Monthly Archives: January 2014

Reflections, and the Glory of Skating on Ice

31 Friday Jan 2014

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pat backyard

BY PAT SCHMIEDEL

Last Sunday, I woke up to the thick scrape and grind of metal on ice. The lake behind my house is frozen. It must be really cold out. They’re ice skating! These thoughts tumbled over each other in a rush of childish joy – the kind that makes you bound out of bed, and land at the window without touching the ground. Hapless shrieks of distress, tangled with the ecstatic barking of a terrier too small for such a racket. The timeless beauty of crystalline white, so sharp as to be blinding, filled me with the awe of how sweet cruel winter can be.

I watched the skaters, transfixed. Unsummoned, winter moments long-past beamed across my mind, overtaking the figure 8s below. There was nothing unique about those days. Yet, on this ever-lengthening right side of 50, with a nod to Wilder, the mundaneness makes it all the more special.

I inhale the cold smell of winter radiating off dad’s gray jacket. I see clearly his sparkling green eyes; red cheeks. And I distinctly hear his voice grow muffled as he rummages, down in the utility room, through an admirable collection of skates.

Bundled up like sausage, out into the numbing cold, Mom’s homemade hot chocolate in hand, dad forces our laces into ankle supports, skates backwards so that we can skate forward, exhales life back into frozen fingers, smiles so broadly that all of life exists just to glide free, effortlessly, unfettered by pits in the road, without gravity or impediments to slow you down.

Having cursed plenty of icy days, and secretly rejoicing the year my own kids outgrew leaping out of bed to go ice skating, I can now enjoy from inside the comfort of my bedroom, the wonders of those glorious winter days.

Hurry Up, Spring. The Theater Beckons

30 Thursday Jan 2014

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BY ANITA JAFFE

It’s a long cold winter. I have found when the weather is not cooperating because ice slicks the street, or the high temperature for the day is 11 degrees, my 85-year-old body controls my 50-year-old head, and tells me I best be homebound with a book. This is not a problem, as I have been a life-long reader, but I am looking forward to spring, when I can walk about and see theater without worrying whether the weather will permit me to get out the door. So, for now, I’ll muse on last season.

I am a member of the Signature Theatre– it’s an off-Broadway venue located west of the Port Authority on 42nd Street. Way back in 2012, I was thrilled with their production of Edward Albee’s play “The Lady From Dubuque.” In fact so thrilled, I saw it twice.

That the great Jane Alexander, a mere septugenarian, was starring in it, not as the Lady from Dubuque, but the woman that the lady from Dubuque visits, just made it all the better. And really, you cannot imagine how a great playwright can convert death into entertainment. My 2013 subscription kicked off with “Old Friends,” by Horton Foote, and as we all know, there is nothing like “old friends.” It was a really wonderful play – real family, real problems and super performances.

Not to be overlooked was the small, but heartwarming and heartbreaking, Samuel Beckett play “All That Fall,” with a couple of more great actors in their 70s – the beautiful Eileen Atkins, and the magnetic Michael Gambon. It is quintessential Beckett in that nothing happens, except he has managed to capture all that is poured into the daily ritual and banality of life into a one act play.

Meanwhile on a pragmatic note, I have learned that the best way to get a seat is to head over to the theater. I can pick my seat, and avoid those awful ticket charges. So when I read the accolade-ridden review at 10:00 a.m., I immediately headed over to the box office. And glad I did, because I got the very last ticket! It had sold out!

Rounding out my choices was “Murders For Two.”. I was not too keen on seeing it. But while seeing “Richard III,” I mentioned to my friend that my nephew planned to see it, and lo and behold, the woman sitting in front of us turned around and said I am a friend of the playwright. Well, I had to buy a ticket, and reluctantly went.

Quel surprise! It was delightful in every way. A totally different moment than all the other plays I had seen. An ingenious musical that plays like old-time vaudeville. Hilariously funny, and brilliantly conceived.

Okay that’s the good stuff. The bad stuff was “Betrayal.” I was betrayed by this insipid, awful presentation of Harold Pinter, one of my very favorite playwrights. Let me just conclude here.

