives you pause about how great it is that people can come here after such horrible life experiences, and enjoy having a “normal,” mundane life.
His kindness and apparent lack of bitterness made me curious, so I Googled him to recall the whole story. What I found truly struck me. He has created the Dith Pran Holocaust Awareness Project , to bring the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge to light. I was truly awed by his directions of How you can make a difference. In addition to a call to boost Congressional awareness of the injustice of letting the genocidal maniacs get away with their reprehensible acts, he takes a truly Buddhist approach to hatred:
On meeting people on my random wanderings around, I sometimes get perspective I didn't expect to receive.
Last year, when I went to an event at the Thomas Edison National Historic Site, my impromptu tour group included an inquisitive New York Times photographer. As we went through various aspects of the site, he continually asked questions, taking more than the usual bored reporter's interest in the subject. Later, when the park ranger was demonstrating how phonograph cylinders were recorded, the photographer practically became part of the story, wedging himself in near the musician and the phonograph technician.
Later on, I noticed him outside one of the buildings and remarked to him that he appeared to truly enjoy his job. As we chatted, I got a quick glance at his press badge and saw his name was Dith Pran. Almost on impulse, I said, "Oh, you're Dith Pran... Sidney Schanberg!"
If you've seen the movie The Killing Fields , you're familiar with their story. During the Vietnam War, Dith had worked as a freelance photographer with New York Times reporter Schanberg. When all the Americans were getting out of Cambodia, Dith was in peril because he had been working with Americans. Schanberg got kicked out of the country but couldn’t get passage for Dith, leaving him to make his way through the Cambodian wilderness for three years, trying not to be caught by the marauding Khmer Rouge. Meanwhile, a guilt-wracked Schanberg tried to find his friend and bring him to the US. Eventually they were reunited, and Schanberg helped him get the Times job.
Dith nodded at my mention of Schanberg and told me he really likes his job because he learns a lot of interesting things and meets nice people. He asked me about my interest in Edison, and where I live, mentioning that he has taken a lot of pictures at a park near my home. We chatted for a few more minutes and then parted ways, agreeing that we might cross paths again.
Food for thought. He seems like a happy guy ... taking human interest photos around New York and New Jersey for the Times, perfectly content with the direction his life has taken. I unwittingly gave him the perfect in to start commenting on the miseries of his life -- miseries that few of us could ever conceive of experiencing -- but he didn't. Kinda gives you pause about how great it is that people can come here after such horrible life experiences, and enjoy having a “normal,” mundane life.
His kindness and apparent lack of bitterness made me curious, so I Googled him to recall the whole story. What I found truly struck me. He has created the Dith Pran Holocaust Awareness Project , to bring the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge to light. I was truly awed by his directions of How you can make a difference. In addition to a call to boost Congressional awareness of the injustice of letting the genocidal maniacs get away with their reprehensible acts, he takes a truly Buddhist approach to hatred:
- Don’t react to other people’s anger. When you react, it makes the situation much worse. Anger is a very powerful, negative emotion. Emotion is not the equivalent to logic so no matter how hard you try to reason with people whose minds are filled with anger, they cannot listen to you. Use your energy for something positive instead! When the situation calms down, hopefully then you can work things out.
- Have tolerance for people of different races and backgrounds. There is no benefit to dislike people just because they are different than you. You heard that wise, old saying, "United we stand, divided we fall." After all, we all share the same planet. Let’s make it a better place. Hatred is not the way.
It definitely makes you realize that, as the Buddhists say, "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is not." Dith takes peace and tolerance as his guiding principles, after all he's seen and experienced. He clearly believes in the potential of personal action, as well. As individuals, we may not be able to change the world with grand gestures, but we can make an impact on our immediate surroundings. Who knows where that can lead us?
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Where's Osama?
Five years ago, on an idyllic late summer day turned surreal and so tragic, I can remember my fear that those who attacked us just a few miles away would take everything I hold dear as an American. The attack on our native soil, the death of thousands of innocent people who were just trying to earn a living ... what would the then-unknown murderers deny us, just because of where we happened to be born? What would we have to do to protect our rights, our freedom?
