Holiday Reprint-O-Rama: "Beautiful Things" Revised, Part One (or How We Used to Shop)

The shop “Beautiful Things" had been a fixture on Sycamore for as long as anyone could remember, one of those old fashioned anchors that fixes time in a fast changing neighborhood. The street  actually was not called Sycamore but merely showed a number. Such nondescript numerals however doing no justice to the long rows of large, stately trees that lined the sidewalk, I decided to change the name of this story to something more pastoral and homespun.

Sycamore was only one block long, a winding and steep incline connecting two broader avenues with a kind of mid-century appeal that made this part of the city feel more like a village than an urban grid of humorless red brick buildings. Alongside the two-family houses and pre-war apartments, the street housed just four small “ma & pa” businesses: a bakery, a tiny beauty  salon, a shoe repair and the gift shop; together these comprised a small town fantasy in the midst of a large, increasingly noisy residential area that slowly had been taken over by a  gang of cheap chain stores and their influx of tacky, useless merchandise- outdated bags of chocolate, fuzzy red Christmas stockings of strange fabric, plastic serving trays with odd holiday motifs. These kinds of schlock bazaars usually were plopped down in busier, more heavily trafficked locations.

Beautiful Things was wedged in between the shoe repair and pastry shop about halfway up the hill on a quiet street, its hallmark a display window quite small but nothing less than mesmerizing. It was impossible to resist gazing into its semi-precious cave of wonders while out doing the chores and running from one mind numbing errand to the next. On rich, black velvet jewelry pads carefully placed for optimum viewing sat marcasite pins that blazed like diamonds, glittering ovals of amber and polished stones of blue topaz, each sharing the reflected glow of the overhead track lights with pewter letter openers and miniature Tiffany-style lamps; semi-precious objects totally unnecessary for survival but succeeding in prompting all sorts of forgotten longings and desires for small luxuries. The window itself faced southwest, and when the afternoon sun bounced off the glass the whole sparkling collage became purely hypnotic.

The interior of the shop was no larger than fifteen by twenty feet or so, with a kind of closet-office in the back hidden behind a flowery curtain. Once inside one immediately was bedazzled by the jewelry boxes- some of them musical with slowly turning ballerinas- along with a colorful selection of silk scarves and ties, one-of-a-kind tea pots, ceramic vases, hand-painted dishes and of course piles of rings, bracelets and chokers, all neatly stacked inside the three-tiered glass case behind which the proprietors ruled their little kingdom of chotchkas. 

The display also included a few obligatory gag gifts such as miniature slot machines and sleek, tiny clocks with sun dials that went all the way up to the year of infinity, but everything was tastefully arranged and carefully selected at the “shows” which the owners Mel and Ruby seemed to be attending at regular intervals. 

This all took place of course before smart phones, smart watches, smart toys, smart food, smart shoppers and consequently the smart billionaires of the information super highway who came smartly cashing in on that unending consumer thirst for smartness.

The upside of once shopping "live" also meant that you actually got to see and smell and touch things, hear the bustle, talk to other people. As a little girl floating through the bedazzling splendor of a lush Christmas stage set on the main floor of Macy's at Herald Square, I was completely entranced; I still see the glittering, festive tinsel, the colored and smooth ornaments, the dark green wreaths with their thick, perfectly tied red ribbons; I recall the happy ping of the elevator bells and the sheer magic of the scene. 

The downside of face to face commerce of course was that at times you might not want to interact as you browsed fancifully and took it all in, much less have someone hovering nearby annoyingly to make a sale. Nonetheless, many of us still miss that kind of human contact as we settle in resignedly in front of our little screens on all our Black Fridays and Cyber Mondays.

At Beautiful Things people interacted with each other in a much more intimate setting than Macy's, absence of gorgeous decorations and pinging elevators notwithstanding. I know just what you’re looking for, Ruby would assure you after the better part of an hour spent considering a shiny array of objects, none of which exactly did the trick; You want something smaller, daintier, perhaps with an amethyst in the center, right? They’ll probably have them at the show we’re going to next week- come back then. And she acted very much as if she meant it. She would find this for you.