Shingles: A Pain in the Back

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

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BY KENNETH KUNZ

During my annual physical a couple of years back, my primary care provider (once known as family doctor), asked me if I had ever had chicken pox. I confidently responded that I had not. Indeed, for my entire adult life, for fear of contracting the condition, I had stayed away from children with chicken pox, those possibly about to get chicken pox, and any young person just getting over chicken pox. Doc chuckled rather condescendingly, and said that many of his patients insisted that they, too, had never had chicken pox. Yet, upon testing, were almost always proved wrong. He ordered the appropriate blood test for me to convince me I was mistaken as well.

On a follow up visit soon after, he reviewed the test results, and sure enough I was correct! I would have remembered the scars I told him, in a most non-condescending tone. He shook his head, smiled and actually apologized for doubting me. But now we had to get me a chicken pox vaccination posthaste because adults who had had chicken pox in their youth are prone to contracting shingles. He wrote me a script to get vaccinated.

After enduring a few months of dealing with a bit of a rigmarole involving matters such as who covered what, and when a supply could be ordered, I ended up back where I started at my PCP’s office, and he ordered the special serum. In two separate sessions, I was vaccinated, then boostered. I felt great – comforted knowing that now I wouldn’t have to worry about shingles (which I had always heard could be quite painful). I also always thought it was one of the goofier sounding conditions one had to admit going through.

I have had intermittent lower back (lumbar) pain since my twenties due to more things than I can remember. I imagine most of us can make that claim. I have often said that as soon as Homo sapiens finally stood erect, the entire species began having back pain of some sort (another story perhaps). At any rate, shortly after the vaccination episode, I started experiencing a bit more back pain than usual, and went through my normal protocol for relief – extra doses of Advil, some pain relief cream, stretching, et al. Nothing worked.

And then … I started itching and burning. Like sunburn. Then a rash developed. Then the self-diagnosis (with the help of Google, WebMD and a host of other sites), that I had contracted shingles. What? But I thought …

Never mind. Went back to the PCP, and sure enough, within about one second of examination, it was confirmed I had the suckers. Relatively mild case, but more severe pain than I had ever experienced next to kidney stones (still another story). Went through the prescribed treatment, and within two weeks all was fine. By the way, no one could really explain why I got shingles after being vaccinated against chicken pox. I personally feel the stupid vaccination made my body believe I actually had chicken pox, so why not let me fall prey to shingles as the natural follow-up?

A few months ago, my most recent visit to my PCP has him telling me I am now old enough to get the shingles vaccination and he suggests I do so as soon as I can. I venture to the pharmacy, and am informed that since I had yet to turn 60 at the time, I needed a script. Back to the pcp. Now with script in hand, back to the pharmacy. They can surely help, but they have none in stock, and the insurance site is jammed so it is not sure that my policy covers the shot. Is it me? I leave – don’t feel like waiting. About a month later I go back during my lunch break, and within 15 minutes, all is good. I get the vaccination with no co-pay or any other charge.

Phew!

Except now, despite all this great preventative care, every time I get even the slightest itch in my back, guess what I’m thinking?

Guns, Yet Again

28 Tuesday Jan 2014

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at the movies 4

BY JULIE SEYLER

The story about the 71-year-old Tampa citizen who shot a man dead for texting during the previews of a movie on a Monday afternoon is no longer breaking news. It’s been replaced by the shooter at the mall in suburban Maryland, and no doubt in a week that will be replaced by a story about a gun-toting citizen walking into a school. But for now, I’ll stick with the stream-of-consciousness thoughts that were provoked by the matinee gun-toting citizen.

You know, if he’d shot the movie screen out of fury for the insane assault of the violent-spewed previews, and mind-numbing commercials that drone on for thirty minutes before we get to see the film we had the privilege of paying $16 to see, I would have gotten it – albeit with outrage that he had a gun in his pocket.

But that wasn’t the case. The gun toter was mad at the audience member because he was checking in to see how his 22-month daughter was faring while the previews were blasting. And even if this man had been texting his bookie during the movie, and threw popcorn, laws that permit one to rely on a gun to solve one’s annoyances are a problem we, as a society, face. Why do state legislatures permit the carte-blanche purchase of a device that shoots someone dead at the slightest affront to their personal space?

