Gay Marriage, the Pledge, and All That

This week, a ten-year-old boy was ratted out by a substitute teacher after he refused repeatedly to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. He refused because, in the good ol’  USA, the rights of his tax-paying gay and lesbian fellow citizens have been repeatedly assailed and compromised and, to him, that did not add up to “liberty and justice for all.”

Out of the mouths of babes!

How many people have conveniently forgotten that this country was founded by rebels? They came here to basically form a country where everybody could keep out of everyone else’s private business; things were legislated toward those ends and, the Christian, God-fearing Puritans and the witch-hunters notwithstanding (just to name two early instances), the model has worked well. Of course heads had to be broken and bodies mutilated after being wrung dry in the name of “Biblically sanctioned” slavery, but you know what? It only took a couple of hundred years before our black brothers and sisters were afforded full citizenship. And of course every immigrant group that has come here to slave over railroad-building and Empire-growing has had to be put through the mill of hatred, racism, ignorance, and misunderstanding before the powers-that-be decided that they, just like the people who got here first, should be able to pay taxes just like everyone else.

So, on paper, everyone is equal. However, gay people aren’t equal. Every year, laws are put into place preventing us from actually achieving our full due regarding life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We’re legislated against and told that we CAN’T do this and we CAN’T do that. Our rights are boiled down to into initiatives that the lovely, educated masses get to march into a voting booth to vote against. Though many municipalities have voted otherwise, and the progress appears excellent on the municipal, there still remain many flies in the ointment.

This is nice? Hasn’t anyone in this country learned anything? Judging by today’s level of education, I would have to say no. People are encouraged toward hatred, toward divisiveness, and toward indifference. And these emotional issues are played out within the sacred confines of the voting booth.

Who do I blame? I blame politicians who appeal to the ignorant and to the ill-educated– the sort of politician who licks the thighs of their constituency, cajoling and playing up fears within the guise of feel-good, anti-intellectual Americanism. You don’t agree? Then you’re a communist, or– these days– a socialist. Does anyone even KNOW what socialism is? Apparently not, because millions of our citizens enjoy the benefits of socialism without even realizing it.

And what gets me– and what everlastingly shames me– is that these attitudes are spouted to the people by their religious leaders. Something like “equal rights for all our gay citizens” has been forcibly and horribly mistranslated as “those perverts want SPECIAL rights!” And “those perverts want to force the churches to marry them at the altars!” And “those perverts want to assail and cheapen the sanctity of the marriage sacrament!”

They are entitled to their opinions, of course. But you see, it’s not just a matter of having an opinion anymore– these opinions have been allowed to fester into active discrimination and, in many cases, murderous violence.

You know what? Most, if not all of the gay people I know scratch their heads at all this. Storm the altars? No way. The opposition has decided that this issue be called “gay marriage” in order to appeal emotionally to its constituency. More thigh licking, in other words. What’s wrong with “equal rights for all?” I pay taxes toward that end, or I am missing something? My taxes go to fund wars and shenanigans much as they go towards helping the disadvantaged, but I don’t get to choose where exactly my dollars go. Basically, I end up paying to keep myself rooted in my second-class status because I don’t see the Feds protecting my rights. Hear that, Mr. President? Can you say “executive order?” I know you’ve got more pressing matters on your mind, but you need to make it a point to ensure that ALL your taxpayers are enjoying ALL the liberties that these endless wars are supposedly being fought for overseas. (How ironic that forcibly closeted brothers and sisters were sent to Iraq to free the population… don’t ask, don’t tell? How about don’t get me started?!)

I’m grateful for the segment of the population that actually sits down to consider these issues, and who decide that it is 100% wrong to deny gay citizens the rights we were born to. This is NOT a religious issue; if the churches want to become actively involved in politics that foster discrimination, then tax the hell out of them.  I include my own Church within that group, most especially. It’s a cross I bear, ha ha… but I send the eMails and write the letters because they have to know how I feel. And I hear back, and it’s always good and encouraging. But why can’t it be universal?

Out of the mouths of babes, indeed… ten years old!

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it ?

Tilin’ and Stylin’– Home Renovation

It starts like this: while cleaning the carpet, you run across a particularly stubborn thread which, after many minutes, won’t allow itself to be sucked up into the vacuum cleaner. You stop everything so that you can roll the thread into a ball, and while you’re in that bent-over position close to the carpet, you notice how awful it really is. Later that day, you snag your big toe on a section of parquet that has loosened itself from its gluey mooring. Still later, you notice nine million little slits and marks in the white kitchen linoleum that you swear weren’t there a few minutes ago.

We’d been talking about eventually tiling the entire house, a sort of back burner project, but then my sister Lois called from the tile place she works in. “Lissen, ya want tile? We got these specials goin’ and I can get ya a good price on a discontinued pattern. Call me.”

CLICK went the strings of my brain. But we needed to rationalize the main question: could we afford to tile the entire house? The deciding factors:

A. I’d spent ten days in Italy living on tile at my cousins’ houses, and walking across it in practically every church we visited. It was cool, earthy, and dramatic. That describes me to a T !