As an American, I have always treasured my right to think what I want, to say what I want, and to associate with those I want to. Though it's often painful and a bit scary, I've always respected the right of others to speak their minds, however unpopular their opinions. It's part of the equation. With the right to free speech comes the responsibility to let others say what they want. Perhaps to disagree, but always to let them speak.
Patriotism isn't blind allegiance. It's knowing what's right and good about one's country, and having the courage and strength to speak up to protect it, no matter the assailant. That was both the fear and the rage that burned in me that day: rage against the enemy and fear that I would have to channel it into action.
What I never expected on that September day was that my own government would be the biggest threat to our liberties. I never expected to be told that if I disagreed with the president, I was an enemy of the state ("If you're not with us, you're with the terrorists."). I never expected that our fear would be cynically co-opted to divert our attention from the real enemy to settle a personal grudge against a despot who had nothing to do with the attack.
The hijackers hated America enough to kill themselves in the attack. Now even more people hate America with a passion, and we brought it on ourselves. What good does it do?
More people have died in Iraq in the past three and a half years than did on that September day, and it's only put us in greater danger. When will it stop?
Meanwhile the real enemy is out there. And perhaps he wraps himself in the American flag.
Where's Osama, Mr. Bush, and why don't you care?
Five years ago, on an idyllic late summer day turned surreal and so tragic, I can remember my fear that those who attacked us just a few miles away would take everything I hold dear as an American. The attack on our native soil, the death of thousands of innocent people who were just trying to earn a living ... what would the then-unknown murderers deny us, just because of where we happened to be born? What would we have to do to protect our rights, our freedom?
As an American, I have always treasured my right to think what I want, to say what I want, and to associate with those I want to. Though it's often painful and a bit scary, I've always respected the right of others to speak their minds, however unpopular their opinions. It's part of the equation. With the right to free speech comes the responsibility to let others say what they want. Perhaps to disagree, but always to let them speak.
Patriotism isn't blind allegiance. It's knowing what's right and good about one's country, and having the courage and strength to speak up to protect it, no matter the assailant. That was both the fear and the rage that burned in me that day: rage against the enemy and fear that I would have to channel it into action.
What I never expected on that September day was that my own government would be the biggest threat to our liberties. I never expected to be told that if I disagreed with the president, I was an enemy of the state ("If you're not with us, you're with the terrorists."). I never expected that our fear would be cynically co-opted to divert our attention from the real enemy to settle a personal grudge against a despot who had nothing to do with the attack.
The hijackers hated America enough to kill themselves in the attack. Now even more people hate America with a passion, and we brought it on ourselves. What good does it do?
More people have died in Iraq in the past three and a half years than did on that September day, and it's only put us in greater danger. When will it stop?
Meanwhile the real enemy is out there. And perhaps he wraps himself in the American flag.
Where's Osama, Mr. Bush, and why don't you care?
Monday, August 28, 2006
You can't escape it.
In the countryside of Southwestern Ireland, there's a huge nature refuge called Killarney National Park. Amid all of the greenery, there's a lovely set of lakes, and you can take a boat ride from one end to the castle at the other side.
The boatmen provide facts about the scenery, along with some random conversation and Irish humor. During a lull in his presentation, Dermott, the boatman, asked me where I was from. When I told him "just outside New York," he asked where, exactly, adding that he had been to New York.
"Are you familiar with New Jersey?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he replied.
"How so?" I inquired, figuring he'd tell me that like many Irish, he has family here that he visits often.
That, however, was not meant to be. "When I was in New York City, I was looking for a Sears store," he told me. "I asked around, and they told me to go to a mall in New Jersey."
*sigh*
I travel over 3000 miles, and I still can't escape the "New Jersey, land of the Malls" label.
I guess it could be worse. At least he didn't ask me if I know Tony Soprano. Or what exit I live at.
In the countryside of Southwestern Ireland, there's a huge nature refuge called Killarney National Park. Amid all of the greenery, there's a lovely set of lakes, and you can take a boat ride from one end to the castle at the other side.
