Monthly Archives: May 2013

“Old” Age is Not a Number. It’s a Measurement

31 Friday May 2013

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"Mirror mirror on the wall? Am I old?"

“Mirror mirror on the wall? Am I old?” By Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Age is a fascinating racket. At 30, I wailed I was old. That seems like such a quaint thought today. There are those who say age is merely a number, and has to nothing to do with anything. I disagree. Age is a measurement; a tool we use to mark the passing of time when we are shocked that we graduated high school 40 years ago. So I play the age-boggling game.

For example, I have a friend that I have known since I was 12, when we both had Miss (this was an era before Ms., when one was either a Miss or Mrs.) Isaacs for 8th grade history. My friend just became a grandmother for the second time. This makes no sense to me because it was yesterday when I was taking pictures of her pregnant with the daughter that just gave birth for the second time around. My girlfriend, through my eyes, looks exactly like she did when we were on the cusp of becoming teenagers. Her daughter, who for me stands as a symbol for the child-bearing generation, also looks like a teenager, but not a grown-up teenager in the way I thought we were. Rather, I see her as a teenager playing house. But she’s not – she is an adult woman raising two children with all the responsibilities that goes with that. My girlfriend is now cast in the role of Nana. And that’s one mind-boggling aspect of the aging process.

Another mind-boggling aspect of the aging game is what does “old” look like? I see a woman who looks older than me. Why do I think that? When I look again, and try to pinpoint her age, I realize, “Whoa, she may be younger than me. Or maybe only 60, tops. And that’s only two years older than me.” That means to a stranger I, too, may look that old. Ergo, “old” is a mere perception conjured from the point you are at any given time. I still remember my French teacher in 9th grade. She was so old. She was 24. But then, I flip it, and figure I bet I still look pretty “young” to my 85-year-old buddy, Alan.

Some, like Lois (aka,Lola), fabulously defy the fact that they may be getting old. For me, a documenter, analyzer, and dissector of every stage in life, I just want to make sure I embrace “now,” because one day I may really be “old.”

At the Cape of Good Hope. May 29, 2011.

Julie, at the Cape of Good Hope. May 29, 2011.

Cicadas on My Trees, My House, My Cup. And Me

30 Thursday May 2013

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BY LOIS DESOCIO

The cicadas are landing on me. First one was on the head. Second one was on the shoulder. What makes a cicada landing so freaky, aside from their baby bat-like size is, you don’t know it’s coming. There’s no buzzing. There’s no warning. There’s not even a bite, or a sting, to let you know that it digs you like a tree limb. And it does not shake off easily, despite my shrill, piercing shriek, the girly up-and-down jumping, the arms flailing like rubber. And once shaken or flicked off – I suggest a stop, drop and roll, because their unwieldy and languorous flying can take them from your head or your shoulder – smack! – right into your face.

The few people with whom I’ve shared my cicada touchdowns, and resulting freak-outs, have all responded, across the board with,”Really? I haven’t seen that many.”

Really?

As Bob and the news media has informed us – we are in the midst of the cicada sojourn. The first one in 17 years. They don’t stay for long, but billions of them, for the next month or two, will be drilling up from the ground beneath us, where they’ve been getting in gear since 1996. They then hatch, climb, crawl, and the courting male fills the woods with its clangorous, rackety mating hum. I can now hear it when I’m inside.

But were it not for the errant flying and subsequent mountings (on me), I could embrace the cool-factor of the cicada, and the science class offered right outside my back door:

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Underneath the lampost light:
lampost

Hanging on the corner:

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In my dryer vent:
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This one got inside:
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But perhaps what is most freaky of all, is this cup that I found yesterday morning while cleaning out the outer reaches of my china hutch. I don’t know where it came from, or to whom it belonged, but it was the first time I’d reached back there in 15 (that’s almost 17) years:
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My Fish Tale, in a Letter to Hemingway

29 Wednesday May 2013

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bob fish

My big fish.


BY BOB SMITH

Dear Papa H:

When the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., I was so groggy with sleep, and last night’s whiskey, I didn’t know for whom the buzzer tolled. Hell, I didn’t know if it was day or night. Then I remembered – fishing. I got dressed, and went down to the kitchen for a quick bite.

Six of us met at the dock with our coolers and cigars and high hopes for the day. The mate wore gut-spattered yellow waders, was opening clams for bait, and was throwing boxes of frozen bunker onto the deck. The sun was also rising. The captain was ready to cast off.
twin lights marina

We churned out to a spot just off Sandy Hook Bay, where a lonely red buoy leaned with the current. The morning was turning gray, and the water was listless. The mate fixed us up with clam baits. We dropped our lines in.