B. Allergens thrive in carpets and in parquet flooring; I am not a well person, being riddled with allergies,  and so I decided I need to be weller by adjusting my environment accordingly.

C. The President has encouraged me to stimulate the economy by buying anything I can.

~     ~     ~

So I called Lois. Then we spent some days prying old parquet from the cement slab, and cleaned everything as best as we could until the slab was as spotless as my soul. I’d placed the parquet myself years ago– nine million little six-inch squares laced with metal strips– but they came up easily with a ripper that Jon, our contractor, loaned me. RRRRRRRRRRRIP ! Parquet was flying while Kirk tried to watch Jeopardy. RRRRRRRRRRRIP! Pieces of wood ricocheted against the bathroom door while Kirk was showering and probably thinking that we were being raided. All that RRRRRRRRRRIPPPPPING is great exercise, and we ended up with hardly any blisters.

The tile arrived on two pallets which sat in the driveway for a day; when Kirk got home from work we brought them all into the house: 84 boxes, each weighing 55 pounds. We scattered them throughout the living room, and THEN eMailed Jon to tell him that the tile had arrived.

“Great!” he said. “Did you put it all on the back porch so that it’s out of our way?”

The next night the three of us moved all 84 boxes, weighing 55 pounds each, to the back porch so that it was out of our way. Carpet was ripped up and cut into manageable sections, so that the sanitation men shouldn’t have to work so hard God forbid, and then Jon started laying tile.

How impressed we were when he produced columns of figures resulting in measurements, ratios, and formulae! He determined the “keystone,” which is the first tile you place; it determines the direction and placement for all the other tiles. We had a little ceremony: Jon wrote our names and the date on the slab, spread adhesive, and then I laid the first tile. Then I went to work!

I tell you, he is such a professional– the care he puts into a project is incredible. It’s true what they say– contractors rule the world!

It’s amazing; he’s got the living room and dining area done,and soon we’ll be attacking the hallway and two of the bedrooms. It looks great, and he’s doing a fabulous job. The tiles aren’t fussy-looking; though they are new, made in Reggio nell’ Emilia, they have roughened edges and look as if they’ve been trod upon by monks and nuns for a thousand years, though it’s apparent that they removed their shoes first. They’re cool and clean and attractively stained, and they make me want to go into the kitchen and bake bread in the furnace oven. Who knew a floor could be so inspiring?

Then of course we have to paint, because the Creamsicle / blue combo that worked so well with the gray carpet just ain’t gonna work with terra cotta tile. Jon’s got piles of color samples that we’ve been happily wading though, trying to come up with a new combo– so far it looks like a tan and olive coupling, I think, because of the earth toned Herculon 1960 couch and chairs. And then the cabinets and appliances in the kitchen have to be removed so that tile can be laid throughout, which is a nice thing to do for the next people who live here– whoever they may one day be. And cabinets have to be raised a bit higher on the wall because the Frigidaire is going to be sitting a half inch higher on the tile,  therefore grazing the underside of the cabinet mounted above it… and that reminds us that we need nice new closet doors throughout, a new master shower, and some wallboard replacement.And we are still sorting and shredding and giving away things or listing them on eBay. So much to do; what possessed us to begin this during the Holidays ?

It’s nice that the President wants us to stimulate the economy… but do I have to do it all myself ?

Hallowe’ens Past

Hallowe’en in my mind smells like Noxzema. Really.

It occurs to me that now I’m as old as the people who opened their doors to me as a young trick-or-treater in 1960s Brooklyn. For decades I haven’t had to buy eggs for throwing, shaving cream for smearing, or chalk socks for walloping– real commodities that we saved weeks to pay for, ultimately reveling in the outraged shrieks of pain and / or disgust that out investments guaranteed.

Eggs were usually ground into the hair of our enemies, or dropped into jockey shorts and then splattered from without. (Boys only; you never did that to girls because it just wasn’t nice.) Or we’d lob them into open windows, never sticking around long enough to be caught. Shaving cream also went into hair and pants and shoes, or onto store windows and car windshields, and chalk was packed into socks, stomped into a powder, and then wielded as a cudgel against heads, butts, and thighs.

We’d end up at home bruised and sticky, but enervated and exhilarated; I’d usually be in the throes of an asthma attack thanks to all the excitement (and the Noxzema fumes), and would catch hell because it’s practically impossible to wash dried egg out of hair, ears, and jockey shorts.

It’s a fact that we victimized one another, or those second stringers– half-friends who lived on the next block– but you never went after the REALLY scary guys. We had gangs in the neighborhood in those days, packs of characters called the Eighth Avenue Midgets and the Park Rats. These guys you didn’t go near, even if we were friends with their beehived, mascaraed molls. Well, they really weren’t molls– they went to school just like any girls– but they were tough. (After one especially memorable girl named Joanie rid the McKinley playground of undesirable elements from a distant neighborhood, she was dubbed Queen of the Park.)