The boatmen provide facts about the scenery, along with some random conversation and Irish humor. During a lull in his presentation, Dermott, the boatman, asked me where I was from. When I told him "just outside New York," he asked where, exactly, adding that he had been to New York."Are you familiar with New Jersey?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he replied.
"How so?" I inquired, figuring he'd tell me that like many Irish, he has family here that he visits often.
That, however, was not meant to be. "When I was in New York City, I was looking for a Sears store," he told me. "I asked around, and they told me to go to a mall in New Jersey."
*sigh*
I travel over 3000 miles, and I still can't escape the "New Jersey, land of the Malls" label.
I guess it could be worse. At least he didn't ask me if I know Tony Soprano. Or what exit I live at.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Monday, August 14, 2006
Some cats take their jobs way too seriously.Jack is a 10 year old cat who lives in the rural town of West Milford, NJ. He doesn't like people much and generally earns his keep by patrolling his family's yard and that of two neighboring homes.
A few weeks ago, Jack's neighbor was looking outside her back window and saw him on the ground, looking up at a treed bear. According to the Newark Star Ledger, she thought, "aw, look at the kitty staring up at the bear!" Then she noticed the bear was looking nervously down at the 15-pound cat.
The bear finally got up enough courage to inch down the tree and jump down. Jack took chase into the woods and treed the bear once again. The bear was rescued, kind of, when Jack's person called him back to the house. Reportedly, the orange tabby sauntered back home and rubbed against the amazed neighbors who'd stopped by to see what the fuss was about.
By explanation, his mom said, "He doesn't want anybody in his yard."
Just goes to show what you can do with an intimidating stare and some cojones. Jack has no claws.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Mystery door update
As Shellpile readers will recall, I've got a mysterious door in my garage that leads to who knows where. I've got a lead on a good skeleton key, but in the meantime, I noticed today that there's an industrial-grade electrical juncture-type box near the mystery door. On closer examination, it appears to have been a light switch at one time. The actual switch is no longer there, but the hole for the toggle remains. One would think that a light switch would be placed next to a door that led from inside the building to the garage.
Upon closer scrutiny of the building schematics, however, it appears the door may lead to storage space.
In any case, there's still light shining through the keyhole. Wouldn't it be weird if it led to the Asbury Park Casino?
As Shellpile readers will recall, I've got a mysterious door in my garage that leads to who knows where. I've got a lead on a good skeleton key, but in the meantime, I noticed today that there's an industrial-grade electrical juncture-type box near the mystery door. On closer examination, it appears to have been a light switch at one time. The actual switch is no longer there, but the hole for the toggle remains. One would think that a light switch would be placed next to a door that led from inside the building to the garage.Upon closer scrutiny of the building schematics, however, it appears the door may lead to storage space.
In any case, there's still light shining through the keyhole. Wouldn't it be weird if it led to the Asbury Park Casino?
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Greetings from Asbury Park
Asbury Park, New Jersey, has seen better days... but apparently things are looking up.
The town was once one of the shining stars of the Jersey shore, with amusement rides, a great boardwalk and a Victorian-era Casino building that extended over the beach and housed a skating rink, tunnel of love and authentic carousel, among other things. Then, for a variety of reasons (corrupt government, urban decay plus the usual yadda-yadda about people forsaking the shore for other more exotic locations (and The Mouse)), the attractions fell into disuse, the buildings were abandoned and started collapsing into themselves, becoming haunted shells of what they once were. (Weird NJ has a great, and more detailed, description of the fall of the amusement mecca)
Now, I've been going down to the Asbury Park boardwalk for several years to take photos of the ruins, or, as the graffiti says, "the debris by the sea." I, like every other New Jerseyan, have heard for years that one scheme or another was going to pull the city out of its doldrums and back to its former glory. The latest attempt is in building a series of luxury condos and renovating the boardwalk attractions. There's already a growing and enthusiastic gay community, the $500,000 condos are selling like crazy, and and many of the shuttered storefronts downtown are now the homes of cute cafes and interior design firms. In other words, this might actually work.