Fishing is a hard thing. There are long stretches of boredom. If you’re lucky, and the fishing is good, sudden intense battles with an unseen opponent. For you, the stakes are bragging rights, and avoiding the embarrassment of losing a fish through clumsy handling. For the fish, it’s a fight to the death.

We waited, watching the water, jigging our baits – a movable feast. Someone lit a cigar. Someone farted. Everyone laughed.

Without warning, the fish slammed the bait like a fist to the face, then darted away. I counted off the seconds to give it time to swallow as it swam. Five. Six. Easy … Breathe …

At eight, I pulled the pole up hard, and the tip bent so far it pointed at the water. The fish was hooked.

It dove with authority, deep and long, ripping line off my spool in ten-yard gulps. It felt like a striped bass, but I couldn’t be sure until it got tired, and came up shallow. Until then, I had to pump the pole to maintain pressure, and take back line whenever I could – turning the reel handle in jerky circles in the hopes that the gear would hold.

I could hear arguing in the background. My son Bob was out of smokes, and blamed my brother.

“You’ve taken the last cigar, Jeff.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have.”

“Have not.”

“Have.”

“Have not.”

Two “haves” and “have-nots”: it was a standoff. I wasn’t listening anyway. I was locked in battle with the big fish.

When the fish finally surfaced near the boat, it wallowed on its side, flashing the distinctive lateral lines of a striper. It eyed me with a dark stare and then, after one pass, turned its massive head, and dove again. But not as deep this time; not as strong. I pulled and reeled, and the fish came up sooner, its reactions slower, like a heavyweight after ten hard rounds. At the top again, it turned flat and finally surrendered to the gaff. The mate stabbed the iron hook into its broad flank, jabbing up fast from below. It was a good gaff, near the gills, away from the meaty center of the fillet. He grunted as he heaved the bleeding fish onto the deck.

It was a cow bloated with roe. She had a wide face, rippled gillcovers, and terrified green-rimmed eyes. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I felt heaviness in my arms. I slid the butt of the rod into a pipe mounted near the rail, leaving the mate to unhook, and dump her into the dark hold.

The fish was strong. And clean. And true. The biggest of the day. She had shown courage in the fight, and dignity in the face of death. I high-fived the other fishermen, and went into the cabin for another beer.

Somehow it left a bad taste.

Yours,
Bobby Bill

bob and fishing buddies

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things …

28 Tuesday May 2013

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Allenhurst AM

Allenhurst in the a.m. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Is it accurate to state that we on the right side of 50 can automatically conjure up that scene from “The Sound of Music” when the seven Von Trapp children are jumping off their beds while Julie Andrews, aka Maria, is trilling “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens?”

I am not saying the vision conjures up the same feelings – there are those who embrace that movie, and those who disdain it. But what I am saying is that it is a cultural set-point of the mid-60s. Because of that scene, and that song (and nobody but nobody does a better interpretation of “My Favorite Things” than John Coltrane), I love to think about, and make lists of my favorite things – many of which have changed; others of which have stayed the same.

So something like sitting on the beach before the crowds arrive, watching the sea slurp in and out, and the gulls swoop up and down, is a no-brainer favorite thing since way before I started coasting past the half-century mark. However, a super-chilled gin martini with a single olive on a Saturday evening is a new favorite thing – the gin factor making it “new.”

Frosted.

Frosted.

But the best-of-all favorite thing evolved soon after I became a pasta addict in 1986 following a trip to Italy. The favorite part is not simply eating spaghetti, it’s eating spaghetti at 6 a.m. on a rainy Sunday morning with a glass of fermented grape juice.

Spaghetti for breakfast.

Spaghetti for breakfast.

On Memorial Day: Some Memories. And a Thank-You

27 Monday May 2013

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mem day frank

All photos by Frank Terranella.

By FRANK TERRANELLA

I always have mixed emotions about Memorial Day. When I was a kid, my town had a Memorial Day parade, and Little League baseball players, like me, always marched in it with our uniforms. We would gather in a parking lot, and the ancient World War I veterans would congregate with the middle-aged World War II and Korean War vets. Then the World War I vets would get to ride on a float while the rest would walk.