I get it. The electees are following their constituents’ wishes. The Florida voters made it legal to walk around carrying a gun. I guess they see no difference between a gun and a cellphone; both are necessary accessories. But why consciously choose to hand over the right to own a device that can kill over cell phone use to just anyone? Does it boil down to the NRA’s successful brainwashing campaign that the Second Amendment guarantees an unfettered Constitutional right to buy a gun and wear it anywhere?

There are laws concerning the consumption of toxic chemicals, the age you can purchase liquor, and buckling up before driving. They are on the books to cut down on unnecessary death. But when it comes to killing on a personal whim, there is a massive outcry that says “hands off,” and this mass keeps growing in power – screaming “Don’t mess with my Second Amendment rights,” as if Second Amendment rights are the equivalent of one’s genitals.

It’s nuts. It’s scary. And it’s going to get worse as this country moves closer and closer to a vigilante society. The NRA keeps rolling along – a centrifugal force that, with its well-orchestrated PR campaign, and ever-expanding donor dollars, seems to gain power with each shooting incident. There are no 50 shades of gray in the NRA. When Dick Metcalfe, a die-hard NRA supporter, and life-time pro-gun advocate, wrote an article in Guns & Ammo magazine that firearms regulations did not infringe on one’s Constitutional rights, he was freezed out of the organization and painted a traitor to the cause. To the NRA “regulation,” is a four-letter word. For the rest of us, let’s hope we are not at the mall on the same day that someone, carrying a gun in his pocket, is having a hissing fit.

Beach Cinema: The Way it Was

27 Monday Jan 2014

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Beach marqee

BY BOB SMITH

My favorite nostalgic movie theater is the Beach Cinema. Located on Main Street in downtown Bradley Beach, its old-fashioned marquee juts out over the sidewalk, proudly displaying the title of whatever movie is “Now Playing.” That’s right: instead of ten or more screens, the Beach Cinema has one movie playing on one screen. If you don’t like it, go someplace else.

The throwback to the middle of the last century continues as you enter the tiny lobby, with the ticket window on the right and the snack stand on the left. The decor is dreary postwar – high ceilings, plaster walls, and framed movie posters, with an “updated” splash of groovy plastic signage for the snack stand.

There are old-time prices, too: $7.50 for an adult ticket, and a mere $3.50 for a large popcorn. Unlike today’s typical multiplex snack, the “jumbo” popcorn isn’t the size of a small trash barrel, and it doesn’t come with free refills. If you eat all the popcorn in your modest cardboard bucket before you run out of movie, you have to ante up again.

The seating is a sea of upholstered metal chairs straight out of your basic high school auditorium – functional, reasonably comfortable, but a far cry from the semi-reclining leather seats in today’s typical high-end theaters. They’re fine for sitting and watching a movie, but don’t expect to get too comfortable. On the walls flanking the screen are what look like two old-fashioned balconies, but there aren’t any seats up there – they’re just for show. One of these days the old codgers from the Muppet Show are going to pop up there and start their goofy banter.

The pre-show entertainment isn’t an endless trailer for new TV shows, slick cars and trucks, and this season’s iteration of Coke. In fact, there’s nothing on the screen at all before the movie, but a projection of the monogrammed initials “BC.” My wife says it stands for Beach Cinema, but I’m pretty sure it stands for “Before Christ,” in honor of the theater’s founding.

While you ponder that mystery you can enjoy piped-in elevator music from the 1940s, featuring cheesy orchestral arrangements of show tunes like “Some Enchanted Evening,” and “On The Street Where You Live.” If you don’t feel old when you walk in the door, you sure do after ten minutes of that. And the night’s entertainment consists of a single “Coming Attraction” – a preview of the next movie coming to the Beach Cinema, followed promptly by “Our Featured Presentation.”

