I stand corrected

AllAsburyPark.com notes that the Mayfair will return to the Asbury Park boardwalk this summer. No word on Taylor ham and cheese sandwiches, though hope springs eternal.

Dang.

Summer is here with a vengeance, with the classic New Jersey humidity. Since I didn't want to chance a sunburn with my physical scheduled for Tuesday, yesterday's jaunt wasn't to Sandy Hook, but to Asbury Park.

It's the weekend before July 4, and they're still working on the boardwalk concession buildings. Some shops have already opened, though you could barely tell from the boardwalk because the doors were closed and no shop signs are up yet. They do look nice, though, with stucco facings and energy-efficient tinted glass doors.

Not surprisingly, the building that's the nearest to complete is the one closest to Convention Hall. Formerly home to the last operating Howard
Johnson's restaurant in New Jersey, the flying-saucer-shaped restaurant building attached to the rest of the pavilion has been open the whole time. It appears that its upper floor, once HoJo's banquet room, is soon to reopen as a chichi supper club. Other storefronts in the building show 'opening soon' signs that seem to attest that their new occupants will appeal to a similar demographic.

Amid all of this, there's still a forlorn "Place orders here" sign on the outside wall of the next building over, a remnant of the Mayfair hot dog/hamburger/soft ice cream stand that once operated there. The joint always kinda skeeved me out -- and that's saying something, coming from me -- but it left me wondering. Once all of these shops are open, where on the boardwalk is a girl gonna be able to find a decent tube steak, a slice or a Taylor ham and cheese? Mesclun salads and fruit smoothies are nice, don't get me wrong, but to me, they don't quite jive with the Jersey shore.

In an effort to bring Asbury out of its doldrums, are they going too far in the other direction? I'm not advocating the cheap and tawdry honky-tonk atmosphere of Seaside Heights, but let's at least make it possible for a family who actually lives in AP (not in the condos) to go to the beach for the day without having to take out a bank loan. Granted, I'm talking here without a lot of information to go on, but it's not looking good.

Then again, we'll see what the market will bear. The downturn in the real estate market could put a dent in condo sales in the new buildings, and maybe the promised influx of the demographic will come a lot more slowly than originally hoped for.

Just before I drove out of town, I stopped by one of the new developments, with a thought of looking at one of the model properties. Once I walked in the lobby and assessed the decor, though, I turned to leave, walking past two men who sounded as if they were involved in the building's operations and maintenance. A classic Jersey guy, one of them called after me, "Arent'cha even gonna look?"

I was going to ignore him, knowing half the reason he asked was to flirt (those guys always do), but stopped to tell him, "Not my style. I'm a hot dog and fries kinda gal."

Smiling, he replied, "Now, that's what I like!" He and his companion laughed, and I was on my way.

R & R

Now that it's summertime, thoughts turn to vacation, even if you know your work schedule in August is going to be so busy you won't be able to leave the office a few hours early on a Friday afternoon.

The other day I was thinking: when you're a little kid, the cool places to go are theme parks where you can pretend to be an important adult. Maybe it's Cinderella or Batman, or even an Amazon steamboat captain, but in any event, you're not a kid. You're a grownup with a really cool job.

Then, when you get older, you've probably blown your shot at a cool job, so you want nothing more than to be a kid with no job at all. People pay good money to go to Club Getaway, which is just a giant summer camp that doesn't force you to play dodgeball. And think about it: what more is a spa but a nursery for giant newborns? They massage you and coo over you and wrap you up in cozy towels. All that's missing is being burped.

I think we should take it a few steps farther. Forget about being a kid again. Consider all the stuff you weren't allowed to do as a child that you swore that you would do once you grew up. That's what my theme park for adults would be all about. Here are just a few of the attractions:

• You'll Put Your Eye Out Land -- for fans of A Christmas Story and everyone who was disappointed when lawn darts were taken off the market.
• Run Up the Down Escalator -- the line would be really long for this one, and it wouldn't move very quickly. Bonus ride: sliding down the railing from the top.
• Throw Pennies from the Balcony -- maybe you'll hit someone, maybe you won't, but you won't get yelled at.
• And, of course, don't miss lunch at the Five Second Rule Food Court, where everything on the menu is dropped on the floor just moments before it reaches your table. Extra points for ordering the spaghetti.