It wasn’t all mayhem though; we did actually bring stolen A&P paper bags with us on our rounds to people’s houses, and in those days a lot of the candy came unwrapped. Who worried? Not us. All we knew to look out for were apples with razor blades embedded in them, or Milky Ways studded with thumb tacks. I don’t know anyone personally who ever came across a treat like that, but we all knew a friend of somebody’s cousin’s aunt’s sister-in-law who lost her lips thanks to a razor blade apple in 1946. We did get some strange candies once from a strange woman known as the Cat Lady– it looked like she’d dipped feathers and bird seed in chocolate– but we just laughed maniacally like the idiots we were and then threw them in the street after having shaving-creamed her front door.

I remember a few costumes– Mom was very good at transforming me into something the neighbors wouldn’t recognize, lucky for her, and so I usually traipsed the streets as a bum or a ghost: either covered with burnt cork “dirt” or draped in sheets, nobody should know that Vel’s kid was at large looking like THAT. (Not Lois, though; my beautiful, blonde little sister went out as Honey West one year, and all the old ladies smiled and sighed.)

As an adult living in Florida, and obligated to attend Hallowe’en parties because that’s what my people do, I made a nun’s costume out of black broadcloth and worked it for years. The best part was that all my rosaried blackness parted the crowds at the bars, as I was practically escorted to the front of the thirsty lines: “Make way for Sister!” One year I dragged around a Catholic school girl mannequin with me, subjecting her to verbal abuse when it was time to act like the mean nun I was trying to be; I was going for someone very forbidding and medieval, but I’m afraid I came off like Ingrid Bergman in The Bells of St. Mary’s, because a good heart was beating underneath all that heavy material.

My last two forays into the night world of adult costume parties had me portraying Connie Francis one year, and a stewardess the next. Nowadays I don’t have a recording contract, and that airline is in receivership. Go figure.

For God's sake!

We meet at a friend’s house and carve pumpkins, some of us using Martha’s professional templates, the rest of us gamely chopping hacking away chunks of orange and the occasional thumb, and then we line up all our creations and take pictures. (They last about a day in the Florida dampness.)

These days I enjoy seeing little kids dressed in costumes, and it takes me back, even though they’re accompanied by phalanxes of adults wielding flashlights, and I think– what these kids need is a can of shaving cream and some eggs.

Short Stories

One of my favorite things to do these days is to wake up early, make coffee, and crawl back into bed with a book of short stories. The overhead lamp makes a circle of light in the dark morning that spotlights me and my book, and, with the bedroom door closed and my ear devices sleeping in their little storage box, I am pleasantly isolated.

A volume of short stories is as close to reading perfection that you’ll ever find. A novel will have one ending that takes days to approach, but a collection of shorts has twenty or thirty endings; on a relaxed morning I can get through a half dozen of them, going from beginning to end and from up to down and up again– a series of endings that take place all before I have actually started my day in the outside world.

I often re-read some favorites, though lately I’m immersed in Amy Hempel. My favorite is Shirley Jackson, who wrote The Lottery. (You first read it in an eighth grade anthology and, if you were paying attention, have not forgotten it to this day.) Shirley is the master of the form; she wrote from the late 1940s through the middle 1960s, almost always in vignettes pointing up the horrible little things we do to one another on a daily basis: we lie, we cheat, we use one another. Sometimes we are victims of things beyond our control: Jackson sends those people on delightfully frightening sorties into the unknown, almost like she’s passing judgement on us in those stories. Her novels got more engrossing over the years, like The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived In the Castle, but it’s her short stories that wield the daggers.

John Cheever is another favorite. His stories portray American life as it was lived from the 1940s through the 1980s, capturing this enormous sea change beautifully– from postwar angst to suburban sterility. His characters are often lost and sad or desperate, but struggling to survive from day-to-day. A lot of them live in New York apartments, and you can smell the leather furniture and the cigars and picture the Venetian blinds at the windows that look out onto the harbor.

Then there’s Ernest Hemingway’s famous short, complete:  “For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.”

Amy Hempel is new to me. She comes highly recommended by Chuck Palahniuk, and he’s to be commended for his writerly generosity. Hempel’s quiet voice paints pictures of a life lived in wonder or bemusement, and the voice I hear in my head as I read is wry and questioning and often confused– sort of like Louise Lasser doing Mart Hartman. Sometimes she is goofy and does things that any of us would be embarrassed at, so you laugh out loud and almost knock over your coffee cup.

Myself, I like writing them. When I am compelled to write, I remember things from when I was growing up in Brooklyn in the 1960s, and I try to conjure up what it felt like living on the block in those years. Sometimes I write about things that really happened, and sometimes I make up stories using characters who are impossible to forget, almost as if I’m filling in the blanks of what went on behind their closed doors. Sometimes they’re funny, and sometimes they’re disturbing, but mostly we laughed.