Still, though, I couldn't get the "eeries" out of my system. Every time I go onto that boardwalk, I get this sense of foreboding.
The first time I went there to take photos, they all came out blurry. And I'd always take photos of the casino, with its windows blown out and trees growing through its roof. My mind raced with thoughts of what it must look like inside those crumbling walls.
Imagine my surprise when I went down earlier this year and found that the Casino was partially open. It has a new owner who has pledged to renovate it, and they'd opened up the walkway that goes through the building to link the Asbury Park boardwalk with the town of Ocean Grove to the south. Standing at the doorway, I saw that the floor was made of marble, and looking up, I noticed netting up above, hung to catch any falling plaster. And to either side, there were plywood construction barriers on which were hung artists' renderings of the new condos going up. This didn't feel like another attempt doomed to failure. It felt real: maybe Asbury Park is coming back.
As someone else started walking in, I decided to take the plunge. If anything went wrong -- or the building swallowed me up -- I wouldn't be alone. It was chilly inside the building, and I stopped at one of the drawings so I could gather my courage to go farther in. Turned out the other person was a tourist from Holland. He'd been in New York on business and wanted to see the Asbury Park that Bruce Springsteen sings about. I nodded, and as I looked outside and saw people on the boardwalk, enjoying hot dogs and ice cream from boardwalk stores that hadn't been open in years, I said, "It sure is something, isn't it?" Only thing was, he saw the decay where I saw the possibility.
Still, though, it will be some time before I can go into any of those buildings without getting the creeps.
Asbury Park, New Jersey, has seen better days... but apparently things are looking up.
The town was once one of the shining stars of the Jersey shore, with amusement rides, a great boardwalk and a Victorian-era Casino building that extended over the beach and housed a skating rink, tunnel of love and authentic carousel, among other things. Then, for a variety of reasons (corrupt government, urban decay plus the usual yadda-yadda about people forsaking the shore for other more exotic locations (and The Mouse)), the attractions fell into disuse, the buildings were abandoned and started collapsing into themselves, becoming haunted shells of what they once were. (Weird NJ has a great, and more detailed, description of the fall of the amusement mecca)
Now, I've been going down to the Asbury Park boardwalk for several years to take photos of the ruins, or, as the graffiti says, "the debris by the sea." I, like every other New Jerseyan, have heard for years that one scheme or another was going to pull the city out of its doldrums and back to its former glory. The latest attempt is in building a series of luxury condos and renovating the boardwalk attractions. There's already a growing and enthusiastic gay community, the $500,000 condos are selling like crazy, and and many of the shuttered storefronts downtown are now the homes of cute cafes and interior design firms. In other words, this might actually work.
Still, though, I couldn't get the "eeries" out of my system. Every time I go onto that boardwalk, I get this sense of foreboding.
The first time I went there to take photos, they all came out blurry. And I'd always take photos of the casino, with its windows blown out and trees growing through its roof. My mind raced with thoughts of what it must look like inside those crumbling walls.Imagine my surprise when I went down earlier this year and found that the Casino was partially open. It has a new owner who has pledged to renovate it, and they'd opened up the walkway that goes through the building to link the Asbury Park boardwalk with the town of Ocean Grove to the south. Standing at the doorway, I saw that the floor was made of marble, and looking up, I noticed netting up above, hung to catch any falling plaster. And to either side, there were plywood construction barriers on which were hung artists' renderings of the new condos going up. This didn't feel like another attempt doomed to failure. It felt real: maybe Asbury Park is coming back.
As someone else started walking in, I decided to take the plunge. If anything went wrong -- or the building swallowed me up -- I wouldn't be alone. It was chilly inside the building, and I stopped at one of the drawings so I could gather my courage to go farther in. Turned out the other person was a tourist from Holland. He'd been in New York on business and wanted to see the Asbury Park that Bruce Springsteen sings about. I nodded, and as I looked outside and saw people on the boardwalk, enjoying hot dogs and ice cream from boardwalk stores that hadn't been open in years, I said, "It sure is something, isn't it?" Only thing was, he saw the decay where I saw the possibility.