Ruby worked hard to appear that her mission was truly to satisfy the customer. She did not want to be seen as stoking the embers of your flagging, mindless consumerism in the days when we once went  shopping in stores, an activity fueled by a vague yen that often left you succumbing to useless stuff: seven different kinds of bathroom cleaners, a dozen, unique hand creams, a funny hat perhaps that you wound up never wearing. Ruby's object was to appear as sincerely wanting to locate the one special, shiny thing you desired that would totally change your life- or at least this was what she wanted you to believe. Mel looked on now and again while tinkering and repairing chains and brooches and things with his teeny-tiny pliers, smiling benignly in that vague and special, fidgety way of his.

However Ruby wasn’t always being so really helpful at such moments of extreme shopping indecision, even though she appeared to be holding out the carrot of finding “exactly the right thing. ” This reverse effect mainly had to do with the insane anxiety hovering just beneath the surface of her silk, paisley neck scarf and a barely concealed impatience. In truth, she was so incredibly proprietary and anxiety-ridden about the placement of objects in the shop she could barely conceal a maniacal sense of impending doom, for fear that perhaps one of the display “trees” of dangly earrings just might topple over with the customer’s next sneeze; this nervousness of manner comprised a kind of existential tick that tended to upset the whole tight little sense of controlled cordiality she tried so hard to maintain in the store. . . .

-From "Beautiful Things" (2014), look for Part Two on December 22nd!

Holiday Reprint-O-Rama: "Indian Foothills"

Indian Foothills

With what god-given
mindless scripture pounding
expressionless fire
did puritan maidens
wish the forest?

On which satanic
rough-hewn merciless
icicle of a blue night
could humorless women
childbirth dread?

(July  1995)

Oy,  It's getting to feel a lot like Christmas-
(especially the ads, decorations, promotions. . . .)

Happy Thanksgiving and other seasonal madness!

Yup, I Still Do Not Care for "Skype-ing. . ."

Skype is weird. This merits repeating.

This week's blog is part reprint of an earlier complaint, part continuing rant against virtual "face time" and part frustration because I did not have a new and fascinating post ready in time this week, having spent days fixing computer glitches, setting up a new machine, and thus the slightly re-edited skype post. But the idea is still relevant, more than ever!

In addition, the very word "skype" has become the same kind of word that "fridge" once served as, way back when during the heyday of Frigidaire products when  refrigerators first replaced ice boxes. I mean, does anyone still even use "Skype" or has google taken over that world too? Should we call it "Googlype??"

Yes, Skype is still weird, small or capitalized, in color or black and white and of course Google Hangout is not much better. Let’s face it- you’re not really hanging out. . . .

Two dimensional encounters devoid of real, human contact amid a screen of wavy lines, where the distraction of myriad pixels interferes with the actual talking and being- the human sharing connection- is weird; and this is to say nothing of frozen frames inter-dispersed with moving portraits held hostage to flat, staccato, marionette style images and movements that do not create an environment of intimacy or communication, meaningful or otherwise. 

Occasionally and inexplicably the sound goes out too and we have to resort to screens and phones simultaneously, like something from an old Flash Gordon movie.

Oh yes, you can display things and objects, like haircuts, toys, pets and funny faces as well as living arrangements- kind of like show and tell- but it really doesn’t fly, does it? Group video fests are even more chaotic and incomprehensible, with everyone screaming at each other and the screen simultaneously.

Virtual in actuality means “almost” or “not quite.” The brave new world may long have been both with and upon us, but the “picture phones” of early sci-fi dreams from days of yore (when people still used the entire name "Frigidaire" to signify an electrically powered ice box) now function strangely in the age of the internet; they appear, even now, as primitive, almost stone age devices. I picture earthlings of decades and centuries hence looking at the old footage and roaring.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: skype is weird.

Stay tuned for a more ebullient, fascinating, possibly humorous but always intriguing  post next time. 

Wages of Sin

Sinful wages-

Wow! 12.50 an hour plus benefits my chatty cashier told me, as we chatted chattily at the checkout! Not bad for a kid. . . .