I like short stories, but I don’t like that we seem to live our own lives “shortly.” Everything is so fast anymore– I think computers and hand-held devices have created an urgency that we don’t quite know what to do with. People who work full-time jobs seem to be doing more and more in less and less time thanks in large part to staff cuts. And I wonder at the quality of our work– are we doing things just to get them done, or are we actually producing wonderful and lasting results? In any case, is anyone paying attention? We’re all in a hurry sometimes to get to the ending of our personal short stories, only to have to hurry up and turn the page to begin the next. My writer’s ego asks friends, “did you read my blog?” and they say “there were too many words… I didn’t have time” but I take it all personally.

Short stories are good on paper, when they are gathered into a book to be read and tasted and appreciated when we choose to. I wish our lives weren’t short stories, and that we were all able to live the long lives we promised each other.

Let’s Get Naked at the Airport !

 

Photo Copyright TWA

” An x-ray machine that takes ‘naked’ pictures is being tested at an England airport for use as part of a high-tech security system, a story by The Australian News reports. Manchester Airport security officials say the full-body scan eliminates the need for passengers to be patted down and remove their clothing, because it can detect weapons or explosives instantly on fully-clothed passengers, the story said. But some say the scan reveals too much, including piercings, the outline of genitals and breast enlargements, the story said. Airport officials say the photos are not pornographic, and are destroyed immediately, the story said, but passengers have the option of a traditional security check. ” (From Weird Travel News Around the Globe.)

This is the sort of story promoted by the media to whip the vast American public into an outraged frenzy of indignation, shock, and intense curiosity. I mean, how many of you decided to read this post because it had the word “naked” in it? And how quickly I jumped on the story when it was posted this morning online!

We live in an age of danger and suspicion, which came upon us rather quickly. The benign / malignant (take your pick) powers-that-be who we trust to protect us have come up with all sorts of ways to do just that, but this latest technological prying is certain to challenge our Constitution. The Second Amendment guarantees us the right to bare arms, but I don’t think that includes getting naked at the airport.

Still, I’m not going to complain. It’ll just take a little bit more thought when setting out on your next trip. Here are some tips:

1. The underwear. You know what I’m referring to, and your Mother is always right about that. These days, when so many of our young people insist on wearing their underwear outside their real clothes, it is doubly important. If you’re a man and like to shop at Victoria’s Secret for yourself, be ready for the attention you may garner.

2. The piercings. Be careful what you have installed on your body, because there’s a good chance that the tiny platinum Monkey Stix that you’ve attached to your most secret regions are going to cause the metal detectors to go off, not to mention supplying the security staff with stories for the next six weeks.

3. The implants. Considering that implants are used to enhance, you would think that you would want the world to know how hard you’ve worked toward drawing attention to yourself. If you don’t want everybody at the airport to know that you have had breast implants, then stay home.

4. The outline of genitals. I don’t know any men who are ashamed of drawing attention in this way. In fact, this aspect of naked screening might even replace online dating as the newest way for a man to meet someone. For women, I’m not so sure; you never hear how developed a woman is in that area because everyone seems to concentrate up top.

While it is mentioned that passengers will have the option of being scanned in the traditional way, I would have to wonder if that would only add to the boredom of yet another red-eye to Reading. You would think that a little nudity would spice things up, considering that they’ve taken away all the fun things like free decks of cards and plastic wings. And why destroy the photos? I think they’d make great souvenirs, like the pictures they try to sell you at Disney of your entire family vomiting while careening down Thunder Mountain Railway.

But the patting down I could do without, as it always makes me giggle. Besides, if they want to check the outline of anything, they can look at my x-rays.

Biking: Winter and Thornton Parks

Well, you’d think after a Saturday that involved a drive to Cocoa Beach for lunch, a walk along the edge of the ocean (you can see France from there), a Netflix session, and a supper of vegetarian faux meat, that I’d be beat and want to lay comatose all day Sunday, right? You’d think! Something compelled me to get back onto the bicycle, and I think I know what it is: my waistline.  While not rapidly expanding, it nonetheless has stabilized, but still insists on speaking to me. It’s its own entity, separate from my whole being, with a mind of its own. It wants cheese– but I want it to be 32 inches.  We argue, back and forth; and I win because the rest of me is bigger and what I say goes.

So we went on my bike again, this time to the West (just like Mother Cabrini). Once I cross Semoran Boulevard, which is a stupidly-designed major throughway slicing its way through living neighborhoods, I can thread my way through the Winter Woods subdivision and, in just a few minutes, I’m in the rarefied atmosphere of Winter Park. This is a view from Kraft Azalea Gardens. The Winter Park Boat Tour travels through this lake, part of a chain, and the guides love to dispenses juicy little tidbits about the houses and residents. It’s basically a social tour of Winter Park, at least when I took it in the eighties, and I hope it hasn’t changed.