But my favorite part of the Beach Cinema experience is the men’s room. Not only does it feature gigantic ceramic urinals that look like old-time bathtubs standing on end, it has the only commemorative bathroom plaque I’ve ever seen. That’s right – screwed to the wall just above eye level to the left of the urinals is a plastic sign that reads, “This Urinal is Dedicated to George H. Moffett, A Devoted User And Favorite Palace Theatre/Beach Cinema Patron Since 1935.”beach plque urinals

Beach plaqueHow do you even qualify for the dubious honor of having a public urinal named after you? Does “devoted user” really mean “weak bladder?” (FYI, the toilet bowl and the second urinal remain unclaimed, so we all have something to aspire to.)

Because it’s a small-town movie theater, lots of people know each other, and there’s plenty of animated conversation before the show starts. I’ve also never seen anyone disrupt the film with loud talking or taking calls on their cell phone. And the audience routinely applauds at the end of the movie – if it’s a good one. If it’s a stinker, they just file quietly out.

Is it a great theater? Not by today’s standards – not by a long shot. But it’s clean, convenient, and cheap, and the people who work there, like their customers, are friendly and polite. And for a discount price, I get to go to the movies the way they used to be when I was a kid. Worth every penny. Bob BC

The Saturday Blog: Sala Seller

25 Saturday Jan 2014

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Sala seller Yogyakarta, Java

Fruit seller in Yogyakarta, Java.

Sala is an indigenous fruit of Southeast Asia. The starchy, crunchy, edible part of the fruit is protected by a leathery brown skin. (Sala, or sometimes known as salak, translates as “snake fruit.”) This photo of a sala seller was taken inside one of the many markets that line the main road in Yogyakarta.

The Age-Old Question: What’s Next?

24 Friday Jan 2014

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What's up next?

On the precipice.

BY JULIE SEYLER

These days, I find myself peeking warily over the threshold wondering what’s up next? What unexpected change will manifest itself, and where will it happen? It might be something as benign as the plate tectonic-shift in my teeth that leaves particles of food trapped between the cuspids, or as annoying as that occasional dull ache and clicking combo in in the knees. Could it be the sign of eroding cartilage? Is a knee replacement in my future?

There are other slight affronts I notice as I take an inventory on my skin, my hair, even my strength. Nothing seems the way it used to be; the way I thought it was supposed to be. It seems the only thing I can count on is continual body metamorphosis, and probably way more quickly than ever.

Yes, yes I know I can fight it with diet and exercise, good thoughts, Botox, face lifts and serums, but eventually it will happen – I’ll be “old.” In the meantime, I am not prepared for the next onslaught of change, but it doesn’t matter because there is no escaping it. Age is all about change – unexpected, unpredictable, and too frequently, unwanted. Amidst all these “Debbie Downer” musings, I realized the word “age” is embedded in the word “chAnGE.” Obviously, the entire aging process is simply a sophisticated linguistic joke.

I Want to Slide Down Something!

23 Thursday Jan 2014

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Sleds

Poised for action. Butts needed.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This is the winter of my dreams. I love the cold. I love the snow. But what is bringing me down faster than a good pair of Rossignols on a black diamond is that no one will play in the snow with me. My friends say they’re too old. My kids say they’re too old.

I was an avid skier for most of my life. It’s been five years, or more, since I’ve skied. Because apparently, it is not all downhill from here for most late-50 Boomers, who seem to think we’re too old to do anything but bemoan the snow. After all, it’s a slippery slope just walking out the door for us old-timers. Phooey!

While the huge group of reliable ski buddies from the past has dwindled down to practically zero due to age, illness, physical incapacitation, and even death, I have been know to beg anyone who seems somewhat game:

“We’ll ski easy (with helmets!) for an two hour or two, and then we can apres ski for the rest of the day.”

No bites.

But since I’ve recently moved within walking distance to one of the best sledding hills in New Jersey, and because I can potentially hit the hill while it’s still a virgin, I’ve decided to take the sled by the (plastic) reins and be prepared for the next snowfall.

I bought two steerable Snow Seats (good for anyone over six), and I will head out solo next snowfall if I have to. I’ve accepted that it will be without the shared adrenaline rush, the (“Did you see that!”) double wipeouts;face plants. No getting airborne side-by-side.