My father, who was a World War II veteran, never marched. Like many guys who saw things that no one should ever have to see, he came back from the war with only one thought – to forget he was ever in the army. He instilled in me a hatred of war, and a distrust of things military that survives to this day. And yet, I was enthralled by the smiling veterans on Memorial Day. These paunchy patriots were the guys who saved the world from fascism. I remember that some of the old veterans were so overweight by this time that I thought they were called doughboys because they looked like the Pillsbury character.
mem day frank 2

Like most boys, I had seen lots of war movies and the idea that these guys had fought for the country was a romantic one. Seeing that I was a little bit too much in awe of my Uncle Angelo, who was a World War I veteran, my grandfather was quick to point out,

“He never saw combat. He was a cook at Fort Dix. He never left New Jersey.”

I should mention that neither of my grandfathers served in World War I. They were both extremely good businessmen who managed to work the system and get out of the draft. I think there was also a pragmatic reason I was interested in these veterans and their stories. At the time, there was another war going on. And a draft that was just waiting for me to turn 18 so it could snatch me up into the army. So my interest was not purely academic. I really wondered what life in the army was like, and whether I would survive it like my father, and have psychic scars for the rest of my life, or would I try to work the system like my grandfathers? Or perhaps I could swing a safe job like my Uncle Angelo.

These were the thoughts going through my young brain as I watched the flags and the guns and the military vehicles roll through the streets of my town on Memorial Day in 1965. “Freedom is Not Free,” and “Thank a Veteran Today,” the banners read. And as I grew older, and the draft was abolished, I was very thankful that it was them rather than me who had to do the dirty work of defending the country.

mem day vet photo Frank

So every Memorial Day I would seek out the veterans who sold poppies in public places to benefit those who had been braver than me. Every Memorial Day I flew the American flag that was draped over my father’s casket when he died. And every year attending Memorial Day festivities would choke me up when the bugler played, “Taps.”

My father instilled in me the idea that war is hell. But I also think it’s often unavoidable. So it’s important to take one day a year and honor those who have served, and especially those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. That’s why I will be in the cemetery on Memorial Day weekend paying my respect to the veterans in my family rather than heading for the beach.

The Saturday Blog: Stairs

25 Saturday May 2013

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Green stairs on 21st street

Green stairs on 21st Street. Photo by Julie Seyler.

This stairwell with rusting, lime-green steps, and a cherry-red bannister leads to the basement of a building on 21st Street. The tiled checkered floor evokes a time long past. Against a steel-gray, mesh window guard and white painted brick wall, everything is amiss. And yet it all fits together.

Newark is Nothing New to Those of Us in the Know

24 Friday May 2013

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Forno's of Spain

Fornos of Spain. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO AND JULIE SEYLER

My little New Jersey town conveniently straddles two big cities – Manhattan and Newark. I can make it to downtown Newark in 15 minutes, and on a Sunday, sans traffic, can drive to Manhattan in 20.

But it’s a hard sell to get my Manhattan friends to bridge or tunnel it over to the Jersey side for anything, much less dinner. Why would anyone leave Manhattan to eat? And eat in Newark? For the 25 years that I’ve lived nearby, a suggestion to dine in Newark has provoked comments from the uneducated about how they don’t understand how I could live so close to a city that they consider to only have bragging rights as a murder capital. Given that Newark’s Ironbound district rivals any Manhattan neighborhood for flavor of both the palatable and neighborhood kind – they are missing out.

But Julie was recently open to giving it a go, and took the PATH to Newark, where we met at Fornos of Spain – a somewhat touristy, but still tasty, Ironbound fixture. Shocking that Julie, a born-in-Jersey girl, who will fly for seven hours to eat tapas in Madrid, had never, in 50-plus years, ventured anywhere in Newark beyond its Penn Station platform. Dare I say – she and her camera were smitten? At least with the name:

In the Ironbound section of Newark, New Jersey there is a restaurant called Fornos of Spain. It is readily accessible from Manhattan via either the PATH or NJ Transit to Newark Penn Station. Last week, Lois and I dined there with our contributor buddies, Frank and Bob. We reveled in clams casino and gambas al ajillo; grilled grouper, paella valencia and filled-to-the-brim pitchers of sangria. I am pleased to say the sangria was not cloyingly sweet, as I, too, as this New York Times article points out, remember it being when I was drinking it in the 1970s.

Paella Valencia.

Paella Valencia.

Sangria.

Sangria.