Riddled with lakes, Winter Park prides itself on its many large estate homes, many of which are too large to fit nicely onto their lots. Standard properties, nicely treed and almost pastoral, in many cases have been scraped clean of flora so that a two-story mansion can be set there, surrounded by fussy, trucked-in landscaping.  It’s like the original lot was designed to feature Melanie Wilkes but, instead, Belle Watling moved in. You’ve got your giant front doors; fat columns; balustrades; complex cornices; mullioned windows; and towers– and that’s just the garage. No matter. They’re fun to look at but I think I’d prefer a smaller steamship deco model. But here’s a house that works; I love this house and could easily live here, having coffee on the upstairs balcony every morning as I yell at the maids:

You know how when you’re biking that little voice in your head keeps saying “just one more yard… one more block… one more mile?” Okay, so maybe the little voice in YOUR head is transmitting directives from Venus, as mine usually does, but this day it cooperated and steered me towards the downtown Orlando neighborhoods.

I love Colonialtown North, those leafy blocks that skirt Ferncreek and Hampton Avenues. The houses are, for the most part, preserved and sit very naturally and comfortably on their lots. It’s a comfortable, soothing neighborhood to explore. Some years ago a realty company advertised it as “Orlando’s Key West,” and I got mad and wrote a column about that. My rant focused on the fact that Orlando should advertise itself as something uniquely Orlando, not just a copy of somewhere else. Besides, Orlando could never be Key West because there aren’t flocks of chickens running around.

Here’s one of my favorite houses in Colonialtown North; its color is perfect– I call it Flamingo– and it rambles and speaks to passersby in a friendly drawl:

Here’s another favorite– the proportions of that glassed, columned room are perfect, though I wish they’d remove the bush from the column at the left:. When I took the picture, two large dogs began barking at me from inside (you can see them) and it seemed like the owner was about to appear. Though my natural innocence still gets me through any situation, I am still careful. I mean, dogs are dogs; they don’t stop to ask questions as they decide whether or not to rip your throat out.

And here’s a rather ancient vernacular cottage which I would have no problem living in:

I got down as far as the bookstore in Thornton Park, had a soda and a chat, and then wended my way back towards home. It was nice to bike the streets near where I work, because there were lots of little streets I always wanted to explore. I’m amazed at how the neighborhood has changed, as so many of those perfectly-proportioned little houses have been beautifully restored, with much more consideration that, say, twenty years ago. In the eighties, a lot of these dignified little houses were gimcracked into embarrassment, festooned with non-period touches and furbelows. I wrote an opinion piece for The Orlando Sentinel about that, and generated many letters from people who yelled and yelled at me to stay out of the neighborhood. The life of a journalist is one fraught with drama!

In the neighborhood south of Lake Sue, back in Winter Park, I noticed this sign:

The Conch Republic is a popular name for Key West, which symbolically closed its borders and seceded from the nation due to time-consuming and pointless vehicle searches by police on U.S. Highway 1. A flag was designed, and everybody drank to the occasion. They’re still drinking, and still conching. It was odd to see this sign in Winter Park– doesn’t it belong in Colonialtown North?

Here is Spring Lane on Winter Park Road as you bike north of Corinne towards Glenwood:

It’s filled with little houses buried in the trees, but when you come to the end and turn right, you are confronted with blocks of parapets and balustrades and portcullises and battlements. “A man’s home is his castle” has been taken and applied literally.

There’s nothing like a bicycle for prying into people’s yards, both front and back. Where will Mother Cabrini take me next?

Biking to Oviedo

My buddy Linda mentioned this morning how beautiful it was outside when she went walking her dog Lucy, and that inspired me to take a nice, long bike trip. It’s been very hot here in Central Florida, as you all know, but I’ve been doggedly making little bike tours of Seminole County so that I can stay limber and keep my heart from turning into American cheese.

You gotta determine where you’re going, I’ve discovered, or else you wind aimlessly through the streets of Eastbrook subdivision, deploring the state of people’s garages. I decided I would go out to Oviedo, which is about ten miles from here on the Trail. The Trail actually ends around at around Mitchell Hammock, but you can negotiate the sidewalks after that. Drivers, I’ve found, are very friendly. I tend to grow confused at intersections that involve more than one light, so what I generally do is push the buttons on the signal poles, mutter an Ave Maria, genuflect, and then hightail it across seventeen lanes of traffic; Ive been cursed at in nine languages so far. Actually I jest– I’m very careful at this stage of my life, and wisely refrain from antagonizing people who are negotiating three thousand pounds of steel.

Look at this photo of the Greeneway overpass– it reminds me of those etchings of ancient Roman ruins that the English “discovered” in Italy when they all stampeded to the Continent for their Grand Tour.  “Turn ’round, Cassiopeia, while I sketch these phalli.”  This overpass is relatively new, but I like how it already resembles a scenic ruin:

Past here are some new houses which don’t seem to fit into the landscape. I suppose you could ignore them, but what happens is that you’re usually assaulted by the sickly sweet scent of clothes dryer exhaust pouring from vents– you know, that heated smell from fabric softener sheets, which is vomititious and impossible to ignore:

Downtown Oviedo is kind of congested, traffic-wise, for a small town; that’s because all sorts of roads come together there, and you experience another confusion of lights and signals and crosswalks. They’ve even gone and muddled things up further by jamming a traffic circle in the midst of things. Americans are genetically indisposed to things like traffic circles. Even four-way stops drive us to distraction– have you seen how the residents of Baldwin Park act at four-way stops? Incredibly imbecilic!