So after I left the store with my cantaloupes and bananas and cans of hot chocolate mix, I began thinking it over, doing the math and such to compare the current rate associated with this kind of job- one that pays just a mite above minimum wage-  to my own buying power at a part time job several decades back, with minimum wage-ish earnings a mere fraction of today's sum, at least on the face of it.

The deal now in the year 2017 was as follows: 12.50 an hour at Whole Foods (aka Amazon) for an eight hour shift plus "benefits" (like standing on your feet endlessly ringing up raw meat, heavy, unweildy melons, unruly bunches of kale, damp clumps of celery, wet lettuce and steaming cups of soup with loose, dripping lids) while trying to be pleasant to the customers. She got two "breaks," one for 15 & another for 30 minutes-
                                                               versus                     
the cashier's previous job, one that she did not care for nearly as much apparently because the salary was a tad lower: 10.80 plus "benefits" at Starbucks plus all the coffee you could drink, or at least inhale! Not sure about the breaks and didn't really get into that with her, though I can well imagine it could get pretty busy when folks were in need of their quick fix; and in fact you might not even have time to go to the bathroom during peak caffeine dosing hours. On the other hand, the lines at Amazon Foods can become kind of scarily endless at times as well. . . .

The result of my computations was that I began to realize all this could be yours too- while living at home that is with a parent, or perhaps two, depending on your domestic situation, and maybe some siblings- as you were trying like the dickens to get your associates degree. . . . so that by the time you attained a bachelor's - if you got that far (highly unlikely because of all the hours put in at the register)- you'd be ready for retirement. In other words, the chances of reaching any significant job goal whatsoever for those who have to work would be incredibly slim. 

All that talk about these kinds of supermarket et al gigs not being "permanent" jobs but merely stepping stones clearly is rubbish, because if you were caught in that net for whatever reason- poor grades in high school, strange family setups, a youth misspent, old fashioned working class poverty- you'd have to hope hard the retail lifestyle did not last and (shudder) become a way of life; in addition, such employments at the register do not ever constitute any sort of real job, as in the kind you can live on, even modestly.

And although it's true that I did not receive any "benefits"  at various scrub employments while at school way back when- stints from receptionist to cashier at a medley of improbable settings prior to the invasion of the chain and box store- and my hourly wage was substantially lower in numbers, my weekly check did seem to purchase a lot more: endless cups of coffee, hamburgers and pizza and lipstick and nail files. 

In other words, just how many organic veggie wraps on the head of a pin can these current salaries actually purchase?    Hmmm. . . .

Finally, I had the benefit of a career later on (meaning not that far down the road from when I graduated), even if a slightly lackluster one, at the onset. There were real jobs waiting. With benefits. 

But alas, no bustling Starbucks for the starry eyed way back when, just diners and a handful of sorry looking, exceptionally prosaic and totally hopperesque Dunkin' Donuts operating mostly for the spiritually downtrodden (it was eons before the famed donut kings made their national expansion and comeback).

In truth, the coffee back then- no matter where you got it- was not that great either and could be downright watery, and certainly there were no flat whites or lattes or designer H2O; but on the other hand, none of it cost a whole lot either. So we drank coke instead. Gobs and gobs of it.

Is there never to be any winning. . . ?

Robotic Musings

We finally are experiencing some of those sublime, perfect autumn days that we long for all year round, here in the Big (humid-frosty-steaming-wet-allergy causing-rainy-freezing-sticky) Apple. The weather has been positively delightful, refreshing and comforting yet energizing; cool breezes, sunny afternoons with a gold light that warms and soothes the spirit; slow changing leaves to a pallet of colors I happen to look good in.

The problem is that I cannot enjoy these precious few weeks of fresh air and perfect backdrop for my outfits because I am distracted by worrisome thoughts about my elevator robot. 

The disembodied voice that I've slowly grown to regard almost as a friend- a boring one admittedly, with very limited vocabulary ("door closing, please step back. . . .") but an acquaintance nonetheless- this same, familiar safe keeper of the mechanical sliding portal, this invisible guardian constantly on the lookout so that you do not get smashed to smithereens while exiting or entering the car- has begun to stutter, and sadly it seems to be getting worse-
duh door- duh duh door- duh-duh-door-door closing!