The next day I set about looking for the Fornos, you know, the restaurant “of Spain.” I assumed that the Newark joint was a scion of a famous place in Spain, probably Madrid. An Internet search just turned up thousands of reviews of the Newark restaurant. I discussed the dilemma with Lois, who had a simple explanation: ‘Well, Jule, fornos means ovens in Portuguese, therefore the restaurant is actually called the Ovens of Spain.’ What? I mulled this over. That doesn’t make sense, because if fornos means ovens in Portuguese, why didn’t they call the restaurant Fornos of Portugal? And even that is not the final word on the subject because couldn’t there be a family named The Fornos? Maybe they came from Spain. So, what’s in a name? Whether it’s forno, or Newark? What I do know is that I want to go back to Newark’s Ironbound and find a Portuguese restaurant without “Spain” in the name.

Sign Says, “No Entry.” Some Say, “Let’s Pull In!”

23 Thursday May 2013

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No entry. No parking. The perfect spot for the car!

No entry. No parking. Except for me. I’m special.

BY BOB SMITH

One of my pet peeves is people who are too special to follow the rules. You know who you are. You’re the guy in the express lane at the supermarket with 47 items piled in your shopping cart. You can’t read, even though, “8 ITEMS OR LESS,” is in bold red letters on the sign above your head. You can’t count. Or you just don’t care. You’re the gal who pulls up to the Dunkin’ Donuts, and parks in the space three feet from the front door. The only problem is, there are no white lines on the blacktop delineating that area because it’s the travel lane – it’s not a parking space at all. And there’s good reason for that. The parking lot is designed to allow two lanes of travel – one in, and the other out. You have just blocked one of those lanes. But hey, the guy who has a heart attack over his coffee and Munchkins won’t mind a bit if defibrillation is delayed a couple of minutes because your car prevents the ambulance from pulling up in front of the building.

But that’s an extreme example. Most days, there’s no need for an ambulance at the local Dunkin’ Donuts. The only consequence of your disregard for the rules is that the rest of us have to be careful as we jockey around your car so we don’t ram into it, or worse yet, hit someone else’s car as they enter the now, overly-narrow entrance to the parking lot. That’s a small price to pay to spare you the inconvenience of having to park in an actual parking space fifteen feet from the building with the rest of us poor slobs.

And how about those drivers who see the shoulder of the highway as their own personal escape route from traffic jams?  When I’m sitting in a miles-long, bumper-to-bumper 5 m.p.h. cluster-crawl on the Garden State Parkway, nothing warms my heart more than to see you whizzing by on the shoulder, happily making good time despite the heavy traffic. For some reason, you’re not affected by the nasty karma that comes with having someone in every other stationary vehicle you bypass look at you and think, “asshole.”

A recent extreme example of the, “I’m special” syndrome is a scam in which people hire disabled tour guides at Disney World. You might think being confined to a wheelchair would be a distinct disadvantage when your job is to guide people through a sprawling amusement park. Quite the contrary. Because these guides are on motorized scooters or wheelchairs, they qualify to use the auxiliary entrances to the rides and attractions, which typically have very short, or no lines at all. And each disabled guide can bring up to six guests through the express line with them, which prompts some families of means (and six or less members), to gladly fork over the $130 per-hour tour-guide fee to avoid interminable lines in the broiling Florida sun.

We should all drive to Disney World, using the shoulder to avoid traffic jams en route, then park wherever we want when we get there. We can hire wheelchair-bound tour guides to get us onto the express lane to every ride in the park. Why not? Let’s all be special together.

The Selfies Phenomenon: “Look at Me!” (Be My Friend)

22 Wednesday May 2013

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Selfie photo

My selfie.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

You know you’re getting old when you are bemused by new catchwords that creep into the pop culture. I recently overheard a young man tell a friend on a bus to work, “Wow, you should see her selfies online. She’s hot! But watch out, they’re NSFW.” I will admit that I had no idea what a selfie was, or what this NSFW was all about. So I consulted the online oracle, Yahoo, and found out that a selfie is a picture that people take of themselves. The pictures usually show the subject with a phone in his or hands. I also discovered that NSFW means “Not Suitable For Work.”

I find this selfie phenomenon to be absolutely fascinating from a sociological and psychological point of view. First, it appears that women take most of the selfies. Second, it appears that a good portion of the selfies are, shall we say, risqué. Women have been posing nude since long before Alexandros of Antioch got some beautiful Greek girl to pose for his Venus de Milo. There were probably prehistoric cave women who posed for cave artists. And the ability to take a photograph of yourself goes back to the dawn of photography. After all, all you need is a camera and a mirror. Yet I don’t remember seeing a single selfie back in the ‘60s and ‘70s. So why is it that there are so many women taking provocative pictures of themselves now that we even have Web sites that are devoted to this phenomenon?