But a short distance from all this is Lake Charm, and a grand lady of a home:

I called Kirk from here to say where the hell I was, and of course my cell battery was depleted. I don’t even know why I carry that thing around.

When I got to downtown Oviedo on the way back, there was a large rooster in the road; I guess I could have written “cock,” but that would have been horribly sophomoric:

In a way, Oviedo is still very much a country town, and this proves it. I made sure not to get too close to  him; I’m afraid of most farm animals. One time in Key West we got off the bus from the airport and started walking the block to our hotel; I was soon surrounded by chickens and too afraid to move.

Here’s a neat little house on Lake Jesup Road, south of town. I could live here, reading and writing and painting, but not raising chickens.

And here’s all the mulch you could ever want, mountains of it on Mitchell Hammock Road:

I could smell it from across the road, warm and earthy and a little bit spicy. That’s the great thing about biking all over– you get to smell things. When you pass a stand of soughing pines in the breeze, the whole atmosphere seems mentholated, or like a clean kitchen. Sometimes when the land is low and swampy, you smell sulphur and rotten things. Who knows what’s decomposing out there in the forest? You don’t want to go looking.

Another great thing about biking is that you’re away from distractions. It’s just you and your bike and the air. You feel strangely removed from everything as it passes by to the left and right. The right brain takes over and you start free-thinking, and it’s amazing what all that blood pumping through your body and brain can do. I get a lot of my best writing ideas when I bike. Do I ever remember to carry a notebook? Of course not… I should, now that I’ve trained myself to wear a little backpack. (ID, a few bucks, a useless cell phone, and a camera.)

If anyone ever wants to join me on one of these jaunts, say the word!

 

Dogs and Cats I Have Known

I have intimated in these pages about the effects that animals have had on my poor wrecked body: the allergies… the asthma… the dry humping; not for me the cuddly puppies and kittens that everybody ELSE in the world seemed to be enjoying. Even John, Jean and Judy (the Catholic school versions of Dick and Jane) had pets– Puff the cat and Spot the dog cavorted across the pages of my first grade reader, leaving neither dander nor stains behind to vex their sickly readers.

It was determined early that I was allergic to dogs and cats after a protracted series of allergy scratch tests performed by Dr. Gennarelli (and Nurse Isabel) and then analyzed at Dr. Horace Greeley’s Laboratory on Clinton Street: “One Block from Borough Hall Subway Station”  was the cry. Little bits of allergens had been pricked into my Q-tip-like arms until the areas either turned red, grew itchy, or sloughed off. It turned out that I was allergic to chicken, mixed cheeses, peas, potatoes, tomatoes, corn, oats, bananas, grapes and raisins, hops (beer), tea, household dust, mixed grasses, ragweeds and cocklebur, and mixed trees. I still have the report, dated October 12, 1960; I was 4 years and 2 months old and it’s signed by Horace Greeley himself. (His son Norman carries on the tradition.)

When I got older, the allergies got worse, and I was taken to Dr. Grolnick (and Nurse Cohen) on Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. This time it was patches, and I looked like a quilt for a doll bed by the time they got through with me. The results were even more glum: all of the above, plus most hair and fur bearing animals, and chocolate. Chocolate!

Thus began the long series of Easter Sundays which featured the Bunny bringing me white “chocolate,” while everyone else got the standard brown– yet coveted mine, because it really did taste so much better.

I’ve already mentioned in an earlier post the day I came home from school to discover that our dog Bow Wow had been sent “to a farm.” His official name was Toby, though my grandfather called him Canino– “Little Dog.” He was actually my mother’s dog, but lived with my grandparents after it was determined that he was making me sick. We had fun times, though. Bow Wow would bark from somewhere in the house, and I would run looking for him on my chubby legs. He’d suddenly dart in front of me from under a table, and I would trip– SLAM– onto the hard floors. Nice Little Dog! I wonder what they made him do at the farm… pull a plow? Herd sheep? Guard the hen house?

Even with Bow Wow gone, I still had to deal with other dogs and cats who lived on my block. I could never get too close to them because I would break out in hives and start wheezing, but I still had to live with them if I was to play outside: this was Brooklyn, and there wasn’t a lot of room. (And I wasn’t allowed to cross the street until I was seventeen.)

Prince lived next door with Mr. Milazzo. Prince was white, and sported a big chrysanthemum tail that always showed evidence of his most recent bowel movement. Mr. Milazzo, who was so old he was mummified,  walked this dog constantly. In Winter they would arrive back from their trips to McKinley Park, each heavily marked with snowballs that had been lobbed at them.

Max, a German shepherd, lived two doors down with the Andersens. I was terrified of Max because German shepherds still had that lingering World War II Nazi dog reputation, and the Anderson children were half German, so there you have it. Max barked and snapped at everything and everyone all day, and I steered clear of him. Luckily he spent most of his time in an enclosure above a garage.