I have to admit that Elevator Woman was a bit vulnerable from the start, never quite as hearty as those nasty, disembodied "guys" that admonish you not to cross the street before the light turns, with a cool, unremitting and humorless wait!!! It's a command they veritably shoot out crassly and unceremoniously, all spit and vinegar that they are; you know the type-  bound to go on forever 'cause nothing bothers 'em, sensitivity simply not being not their middle name. "She" spoke more softly than that. 

There are so many robots giving orders out there it's starting to get intimidating, which is why our elevator lady was so refreshing- firm but caring. Of the more annoying variety for example are the loopy, out to lunch phone voices that tell you to hold on interminably amid strange, other worldly noise passing itself off as muzak; these "gals" sound like card holding members in good standing of the opioid crisis, or at least frequent recreational users; clearly they are feeling no pain and the sensation they impart amid all that syrupy politeness (while you hold on forever to no avail) is most unsettling.

But "door closing" was comforting, stable, predictable- a hardworking, unpretentious, disembodied voice intent on doing its job. Salt of the earth, a normal, computerized, set of instructions that never caused anyone any trouble. And now all those reliable, good intentions slowly are deteriorating, much like our peace of mind each day as we read the news. . . . is it possible "she" overheard residents talking in the elevator about disturbing current events??? Gosh, I hope not! On the other hand, her stutter is worsening at alarming speed, along with the self confidence. . . .

You can't be too careful about what you say in an elevator these days, because you just don't know who may be listening. . . .

Part Two (& Last) of Travel Diary: Being There

I feel soooo much better for having unloaded my angst and frustration about travel in the previous post- you know, "venting" as they say- so now I can just skip the part about the six hours on the plane (well, seven if you count boarding, taxi-ing and waiting interminably on the runway) as if it never really happened!

Day Something or Other
It's one of those perfect, eighty-degree-ish, low humidity, halcyon blue skies, Wizard of Oz clouds of cotton candy floating serenely overhead creating a kind of fairy tale canopy.

I'm sitting on an uncrowded beach in Newport, soaking up the energy, basking in the warm, soothing light, getting fried and not realizing or caring, and the Nootch is running down to the shore in her two and a half year old doll's bathing suit. 

This almost makes it all better. . . you know, all that stuff I said in the previous post about traveling. . . almost. . . .

Oh, and you know what the little elf says when a bedtime story is over? Get this- it's amazing-
                                The End!!!!

Travel Diary: A Rebuttal to All "Travel Section" Fantasies, and a Warning

As some of you may know, I detest travel of all sorts. We were put on this earth to have fun, not to worry about losing stuff or waiting in long lines or driving in traffic or sitting in claustrophobic, mechanical birds on seats designed for miniature aliens. In addition to loathing the process itself from beginning to end, the actual act of finally being somewhere else often does not quite make up for the journey; in fact the whole process at times effects such a conclusion to this miserable undertaking that the destination itself can be even more intolerable than all the annoying means of getting there!  

Living in the 21st century however, and not wanting to become one of those weird, hermit-like oddballs who does not even use the internet or own a phone- you know, one of those people who is inexplicably proud of their tech aversion, seems perpetually in terrible need of a haircut, and has a rather glazed, look that blares "I pine for the nineteenth century" - occasionally I am forced to partake of this form of incredible, unbelievable inconvenience. 

The ascending order of bothersome, insufferable experiences connected with the various types of excursions that force you to leave your home for extended periods starts with road trips at the bottom at the list of inconveniences and works its way up to dreaded TSA and flying experiences. If a car rental is involved, add a hundred points.

Day One of What Will Be a Short Diary
It's so weird getting up at 5:00 a.m., and this is not even the big day of departure (when I will have to be awakened well before 4:00 a.m.)!!! It's the day before alighting, because like many insane people, we are rehearsing for something we really needn't rehearse for. Of course when we first purchased tickets we had to snag the 7:00 a.m. for the upcoming trip, at one of the world's busiest, most confusing airports, because that was the only affordable time matching our desired dates. This arrangement means waking at 3:00 a.m. tomorrow, or will it still be kind of today? 