I think the answer may lie in the fact that feminism, smartphones and the Internet came together to create a “perfect storm” that opened the floodgates. Feminism, beginning in the 1960s, freed women to be in touch with their bodies and their sexuality. Smartphones made it easy to take pictures that do not need to be developed. And the Internet made it easy to disseminate the pictures to create a phenomenon that spurs more pictures by more women (and sadly, girls).

But the selfie phenomenon goes far beyond photos that are not suitable for work. It seems to be part of this broad trend toward navel gazing of which Facebook and Twitter are the most visible signs. The same people who need to tell us that they are getting a latte at Starbucks also seem to need to take pictures of themselves and distribute them online. If Baby Boomers were the “me” generation, Millennials are the “look at me” generation.

So are women today more immodest than their mothers were? I don’t think so. I think that everyone (and especially all young people) makes poor decisions at times. The difference is that the technology now has made it so easy to take racy pictures of yourself that many more women are doing it. And that makes it socially acceptable. Back when we were young, you had to actually ask someone to take your picture. Can you imagine 40 years ago trying to hold a Polaroid camera in one hand while you took a picture of yourself in a mirror? No, it required the development of phone cameras that you can hold in your hand to make this activity do-able.

The Urban Dictionary gives one of the definitions of selfie as, “A strange phenomenon in which the photographer is also the subject of the photograph, in a subversive twist on the traditional understanding of the photograph. Usually conducted because the subject cannot locate a suitable photographer to take the photo, like a friend.”

The fact that people today would rather do it themselves shows a more individualistic time, where people have fewer close friends to ask to take a picture of them. The level of loneliness this projects is a bit sad. Paul Simon talked about this phenomenon more than 40 years ago in his song,” I Am a Rock” where he wrote: “I have my books and my poetry to protect me I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room, safe within my womb I touch no one and no one touches me I am a rock, I am an island.”

Today, some people hide in their rooms and take pictures of themselves and then disseminate the pictures in an attempt to make a connection with another person. Rather than risk having a real in-person relationship in which they might get hurt, they are shielded by the armor of anonymity. Because “a rock can feel no pain. And an island never cries.”
Let’s hope this is just a passing fad.

There’s Beauty in the Beasts, Gargoyles, and Peacocks of Upper Manhattan

21 Tuesday May 2013

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Jane Alexander

All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

If anyone has a chance to get up to the The Cathedral of St. John the Divine at 112th Street and Amsterdam Avenue by July 29, there is an exhibit up called, Jane Alexander: Surveys (from the Cape of Good Hope). It’s visually mesmerizing and provocative. If you decide to go, check the Web site because accessibility to the the show is limited.

Upon entry to the cathedral, head straight to the back right chapel named after St. James. There is a slideshow presented of black and white photos of the South African landscape, and the city of Cape Town. It contributes to appreciating the fantastical anthropomorphic animal humans Ms. Alexander constructs out of fiberglass. But it is not simply the figures that intrigue, it is how and where they are placed in space. Each scene is staged in a different chapel.

Infantry, 2008-2010

Infantry, 2008-2010.

The fact that a show evoking both the primal anger of wild animals, and the connection between all “different” types of people, fits seamlessly into the majestic and spiritual chapels of a 19th century cathedral is a testament to the artist’s vision that the world – segmented, divided, and scary as it might be – is, nonetheless, woven together as a whole.

African Adventure, 1999-2002.

African Adventure, 1999-2002.

I kept running back and forth and back and forth between the various chapels trying to absorb the work, and commit it to memory. It was fabulous!

But even before I entered the cathedral doors, I had encountered unexpected pleasures. Like 527 West 110th Street – a building festooned with human gargoyles, each separately depicting some unpleasant characteristic of the psyche. They were carved out of stone, and hung as appendages on the building’s facade:

Mistrust.

Mistrust.

Greedy.

Greedy.

Then I came upon the cathedral complex, which consists of the Synod House:

Doors into Synod House

Doors into Synod House.

And a green knoll known as the Pulpit Green, where a pure, white, peacock struts his stuff for the camera gawkers:

a gorgeous white peacock struts awayAnd then I was in the middle of Europe facing a cathedral built in the mode of Notre Dame in the middle ages.  It is vast and domineering.  It is somewhat difficult to capture the fullness of The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, a “chartered house of prayer for all people” erected in 1892.

Trying to take in St John the Divine.

Trying to take in St John the Divine.

Rose Window.

Rose Window.