Tiny WAS Tiny, one of those rat-like dogs who never grow bigger than a loaf of Wonder Bread, and his bark was probably worse than his bite– though I never chanced it. I can’t tell you how many times Tiny would corner me in Edward and Tommy Jones’ yard, not letting me move an inch until my friends called him off.

Holly was my other grandmother’s dog. I spent MANY wheezy Sundays over her house, often relegated to the front stoop or the back yard while everyone celebrated indoors. Do you know what it’s like to have your Christmas presents handed to you through the basement window? “This one’s for you, Jimmy! And don’t leave the wrapping paper on the steps!!” One time we four kids filmed a family movie, and our sister Lois played Holly. Ever imaginative, Lois tucked black socks over her ears and used a third sock as a cool tail. We have film of her loping across the living room sniffing us in our various disguises. If this was ever leaked to You Tube, we’d all be arrested

Sa-Soo was Aunt Terry’s little dog; I would always say “shouldn’t her name be SASSOON, like the hair designer?” And she would fix me with that Aunt Terry face and say “it’s Sa-Soo.” I don’t remember much about Sa-Soo except for the fact that she always seemed to be followed by a cloud of shed hair.

Montana is Lois and Mike’s Yorkshire Terrier. I take Claritin when I visit her; she takes umbrage when she visits ME because I can’t have the dog in my house. Enough said.

Beauty was a black and white cat who belonged to the family who owned the Launderette up the corner. We never saw her much– she lived mainly on a windowsill above the store and hardly ever came outside, so I was safe.

Smoky was a gray cat that belonged to Laraine’s grandmother, and I actually named him but never really got credit for it. Mrs. Small  didn’t like me much as a kid– I know, hard to believe!!– yet started calling the cat Smoky after I suggested it. This was almost fifty years ago; get over it, Little Jimmy!

I had to be content with reptiles: the pathetic turtles from Woolworth’s in their ovoid plastic environment decorated with one sad palm tree; four salamanders named for the characters in To Kill A Mockingbird– I kept them in a giant brandy snifter filled with water, and they swam and swam and swam and SWAM for their lives for days until they finally all drowned, exhausted! I was from Brooklyn- how was I supposed to know that I should have provided them with a rock to rest upon; and a little frog that my sister Gina murdered after it leaped from her palm, his hind leg snapping after having gotten stuck between two of her fingers. (She folded him back up and placed him back into his tank, thinking I would never notice.) (PS This was the same sister who once enquired “when Jimmy dies, can we get a dog?) I’ve had parakeets, too– I was more afraid of them than they were of ME.

If I want pets, maybe I should just raise oysters.

Farmville Follies on Facebook

You know how sometimes you just sit at the computer with a cup of lukewarm coffee at hand, idly clicking on your Favorites and checking eMail every three minutes? “Oh look! New mail! Somebody likes me !!” It’s a stream of consciousness sort of thing: you’re neither creating nor destroying– you’re simply THERE, at one with a buzzing pile of silicon and pixels which have somehow been recreated into something that we think is vital. (I mean, you STILL need a phone to dial 911.)

Facebook, as I’ve mentioned in these pages, is a sort of addictive medium in which you can spy on your friends’ doings, mainly because they’ve bothered to post minutely about what they’re actually doing: “I’m making toast … trouble… lasagna. I’m home now… sleeping now… awake now. I’m tired… sleepy… comatose with ennui.”

It doesn’t stop there, however; to keep you even more firmly lashed to its moorings, Facebook has contracted with Zynga.com, the makers of Farmville, to offer its pastoral charms to the masses. Now you can be a farmer without ever having to step in anything gushy, or even leaving your city apartment.

I’m still trying to figure out the point of it all, but basically you start out with a piece of property that you plant crops on. Then you harvest and sell them for more than you paid. Then you buy MORE crops, and the process repeats itself. You can gain more farm coins and credits by buying into the $$$ offers that Farmville partners with, but so far I haven’t had to go that route. (Has anybody? I’d like to know!)

Yes. I’ve managed to plant fields of wheat and squash and artichokes, and have then been able to sell them all at a profit. Right now I’m waiting for my wheat to ripen so that I can sell it all and then invest in even MORE cotton than I’ve already got planted. I’ve always wanted to be Ashley Wilkes! (Scarlett O’Hara was in lust with him, but he probably had sour stomach and sties– it WAS 1861, after all. Who was healthy then? I ask you.)

The thing with Farmville is that your Facebook friends who are also involved with the game begin to send you things: trees… cows… chickens… and the occasional black sheep. The cows and chickens give milk and lay eggs, respectively, helping you to accumulate points so that you can buy even MORE animals and crops. It’s like a Ponzi scheme for the Ma and Pa Kettle set.

And there must be hidden tricks or something: my second cousin Lisa intimated something about harvesting crops even more quickly by having your Farmer character stand on a bale of hay. So far I have not been able to make that happen. Maybe I have to press Alt or something? Who knows? As it is, when it is time to harvest, my little farmer avatar runs up and down the furrows frantically, magically turning ripened crops into coins… which I can then use to till fields… which I can then plant with even MORE crops. It’s endless. I actually wake up at 6 AM wondering if my crops have turned to mush, which is what happens when you forget to harvest.