And when it’s all over, I guess I’ll have to learn how to drink that hot-and-spiked anything by myself, and rehash, in my mind only, how much fun I had, and the absolute joy that playing in the snow brings.

Snow Shore

22 Wednesday Jan 2014

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Bob snow 6

BY BOB SMITH

I took a bunch of photos after the last storm, secretly hoping that would be the only big nasty snowfall of this winter. No such luck. Here we are again, with everything – porch furniture, garbage pails, hedges, cars – transformed into weird white domes. The icy street is an invitation to a fenderbender, and the boardwalk is a desolate, wind-whipped wasteland.

It feels wrong to see the beach covered in snow and seabirds perched like furry gumballs on the lake ice between Bradley Beach and Ocean Grove. But then up and down Ocean Avenue you see surfers in wetsuits trudging across the frozen sand to ride the waves, happy to have the water toBob snow 2 themselves. So what if the water’s 39 degrees – the air temp is in the 20s, so by comparison it’s warm. The boardwalk in Asbury Park is all footprints and tire tracks, and the Stone Pony has mounds of snow outside. But summer lingers in our hearts.Stone Pony

Bob snow 5

Bob snow 7

bob snow 8

Coq au Vin: Blanched, Boiled, and ‘Blueprinted’ Below

21 Tuesday Jan 2014

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The kitchen

The kitchen.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Like many people living in an apartment, my kitchen is tiny. The maximum usable portion of counter space is a 26″ wide x 12″ rectangle. Cooking anything with more than three ingredients requires premeditation, creative juggling, and a suspension of anticipated frustration to deal with how to squeeze all the ingredients into this modest slice of granite, and still have room to knead, chop or dice as the case may be.

I usually stick with the tried and true simplicity of pasta, salads and soups. But once in a while, an occasion arises that calls for me to conquer the kitchen dimensions, and sally forth into the field of a “gourmet” meal.

Rolf's. 1.4.14

Rolf’s. 1.4.14

Recently I used Lois’s visit to Rolf’s, our favorite place to raise a glass, as a reason to go beyond my normal repertoire.
I wanted something I could prepare the day before that would accumulate depth during its overnight stay in the refrigerator. Lois is not a picky eater, so whether I served a sweetbread stew or lasagna with chickpeas and pancetta, she would be fine. It is me that needs the more traditional fare.

I decided on a Coq au Vin. Relying 90% on Ina Garten, and 10% on Julia Child (especially her tip to blanch the bacon in boiling water for about 8 minutes to quell its ability to overwhelm all other flavors), I started preparing the morning before. I chopped the carrots and garlic; laid out the cognac, opened the wine (took a sip), peeled 20 pearl onions (what a pain), and sliced the mushrooms BEFORE I blanched the bacon. Then while the bacon was crisping, I salt and peppered the chicken. I was so organizd, and operated with such efficiency, I kept a photographic diary:

Pearl onions, carrots, onion, garlic, red wine, mushrooms, cognac

Pearl onions, carrots, onion, garlic, red wine, mushrooms, cognac.

Salt and pepper chicken

Salt and pepper chicken.

Brown the chicken

Browning the chicken.

It starts to come together

It starts to come together.

The finishing touch: pearl onions and mushrooms

The finishing touch: pearl onions and mushrooms.

After it was cooked, I let it cool completely and then put it in the refrigerator.

Sunday morning, I set the table. Since I never married, I never acquired that initial set of matching dinnerware. Instead my plates, bowls, dishes, cups, table linens and napkin rings have been bought and bargained for from countries I have visited. To me, they are the best souvenirs ever because they bring me back to a time and place.

When we got home from Rolf’s Sunday evening, I warmed up the coq au vin by bringing it to a full boil, and then letting it simmer for about 20 minutes. Voila! It was was ready. We sat down to a mismatched dinner table set with a tablecloth from Cairo, Egypt, a wooden trivet from Ecuador, dinner plates from Buenos Aires, Zanzibar and Barcelona, and napkin rings purchased in Tanzania, India, France, and Guatemala. As it is said – nostalgia, and good food shared with great friends is manna for the soul. Bon Appetit!

Dinner is served

Dinner is served.