Jump on the beds! Play in traffic! Slurp up at the public drinking fountain with your lips directly on the spout! It doesn't matter!

Needless to say, I'll have to find a somewhat less litigious country to build this park in, or the last attraction will be Get eaten by sharks.

Getting rid of squirrels -- the Jersey way

For as long as I've known him, every summer my dad has planted enough salad vegetables to keep us and a few lucky neighbors in produce for much of the growing season. It's not unique to suburban New Jersey; in fact, many of us keep a small list of people we keep away from in August, just to avoid having to accept bushels of unwanted zucchini.

With gardens, of course, come pests. Dad has never been big on using chemicals or poisons in the garden, and over the years he's found his own ways of dealing with the random bugs, worms and small animals that come calling. One, though, is both persistent and perennial.

The organized crime syndicate of the suburban garden is the squirrel family. They hone their skills in the winter through attempts to steal from my mom's bird feeders. In the summer they escalate to eating the apples (only the ones on the trees, mind you, not the ones that have fallen to the ground). And of course, when they do get to their quarry, they take one bite of the fruit and move on to the next one. Needless to say, it's rather frustrating when you've been watching a particularly nice tomato grow to perfection, only to check the garden in the morning to find it's been sampled by a fluffy-tailed rodent.

Dad has tried many ways to address the problem. Chicken wire did nothing but make the garden look like some sort of detention camp. He set hav-a-heart traps and released the thief into the woods across the street, but it only returned (he swears it's the exact, same squirrel every time). He even went as far as to pull out his old slingshot, which the squirrel laughed at once he realized it would only knock him out for a bit. Dad's a really bright guy, totally sane, but the thought he put into some of the ideas left me wondering if there might be other projects that would benefit from his ingenuity more. Like solving the global warming problem, perhaps.

Then one day he told me he thought he had the solution to the one-squirrel crime wave. Yes, he was still using the trap, but he wasn't releasing the culprit across the street. He was bringing it to another, bigger county park about five miles away. That seemed like a sensible solution for a recidivist squirrel. But I started getting worried when he continued his account of the, uh, disposal.

"I put him and the trap into the trunk," Dad explained, sounding a little like Paulie Walnuts explaining how he and Chrissy got the Russian to the Pine Barrens. "Then I drove around for a bit before I headed to the park, so he'd get disoriented." Between that, the distance and the fact that the park is on the other side of a very busy highway, Dad was reasonably confident that the squirrel wouldn't come back. In fact, I think he even suggested that when the squirrel's family noticed he'd disappeared, they'd think twice about coming into the garden. Little would they know that the capo-di-capo of the Family was living in witness protection.

I guess I should have been relieved it only went that far. My parents do have 'connected' neighbors, and while they aren't the type to ask for favors, who knows what could have happened in exchange for some zucchini flowers and basil.

All I can say is, God forbid a deer gets in the yard.

It's coming along ....

Another beautiful summery day, another trip to Asbury Park. I'd thought it would be a little too cool to hit the beach at Sandy Hook, so I figured I could head on down to the boardwalk if the Parkway traffic wasn't onerous.

I really should have packed for the beach. By the time I got down there, it was 80 degrees, beautiful sunshine, perfect for setting a towel on the sand and digging into a good book. There was lots of foot traffic on the boardwalk and a lot of cars parked nearby; I didn't realize it, but there was a big Gay Pride celebration going on a couple of blocks inland, so lots of people were coming in for that, too. On the boardwalk, one of the pavilions is nearly fully renovated, with signs saying the stores will open in a few weeks.