It must satisfy something in my city-bred brain, because the closest I ever got to farm life was when I came home from school one day, looking for our dog Bow Wow. “Oh, we took him to a farm,” I was told. “He’ll be happier there.” Hmm. He’d seemed perfectly happy peeing on fire hydrants and chasing waterbugs down the alley… but who was I to question? I was only seven years old. “We took him to a farm.” Yeah, right… you mean he BOUGHT the farm!

A word about the Farmville farmer avatars: you can design them to your liking, and I swear that each and every one of the 35 million– yes– players has manufactured an avatar in his or her wishful likeness: mine has a full shock of blond hair; a little pug nose; fetching ears; a puckered smile; and a wiggle in his walk. That’s on a good day. When I really have an attitude, and crops to get in before dark, my avatar has a beehive; Harlequin glasses; a mole; fishnet stockings; and a cigarette dangling from its mouth. “Get the damn chickens outta my way,” I snarl. “I got artichokes to bring in!”

And all so I can buy and sell more  artichokes.

Ellie Greenwich 1940-2009

 

 

  

Who was Ellie Greenwich?  you might be asking yourself. You might not have known her by name, but you know her musical legacy. Her compositions and productions will be with us as long as there are people who listen to music.

Ellie started writing music in the 1950s and continued to the present day. Along the way she recorded songs, produced groups, performed as a group as well as a solo singer, and was 100% integral to the success of producers like Phil Spector. Labels like Spector’s Philles Records and Leiber and Stoller’s Red Bird Records were enriched in countless ways by her contributions. There are myriad other details, but I am writing this post not to enumerate the many, many successes of Ellie’s legendary career, but to share what Ellie meant to me– though I will state that the lyrics and arrangements of Ellie Greenwich basically drove much of American pop music from 1962-1965.

You know her songs. Though she wrote with partners– e.g.,  Tony Powers, ex-husband Jeff Barry, Spector– these “girl-group” hits were practically always about girls pining for boys, so it’s Ellie’s name you remember as the songwriter.  The watershed years of 1963 and 1964  graced us with many of her unforgettable hits, which you know of– Da Doo Ron Ron  and Then He Kissed Me  by the Crystals; The Boy I’m Gonna Marry and Wait ’til My Bobby Gets Home  by Darlene Love; Be My Baby and Baby I Love You  by the Ronettes; I Wanna Love Him So Bad by the Jelly Beans; I Have A Boyfriend  by the Chiffons; The Kind of Boy You Can’t Forget  by the Raindrops… the list goes on. The Raindrops’  That Boy John, released in November 1963, gives us a remarkable fusion of girl-group-meets-jazz , a harbinger of what was still to come, but John F. Kennedy’s assassination that year basically drove the song off the airwaves. Not enough people became familiar with it. And multi-faceted Ellie Greenwich basically was the Raindrops: multi-tracked thanke to her amazing vocal range, these studio compositions leapt onto the charts, leading to demands for personal appearances and record album photos. Ellie duly posed with husband Jeff and sister Laura, and made “group” appearances with various musical performers in the industry– all in a day’s work circe 1963.

I discovered her work beginning in 1970, when anything recorded in the 60s was already considered an “oldie.” I started collecting 45 RPM records that year and was given some by older cousins. Ellie’s name was on so many, like the classics I named earlier. Who can forget Chapel of Love  by the Dixie Cups? It  was HUGE in 1964, tossing the Beatles out of the #1 spot… and then there was a little number called Leader of the Pack, recorded by the Shangri-Las. Another Number One, and a golden feather in Ellie’s cap. Men ran Red Bird, yet Ellie had a major, equal hand in the production of their biggest recordings. She was basically a contracted writer, but she had the luxury to be able to work and think beyond the limitations of the working world circa 1963, and blazed a trail for many women writers and producers who came after her.

Going through what I was going through in those years– I was fourteen for most of 1970– these records helped me to realize that, though we all pine for something, we usually get what we want in the end, once we realize exactly who we are and what we need. Those songs were like butterscotch pudding pouring out of my little record player’s speakers, and they spoke to me about hope and love and dating and maybe even one day finding someone perfect for me.

I met her in 1984 while she was starring on Broadway in Leader of the Pack, a musical that traced her artistic legacy. Big and blonde, she enveloped me in a great big bear hug after the show and rocked me back and forth, thanking me profusely for coming up from Florida to see the show. I’d never met the woman, but had boldly called her at home once just to say hello– and she remembered it that night. Then came the cards each Christmas season, and the little occasional notes. Clearly, this was a woman who loved her fans. She was patient with us all, even when we wanted to know things like the middle names of the Butterflys’ grandmothers.

I will miss knowing that she lives among us, yet there are still hundreds of 45s and albums and CDs to listen to whenever I need some butterscotch. Thanks, Ellie, for all the music, and the memories.