 And so we decided to ease ourselves into the horror of opening our eyes in shock and awe in the dead of night as if from a bad dream by attempting to do that very same act of idiotic, wake-up endurance the day before, in order to get used to the idea; crazy, huh? I've omitted some of the more grisly details here that will be involved in the actual early, early morning getting- out- of- the- house challenge on departure day, like the nuances of too quickly showering in the dark and then lugging suitcases into a cab with wet hair and no breakfast. It's too awful to even write about.

Efforts to get to bed at 8:00 p.m. this past week failing miserably, we threw it all into the day prior to the trip. So as I write, here I am, it's already 8:30 a.m. and I've been up for three and half hours, actually wide awake for the last one hundred eighty of those two hundred and ten minutes!!! And we're not even leaving today. . . .

The first glimmer of consciousness upon arising at such an hour always is the most horrible. After quickly cycling through all the familiar stages of grief regarding trip preparations, there is finally acceptance as we eat a tasteless breakfast- badly prepared since we've gotten rid of most  perishables- and then deal with the joys of upset stomach. We are now ready to start the final, day before prep.

An hour on and zombie-like we are going through the motions of seeing to the last details, getting the house ready, over watering the plants until the poor, helpless roots are veritably drowning, repacking for the fifteenth time. Aaaahhh, packing. . . .  an activity (an obsession?) that may well merit a novella at a future date. As my friend Diane says, you still have to get dressed each day, but you do not have your closet with you.

Now all we have to do is wait until 8:00 p.m. tonight so that we can unsuccessfully try to fall asleep and then proceed to toss and turn, get up and watch TV and hit the pillow again about 1:00 a.m., when we can catch an hour so of something resembling sleep (but not really qualifying as sleep!) before getting up again and leaving.

People do this for fun???
                                                       
                                            (Next Week: Part Two, Being There. . . .)

Eclipse Flips

Like many things in life, I fell into the eclipse by accident.

Okay, it was only a partial, but still. . .   a twice in a hundred years unique alignment of sun and moon. . . .

The event caught me by surprise; even the park in which I happened upon it managed to provide a kind of unexpected, magical setting-  it juts out over some rocks along the Long Island Sound and is quite picturesque. I had gone there to stroll and gaze, not thinking about any imminent or unusual lunar movements.

The mood was festive when we arrived and something clearly was up.

I approached a family sitting on a bench wearing those silly sci-fi eclipse goggles redolent of 1950's thrillers about aliens and asked, “When?”

“Now!” they said. “We have an extra pair, here!”

And that was it, we had joined the party.

We took the glasses and wandered up the rocks toward the water to a warm, stone bench; in front of us the anchored sailboats were bobbing on small, dark blue waves.

Sharing the lone pair of eyeball protectors back and forth, we looked up into the void and experienced that ooooh/aaaaah sensation of the floating cosmos while people nearby chatted and giggled. Strangers looked at each other with warmth and curiosity. It was a communal happening of clear importance, and everyone looking appropriately awe struck.

Like others who viewed this phenomenon, I too wanted to feel I’d gotten something incredible out of it. The darkness of the universe, the intense gold of the blinding orb- blocked only in part by a slice of deep moon- like a chunk of the most velvety of chocolate cake, the illusion of something downright mystical.

The tiny waves moving on the water and we mortals awash in the glory of it all, checking out a heavenly mystery first hand. It was like a medieval illumination, virtual style, or perhaps a glimpse into infinity. It beat cable news, hands down.

My store of metaphorical fancies ran amok. A flat, somber sky over gray-green water, the invisible screen moving in and shedding of a pale a shadow over what had just been a sunny afternoon as the eclipse slid by, a snowy blue horizon fading to pastel; the wind coming up as a grand finale to this first rate cosmic show. My thoughts continued along such untamed paths of wild and willful poesy.

Then my neck started to ache so I turned my attention back to solid land and looked around. Not wanting to feel like an uninvolved nihilist or astronomical pessimist while the rest of the world seemed to be aiming their smart phones ever so smartly up, up, up at the galaxy, I too needed to capture the image, albeit with my trusty, exceptionally junky, though new, flip phone (please try to hold those snickers). And the little devil came through!  It made that slow clicking sound that signifies yes!