Still, though, it will be some time before I can go into any of those buildings without getting the creeps.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Lupita and Linda Blair and the Mother of All Hairballs
I went to Santa Fe about five years ago and stayed in this great B&B called La Tienda Inn . Great place – comfy, great atmosphere and friendly innkeepers. If you go to Santa Fe, be sure to check it out. When I checked in, I noticed this big cat walking around, and the innkeeper told me she was Lupita, she owned the place and once she planted herself on your lap, you were stuck for as long as she wanted to be there, which could mean a long wait. Later on, as I sat in the lounge, I could see her living up to her reputation on another guest’s lap. The guest, who clearly wasn’t a cat person, was visibly terrified at the prospect of trying to move her.
The next day, I figured I was acclimated to the altitude (7500 feet) and went out to Bandelier National Monument to do some hiking. I think I got a little stoned on the lack of oxygen, because by the time I got back, I was downright goofy. Lupita was waiting at the door of the little cottage I was staying in, so when I opened the door, I let her come in. She made herself at home on the bed, and we hung out to watch some TV. After a few hours, I figured it was time for her to go – I was ready to sleep, the innkeeper would be getting worried, and most importantly, there was no litter box in the room. However, Lupita had made up her mind to spend the night in my room.
That is, until something scary started to occur. I’d made a really BIG mistake by going hiking before I’d actually acclimated to the altitude, and it suddenly became very clear to me that I was about to get very sick. Again, I tried to get the cat out of the room, but she wouldn’t budge – a decision she came to regret. I ended up running to the bathroom to do the Linda Blair thing into the first plumbing fixture I could get to. When that first bout ended, I looked down to see the cat bolting for the door, which, of course, was closed. When I went to let her out, she had such a look of fear in her eyes! I can only imagine that she thought I’d hacked up the mother of all hairballs. She avoided me for the rest of the time I was at the inn.
I learned two things from this experience: wait at least 48 hours before you do anything remotely athletic when you’re dealing with altitude, and if you need to get rid of an obstinate cat, projectile vomiting works very well.
I went to Santa Fe about five years ago and stayed in this great B&B called La Tienda Inn . Great place – comfy, great atmosphere and friendly innkeepers. If you go to Santa Fe, be sure to check it out. When I checked in, I noticed this big cat walking around, and the innkeeper told me she was Lupita, she owned the place and once she planted herself on your lap, you were stuck for as long as she wanted to be there, which could mean a long wait. Later on, as I sat in the lounge, I could see her living up to her reputation on another guest’s lap. The guest, who clearly wasn’t a cat person, was visibly terrified at the prospect of trying to move her.
The next day, I figured I was acclimated to the altitude (7500 feet) and went out to Bandelier National Monument to do some hiking. I think I got a little stoned on the lack of oxygen, because by the time I got back, I was downright goofy. Lupita was waiting at the door of the little cottage I was staying in, so when I opened the door, I let her come in. She made herself at home on the bed, and we hung out to watch some TV. After a few hours, I figured it was time for her to go – I was ready to sleep, the innkeeper would be getting worried, and most importantly, there was no litter box in the room. However, Lupita had made up her mind to spend the night in my room.
That is, until something scary started to occur. I’d made a really BIG mistake by going hiking before I’d actually acclimated to the altitude, and it suddenly became very clear to me that I was about to get very sick. Again, I tried to get the cat out of the room, but she wouldn’t budge – a decision she came to regret. I ended up running to the bathroom to do the Linda Blair thing into the first plumbing fixture I could get to. When that first bout ended, I looked down to see the cat bolting for the door, which, of course, was closed. When I went to let her out, she had such a look of fear in her eyes! I can only imagine that she thought I’d hacked up the mother of all hairballs. She avoided me for the rest of the time I was at the inn.
I learned two things from this experience: wait at least 48 hours before you do anything remotely athletic when you’re dealing with altitude, and if you need to get rid of an obstinate cat, projectile vomiting works very well.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Rock bands, etc.