There's always a surprise for me when I head down there, and this time it was the Carousel Room of the Casino. Long boarded up, its intricate windows protected, it was always surrounded by a fence far enough away to allow me to get a decent photo. The photo to the left gives you an idea of the distance I had to contend with, even on my last visit just a few weeks ago. I could have gotten physically closer, but not by much, and my view would have been obstructed by chain link fencing.

This time, the temporary fencing was close enough to the building that I could walk right up. I've always liked the Medusa-like brass face medallions above the doorways, and now was my chance to get a closer look. The whole exterior is covered in intricate pressed metal designs -- seahorses, spiderwebs on the cornices.

As I walked around from the street-side toward a body of water on the other side, I noticed that the fencing stopped. I could walk right in if I wanted to.

For a moment, I hesitated, but then a cyclist zoomed past me and wheeled right in. Hey, I said, if he can do it, so can I. Nothing was stopping either of us -- no warning signs, no closed gates, no sawhorses, no alarms.

The cyclist told me that the room had been open like that since Friday, and that the plan was that there'd eventually be a food court of some type there. No carousel, I guess. That's a shame. Looking up at the vaulted circular ceiling, I could imagine old, Edison-style incandescent lightbulbs ringing the rafters, gaily illuminating the space, the song of a calliope livening up the room.

In any case, I was surprised to find that the creepy feeing I had had -- and sometimes still have -- when entering the Casino was entirely absent when I walked into the Carousel Room. Maybe it was the openness of light and air streaming in. Or maybe it was that so much of it was new -- the ceiling, the poured-concrete floor, a plaster wall not far away. In any case, it felt hopeful rather than eerie.

Later I found that there's to be an art show there next Saturday, as part of the monthly First Night downtown. It'll be the first real life there in a long time; the last use was as a flea market. I guess one can hope.

Insult to injury

In his most recent weekly radio address, President George Bush encouraged Americans to mark Memorial Day with a patriotic gesture, like placing a flag at a veteran's grave. When he says things like that, I suspect he envisions some sort of 1940's Hollywood scene of small boys in Cub Scout uniforms reverently walking from gravestone to gravestone, saluting each fallen warrior with tiny hands at brows.

"Honor a vet. Plant a flag."

I wonder how that makes our Iraq veterans feel. Due to advances in battlefield medical practices, troops hurt in the Gulf are coming home after suffering severe injuries that would have put them in caskets in a war even just a few years ago. Many suffer debilitating brain damage or loss of limbs. In many cases they come home to hospitals that would be deplorable even in a war zone. We've all heard the stories about conditions at Walter Reed, supposedly among the best of all military hospitals. And don't get me started about the lack of protective equipment that landed so many of these injured in the hospital to begin with. I suppose the part of Bush's radio address that exhorted people to hold bake sales for body armor was edited out when saner heads prevailed.

Seems to me that honoring veterans -- standing behind our troops -- starts with taking care of them. Show them the same degree of loyalty they show their country. You put them in harm's way, you protect them. If they get hurt, you do your damnedest to fix them. You live up to your end of the bargain.

I find it frankly insulting that when these men and women are basically asked to be targets, and when they're cycled in and out for multiple tours of duty, our president thinks that a flag or a pat on the back is thanks enough for their bravery. For putting their lives on hold and leaving their families. And for sustaining injures that change their lives forever.

Is Bush the only one who thinks it's enough? I'd like to hope so. Nonetheless, it's sad to think that the one person who does... is the one who's in charge.

Memorial Day, Small Town America...

I live so close to New York City, and in such a densely-populated area, that I tend to forget that I live in a fairly small town -- less than 25,000 people total. It's been around since the Revolution in one form or another, and there's a great deal of pride in community.