The only problem is that now I cannot seem to transfer the once in a hundred years phenomenon, as seen through my particular, simple, very personal lens, to any other device on the planet Earth because I can't get it out of the phone.

It seems the new flip model is even cheesier than the crappy old one. I’ve since searched online, consulted with strangers and eventually called the store. Apparently the current replacement is so cheaply made it can only take miniscule pictures that will remain locked into its tiny soul, maybe forever, never to be shared or seen on a normal size monitor, unless perhaps you unearth some secret code or get amazingly lucky. But if I “come in,” the disembodied voice on the store phone said, they might be able to “help out.”

Hmmm. The Rosetta stone of keeping flip phone customers happy until eventually they can phase us out? The supposed “upgrade” to something crazily more expensive? Not over my flipping flip phone!

So why did I post this? Reading it over, I have to admit that a simple vignette about a small, plastic piece of outmoded tech may lack the irony of an O'Henry story or the magnetic attraction, wide audience appeal, and ubiquitous cultural references of "A Game of Thrones" (whatever that may be);  but now I'm  kinda' seeing the whole episode as possible fuel for a quirky, lovable indie, a film with one of those compelling, single word titles: Reactionary! 

Well, okay, maybe not. . . . people are so proprietary- dare I say addicted?- so positively chauvinistic about their smart phones they have completely closed their minds to the subject of alternatives, like the possibility of using an uncomplicated flip phone for example, perhaps as a means of holding back time as tech marches idiotically on, and worlds continue to near collide.

The eclipse thus eclipsed by daily digital life, a too fetid imagination and a flair for intense stubbornness about keeping up with the Tech Joneses, I still needed to recapture the image- my very own personal take on a star studded happening for which you did not even need a telescope, now locked down inside a dinosaur of a "device" (can we even call it that??)- and so I began steeling myself for another trip to the flip store. . . . 

How was your eclipse? Can I see your pictures? 

Showdown at Tech Town

Flip phones are like toddler toys- designed to break, quickly like plastic water guns. They are not very smart. And much like toy weapons, they still have a kind of small presence.

It is not the phones of course who are dumb, but the idiots like me who buy them. These tiny, plastic-like pieces of hayseed half the size of a playing card tend to slip through your fingers like a child’s marble, often sending the stupid thing flying; then the flip part frequently and continually deconstructs, eventually hanging precariously and piteously from one thread like a broken limb as you dolefully face the prospect of finding a Verizon store out there on the prairie, then spending the better part of a day. . . . It’s a crap shoot really, in terms of dependability.

On the other hand, smart phones do not render a user more intelligent although they do significantly increase the revenues of the savvy tech manufacturers who construct them to last just a might longer than the annoying flip phones, albeit at even crazier, more outrageous prices. These purchases are like risking the chance of losing big at poker when the dealer’s deck is stacked and loaded.

Let’s cut to the chase.

I am one of those who has hung on tenaciously- nay, heroically!- to my landline. I’ve not even succumbed to “Triple Play,” lacking as I do any faith whatsoever in the reliability of cable servers. But I do not like to leave the house completely unarmed. I’m a proud American and wear my flip phone arrogantly like a ten gallon hat or a Colt ’45.

Despite my yearnings to be alone at a campfire watching the stars with a dog named Shep and a steaming cup of java, living in the 21^st century I am forced to have a line of communication as mobile as a talking horse, a mechanism commonly and simply referred to as a “phone,” since a huge majority of the population relies entirely on this pony express. There is a clear rationale to this. What if we had not over-peopled the earth after all and destroyed every speck of greenery, then planted yet another Starbucks even in far reaches of the highest mountain in the Rockies? You just might find yourself one dreary midnight on that long, lonesome trail, far, far away from anyone who can help with that pesky flat tire and tired horse, just as a particularly mean hombre closes in from the nearby desert and surreptitiously pads his way towards you. . . . .