Coco mentioned that Smoking Caldera sounds like a punk band. Reminds me of a time when some sort of strange substance was found on the ground, having fallen like rain in a town not far from here. The newspaper headline read: Mysterious Goo Found in S. Plainfield.
"Mysterious Goo." You don't see that phrase often, especially in a newspaper. Made me think: it's a pretty cool rap artist name. 'Cept you'd have to spell it:
Coco mentioned that Smoking Caldera sounds like a punk band. Reminds me of a time when some sort of strange substance was found on the ground, having fallen like rain in a town not far from here. The newspaper headline read: Mysterious Goo Found in S. Plainfield.
"Mysterious Goo." You don't see that phrase often, especially in a newspaper. Made me think: it's a pretty cool rap artist name. 'Cept you'd have to spell it:
Ms. Teary S. Gu
And somewhere in between would have to be some sort of unpronounceable symbol. Thoughts?
Monday, July 17, 2006
No matter where you go...
somebody wants to sell you a souvenir (and a Coke).
After walking just about all the way up Mt. Vesuvius, you're greeted by a handwritten sign -- in four languages, no less -- announcing that you're almost to the top, to the smoking caldera.
Interestingly enough, the word "souvenir" needs no translation.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
From the doghouse to the penthouse
This is my buddy Pete (the dude on the right). He spent over two years at the animal shelter where I used to volunteer. Great dog, very quirky. Some kind of mix of mastiff and bulldog and probably something else -- we couldn't figure it out.
Anyway, Pete and I got to be pals because I was one of the few people who could walk him without getting dragged. He'd see me coming with the leash, and he'd start jumping up and down like a Jack Russell terrier, except Pete is close to 100 pounds. It was amazing. Pete was partial to women, and after a while, he'd even sit in my lap gently, not putting his full weight on me.
Anyway, Pete finally got adopted by a nice couple. The man looked about the way Pete would look if he were human -- tall and beefy -- and the woman was petite and fussed over him, just as he likes. So after spending over two years living in a trailer next to the municipal dump and the police shooting range, Pete is living the life of luxury. He has a summer home on the Jersey Shore, and a boat, among other things. Most importantly, he has a dad who understands him and knows how to treat him when he steals someone's steak. Yup, Pete has the good life. He deserves it.
This is my buddy Pete (the dude on the right). He spent over two years at the animal shelter where I used to volunteer. Great dog, very quirky. Some kind of mix of mastiff and bulldog and probably something else -- we couldn't figure it out.
Anyway, Pete and I got to be pals because I was one of the few people who could walk him without getting dragged. He'd see me coming with the leash, and he'd start jumping up and down like a Jack Russell terrier, except Pete is close to 100 pounds. It was amazing. Pete was partial to women, and after a while, he'd even sit in my lap gently, not putting his full weight on me.Anyway, Pete finally got adopted by a nice couple. The man looked about the way Pete would look if he were human -- tall and beefy -- and the woman was petite and fussed over him, just as he likes. So after spending over two years living in a trailer next to the municipal dump and the police shooting range, Pete is living the life of luxury. He has a summer home on the Jersey Shore, and a boat, among other things. Most importantly, he has a dad who understands him and knows how to treat him when he steals someone's steak. Yup, Pete has the good life. He deserves it.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
Friday, June 30, 2006
The Nebraska Navy
Everybody knows about Kentucky colonels (Sanders aside) ... but did you know that there's an imposing naval force within the heartland of the United States?
It's called the Nebraska Navy.
Why would a landlocked state need a navy, you ask? Because you never know when there will be a surprise incursion from Kansas. Kansas, you ask? Oh, they seem really friendly in Kansas, and like the U.S. and Canada, Nebraska and Kansas have a broad, unprotected border and a history of friendly relations, but these days it never hurts to be prepared. I'm sure that the Cornhusker State got its fair share of Homeland Security dollars to bolster the navy's defenses.
Like any government entity, however, the Nebraska Navy apparently is not immune to political maneuvering and patronage. It has more admirals per sailor than any other naval fleet on the planet Earth. Reportedly, it has become a gubernatorial tradition to grant admiralship to any just about Nebraskan who asks.