Days like tomorrow, it really comes out. The township Memorial Day parade gives every community organization the chance to assemble and show its pride in our country and our town. My first year living here, I went in a show of patriotism, expecting to see the high school marching band, the scouts, a veteran as grand marshall, maybe a jeep or two, and I wasn't disappointed. However, I wasn't expecting to see many of the others that assembled and marched, like:

• The Red Hat Society
• Every type of township vehicle (DPW front-end loader, anyone?)
• The Independent Order of Odd Fellows (who knew?)
• The local Elks 'Hogs' motorcycle group, roaring through suburbia
• Residents of the local seniors housing in their air conditioned minibus, waving from behind tinted windows

Everybody has their chance to march through the streets, albeit only briefly through downtown (still haven't figured that one out, either), and down tree-lined residential neighborhoods. And they all get the same enthusiastic greeting from the folks along the parade route.

I don't know if there's a conscious effort to be so inclusive. I can only hope that someone in the township recreation department has a private smile as he or she grants permission for some of these groups to march. I like to think that there's someone there who enjoys the slight, very slight degree of weirdness it lends the town.

And I'd like to hope it's not the same person who organizes the pumpkin drop after the annual Halloween parade. There's no better use of one's tax dollars than parking a fire department ladder truck in the middle of town to hurl a huge orange gourd from 30 feet to the pavement below. And for some odd reason, the kids love to run to grab the big pieces.

Gotta love living in a town that has stuff like that. And before I moved here, I never knew this kind of benign weirdness was lurking.

Baiting the hook

Back on the topic of random contemplation, I'm reminded of a CEO I once knew. As his communication support, I accompanied him to work locations for breakfasts with small groups of employees, usually blue collar workers and mostly men. My job was to listen quietly and record any questions or issues an employee might have that warranted some research, so we could get back to him.

An understated and shy man, the CEO didn't mix with others easily. Combined with the usual perception about executives being approachable, his reticence made the atmosphere a little uncomfortable at the start. Understanding that, he asked each of the participants to share a little information about himself -- job, length of service, hobbies.

Jim, the CEO, would get the ball rolling by talking about his career and sharing a little about his family and hobbies. He always got a favorable reaction when he mentioned his summer house in the Maine woods, where he'd do some woodworking and puttering around.

I got to know the stories very well after a while. My favorite was his fishing story, where he'd row out to the middle of Sebago Lake with rod and reel for a few hours. He'd been doing it for years without ever catching a fish, mostly because he never baited the hook. He used the time to think, bringing the fishing gear only so that the neighbors wouldn't wonder why he was on the lake, doing nothing. Mainers, it seems, are a practical lot and aren't big on meditation.

So, every time I'd accompany Jim to an employee breakfast, I'd hear the story, wait for the punch line and chuckle along with the rest of the folks. One day he stopped in mid-story, looked at me and said, "you know, you've heard me tell this story many times, and I always say I never catch anything. Last weekend I caught a fish!" Apparently that's what happens when you put a nightcrawler on the hook.

It's funny -- that story has been popping up in my mind a lot lately. How so many people put the line of intention out there but don't bait the hook with the energy it takes to get what they really want. Sometimes if you do the work to get what you're looking for, you still don't get it -- often a crushing blow. Maybe the act of not working for it is a weird way of guaranteeing you always have the hope of getting what you want. While you still don't get it, at least you don't have to address the disappointment.

Or maybe you just need to meditate on it ... is it what you really want? ... before you work to get it. You could spend your whole life paralyzed by that. That's probably even worse than trying and not getting it. I've spent a lot of time in that position lately, and I'm sensing that maybe I just need to get off my ass. Either make something happen, or resign myself to being vaguely dissatisfied (or just plain annoyed) for the rest of my life.

You have to admit: making a conscious choice is leagues better than just letting things transpire. And maybe for once I'll work to get something, rather than feeling I'm fated to get only whatever is handed to me.

I just have to figure out what it is I want.

Isabella Rossellini, when asked in the New York Times Magazine if she was married, said, "No. I have been married twice, I have two children and I am now single. I don't mind it. Some people say, 'You have to date. It's good for you.' But it's not good for me if I don't like the men."