Unlikely? Perhaps. But better safe than sorry. It pays to be strapped, holstered, safely armed with a six shooter at the ready, prepared for the worst. No telling what’s out there in that untamed sagebrush.

And so there I was at the Verizon store, having phoned ahead to make sure they carried and had in stock the same brand of cheap, stupid phones that continually break. In line ahead of me were two compadres, each already being waited on by the two reps at the counter, everyone sitting on those impossibly high, uncomfortable stools. The place gave off the whiff of a Wild West barroom and you could hear a pin drop.

The first guy, who was approaching the elderly stage but still slick with a sardonic air, perhaps a retired rodeo rider or weekend golfer, was listening intently to the rep, who spoke to him like a horse whisperer. The second customer, a waiter from a nearby restaurant, could not understand why he had to pay the remaining balance on his now inoperative iphone, even though it had totally deconstructed like a palomino with a fractured leg and therefore was totally useless, and then immediately start making payments all over again on a new device. He was ready to call the sheriff and organize a posse.

Forty-five minutes later when my own turn came, of course they did not have the item I wanted that they had said was in stock. They did not even carry it in fact. The person who had erroneously given me this misinformation, twice (I had called again to make sure), or “mis-communicated” because she was a lazy, mean lout who refused to go back and look, already was gone for the day. My hand instinctively moved toward my hip and I was ready to kill. The manager assured me she would “speak to her.” Great.

But then the tide turned, and the lonesome stranger who was engaged in quiet, intense conversation with the first rep whirled around, pulled out his flip phone like Gary Cooper in High Noon, and offered it to me! He was sick of flip phones he said. It was unclear if he was moving on to another, fancier, shinier “device,” perhaps with a pearl handle, but for now he was gettin’ out of Tech Town. He’d had it with Laredo and was movin’ on.

He tipped his golfer’s hat, strode out of the store, jumped onto his Ford Bronco parked outside just as the meter maid was ambling threateningly down the street, and rode away into the sunset.

I gazed longingly out the door but the rep who was taking my order put his hand comfortingly on my shoulder and said, “He’ll be back. . . .” 

Part Two of Vacation, Water Water Everywhere

I'm soooo. . .  clean!

Water water everywhere, and we're not only talkin' all the Crystal Geyser you can drink, but hot tubs, cool pools, oversized showers with jets staring haughtily, coming at you from every which way, assertive sprays thoroughly searching out and cleansing your nooks and crannies, baptizing your weary feng shui from every angle.

I'm floating in the morning rays twinkling on the aqua surface of the peaceful albeit chlorinated heap of H2O in the pool, looking up at a perfect blue sky and binging on the scent of nearby lavender bushes recently watered.

Soon I will alight to the dining area, float into the room swan like as the vaguely rippled though unbowed cellulite queen that I am, and partake of the perfect omelet- truly a repast almost too delicate to eat, yet oddly not sufficiently filling- then wash it down with a large goblet of melted ice cubes that holds a single slice of lemon in the glass. Amid the low buzz of breakfast chit chat I catch the phrase "perfect beach day" and am fully expecting some young, rubber-suited stick of energy to charge in at any moment and yell surf's up! even knowing this usually only happens in the movies.

Later on in the afternoon I stop at the neighborhood drug store to pick up some bottled water. The sign advises me that this is no ordinary mini CVS- no indeed-  but an "integrated pharmacy" calling itself "Pharmaca." Register and stock folks are identified by badges stating their particular specialties- a message that tells you clearly these people have not been put on this earth simply to punch keys and take your money. Vanessa is a "wellness educator." Luann is a(n)? "herbalist." The door person is an acupuncturist. I pay for my water and leave before I am quickly surrounded and subsumed by this coven of health fascists.

My thirst for adventure thus slaked, eventually I will return home to the east coast- frequently and annoyingly referred to by the happy west coast zombies as "back east." There I will neglect to drink anything at all during the day for days on end, immediately become enveloped in glorious, adrenaline manufacturing stress- it's like riding a bike, you never forget- and fast walking through the streets "excercise." I will complain about the weather, yearn for more sunny days, and quickly transform back into the wizened, dehydrated, skeptical, wisecracking little New Yorker that I am. 