By the way, the Nebraska Navy should not be confused with the Cornfield Cruiser, or the USS Rancocas, which protects the farmland of southern New Jersey. That's a totally different story.
Everybody knows about Kentucky colonels (Sanders aside) ... but did you know that there's an imposing naval force within the heartland of the United States?
It's called the Nebraska Navy.
Why would a landlocked state need a navy, you ask? Because you never know when there will be a surprise incursion from Kansas. Kansas, you ask? Oh, they seem really friendly in Kansas, and like the U.S. and Canada, Nebraska and Kansas have a broad, unprotected border and a history of friendly relations, but these days it never hurts to be prepared. I'm sure that the Cornhusker State got its fair share of Homeland Security dollars to bolster the navy's defenses.
Like any government entity, however, the Nebraska Navy apparently is not immune to political maneuvering and patronage. It has more admirals per sailor than any other naval fleet on the planet Earth. Reportedly, it has become a gubernatorial tradition to grant admiralship to any just about Nebraskan who asks.
By the way, the Nebraska Navy should not be confused with the Cornfield Cruiser, or the USS Rancocas, which protects the farmland of southern New Jersey. That's a totally different story.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The Cat Man
I used to work in the headquarters of an electric company, and when I first started working there, a co-worker told me about an employee who dressed up like Rum-Tug-Tugger from "Cats" for every employee event. I thought she was pulling my leg... but then I saw the C
at. It was Christmas Eve, the day that employees traditionally bring their kids to the office and put work aside for some holiday cameraderie. There was Leon, in the lobby, resplendent in his threadbare tights and fur that had seen better days, welcoming employees' children to the building. More than one kid shrank behind his/her parent's back, and I'm sure a few had nightmares about the pot-bellied, six foot feline who meowed at them and pawed at the air.
I never actually saw Leon without his costume and makeup on, but I did have one unfortunate encounter with him at a company-sponsored event. He sidled up to me and asked if I had a cat. I said no, but I'd been thinking about it. Bad move -- he replied, "Well, put a saucer of milk out on your doorstep, and maybe I'll stop by."
A few years later, after I left the company, "Cats" closed on Broadway and I heard that they were having a charity sale of all of the costumes and props. Somehow I had suspicions, and when I read the New York Times the next day, I found a picture of Leon, in costume, shopping for new fur among the used cast materials. He was quoted, "Sometimes you're having a bad day, you put on your fur and whiskers, and things turn for the better."
When you think about it, it's a shame Leon worked in the headquarters of the electric company. With his feline skills, he'd probably serve the company better working in the field and climbing poles.
I used to work in the headquarters of an electric company, and when I first started working there, a co-worker told me about an employee who dressed up like Rum-Tug-Tugger from "Cats" for every employee event. I thought she was pulling my leg... but then I saw the C
at. It was Christmas Eve, the day that employees traditionally bring their kids to the office and put work aside for some holiday cameraderie. There was Leon, in the lobby, resplendent in his threadbare tights and fur that had seen better days, welcoming employees' children to the building. More than one kid shrank behind his/her parent's back, and I'm sure a few had nightmares about the pot-bellied, six foot feline who meowed at them and pawed at the air.I never actually saw Leon without his costume and makeup on, but I did have one unfortunate encounter with him at a company-sponsored event. He sidled up to me and asked if I had a cat. I said no, but I'd been thinking about it. Bad move -- he replied, "Well, put a saucer of milk out on your doorstep, and maybe I'll stop by."
A few years later, after I left the company, "Cats" closed on Broadway and I heard that they were having a charity sale of all of the costumes and props. Somehow I had suspicions, and when I read the New York Times the next day, I found a picture of Leon, in costume, shopping for new fur among the used cast materials. He was quoted, "Sometimes you're having a bad day, you put on your fur and whiskers, and things turn for the better."
When you think about it, it's a shame Leon worked in the headquarters of the electric company. With his feline skills, he'd probably serve the company better working in the field and climbing poles.
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