Third Saturday in May

The first few really nice Saturdays of spring tend to bring out the best in people. Today I took a wander through lower Manhattan, taking the PATH to the World Trade Center and then going where the spirit took me. Just warm enough, and nicely sunny, it was a great day to take a walk, and I was pleasantly surprised by the number of nice encounters I had.

Started by dropping into the shop of my new favorite costume jewelry designer, Michal Golan. Great vintagey-looking stuff, and hard to limit myself to just two pair of earrings.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do after that, except find some interesting subjects for photography. I've studied maps of Manhattan many times and often wonder about those little streets on the East River side. Some of them have been there since the days of the Dutch ... others a little more recent, but not by much. A few, in fact, are called 'slips,' perhaps like a boat slip. Anyway, as I approached Old Slip, I found the New York City Police Museum, housed in the old Precinct One building.

The 1939 WPA Guide to New York City describes the First Precinct Police Station as "a grim, solid structure reminiscent of a fortified Florentine Renaissance palazzo." While relatively small, it's an impressive edifice, and as I stopped to admire it, a gentleman introduced himself and explained the history of the place. Unlike me, the unofficial Asbury Park history teacher, this man had a connection to the museum. He welcomed me in, gave me a quick review of the contents and sent me off to take a look. Interesting place to check out if you have an hour or so, especially if you've exhausted the supply of the usual New York tourist destinations.

Seemed that after that, I kept running into friendly people who chatted me up just for the sake of chatting. And while I ran into a lot of tourists, they weren't the friendly ones. The amity came from food delivery people, a woman walking her dog (and her child who wouldn't allow a leash), your standard passers by -- so many folks who had no reason to say word one to me.

Maybe it shouldn't seem so remarkable that people should take a few moments to be pleasant to each other rather than just walking on by, but it is. New York has the classic rap for being unfriendly and downright rude, which has never been entirely true. That said, I was struck by just how friendly it actually was today.

I don't know. Maybe it was the weather; maybe it was me. Maybe it was the karma I was putting out there. Maybe you find what you're looking to get. Whatever the answer, it was a nice experience.

Ask her -- she looks like she knows.

Sometimes, purely by chance, you get a glimpse into what, maybe, you should be doing with your life.

I visited the Asbury Park boardwalk today to see how things are going on the renovation of the pavilions and, of course, the Casino. Though the day was overcast, temperatures were in the mid 60's and there were plenty of people walking around. I got some cool shots of the Casino entrance in a large puddle on the walkway floor ... thanks to a photographer who directed my eyes downward by focusing his camera to the ground as I was striding through.

Walking out and onto the boardwalk, I was stopped by an older couple and a young woman who asked me if I knew anything about the building. New Hampshire natives, their range of knowledge of the city was defined by Bruce Springsteen and the Stone Pony.

Oh, boy, did they stop the right person. I gave them the Readers Digest version of the past, present and future of the Casino and the rest of the boardwalk. Fortunately the architect's rendering was posted right behind us so I could show them the half of the building that had been torn down, beyond repair. On their asking, I gave them a few nuggets of information on Ocean Grove's Methodist camp meeting, too. I also mentioned the shops and restaurants on Cookman Avenue -- nice little plug for my friends over there. (And why didn't I point them to my photos??? Grrr... )

We chatted amiably for a few minutes and closed the conversation exchanging thanks. They appreciated the time I gave them, but in my mind, they'd given me the favor of sharing my arcane New Jersey knowledge. It's not often that I have such a receptive audience. I had a goofy smile on my face halfway to Convention Hall.

Now, one would ask, why don't I do this for a living? For a minute I mapped out some potential ways to promote my touring skills, but then I got distracted. The bigger reasons of why not are fodder for about six months of therapy that I haven't focused on. Better to be unhappy at leisure, than work to be content.

Nonetheless, this know-it-all stuff has to come in handy eventually.

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.