And in this manner I will welcome the transition to dry land joyfully, contentedly gazing at the banks of the storied Hudson from afar, until perhaps the next time. . . .

Working (at) Class, or the Vacation Conundrum

Notes from a previous, ambiguous vacation, alternately titled "Why I prefer to Stay at Home." Every time I think about going somewhere, I reread this.
.

The robes provided by our wine country inn are the softest cotton ever, silky on the outside, fluffy, non scratchy, luxuriant terry on the inside. They are light, and suggestive of something "classy"- not like those horse blankets supplied by supposedly five star hotels that make you feel like a sumo wrestler in loosely tied knots. 

The whole kit and kaboodle- or should I say spa ensemble?- soft sheets, crystal clear bottled water from the fountain of youth, tiny, magical shampoos, conditioners and lotions giving off a whiff of fresh peppermint should you wish to snack on them- is designed to make you feel like you’re on that long, long, much  anticipated, post, post operative recuperative journey. Words like "yoga" and "zen" and inexplicably "shambala" pop into mind.

The innkeepers have seen to details, oh yes, right down to the friendly wicker coasters underneath the pristine wine glasses- two sparkling vessels serenely awaiting the elixir of the famed Sonoma grape gods should you deign to use them. Their stems rest on the smooth surface of a black, hand woven cocktail table, underneath which you detect the warm, woody vibe of a redwood deck. Eucalyptus fills the fragrant, evening air as you worry obsessively about the price. 

The whole scene silently blares soothing, trancelike, west coast, mind-freeing, eternal sunset!! (no matter the hour), a command that ironically creates intense levels of stress as it exhorts you to ENJOY and GET FIT. For one mad moment I am overtaken by thoughts of home and trying clumsily to perfect warrior or downward dog on my little pink yoga mat with no one watching.

The bedside table holds a single, slim volume: trendy little sci-fi morsels entitled “Stories for Bedtime.” Nat King Cole croons dreamily over the speakers, pool water gently laps to and fro not far from your small deck. Two of your fellow guests are from the Bronx, like you. Another couple hails from Long Island and cellulite abounds, but everyone is trying to appear temporarily glamorous, if feeling just a tad strange and awkward. I can’t decide whether all this is an unbelievably cool respite, or maybe just a sanitarium, known in decades past as a sanitorium and occasionally featured in Hitchcock films.

What did I do to deserve such highfalutin weirdness, and why is it making me so nervous? Is this really how rich people live? Well, no.

This is class simulacrum. It’s all in your head. Insanely stupid bourgeois yearnings. Most people work for a living at enterprises markedly low on glamour, and rich people frequently are anything but classy. In addition, they do not go to fancy shmancy little inns but own huge tracts of land with mansions and compounds comprising small cities. They do not need to get cheap airline tickets either nor meticulously measure the size of their carry-ons because they possess their own set of wings; they carry on nothing but a smile, generally underneath large, dark, unbelievably expensive sunglasses. The spa scene is for suckers.

Which is why, among other things, I hate fancy hotels. Gimme an Econo Lodge anytime.  Oh, wait. . .  this may not be entirely true either. . . . Oh hell, is there never to be any tranquility of mind for the ninety-nine per cent???

The last straw was a sign seen on a leafy albeit busy road not far from the inn:

Running low on faith? Stop in for a fill up!

The Cloud and Me

The Cloud 

Remember when people thought the gods lived up in the sky, hurling down itinerant thunderbolts and such at whim?

Well, the deities of old may now be only dim collective memories, dog eared text books relegated to middle school mythology lessons, but the magicians and sorcerers of the tech universe have figured out a way to tease us with more than just a whiff of immortality: The Cloud.

In essence, we're talking about all your stuff, everything! And by extension, you too! All this can remain, safely stowed somewhere in the galaxy forever and ever like space debris. Yes, everything attached to your wandering mind, all your junk, every thought, note, contact, photo, memo, video, even your grocery list can now be happily immortalized in cyberspace. Forever young! To be accessed at will by your and your heirs: The Cloud.

How heavenly. Nonetheless, I feared the underside of this strange phenomenon.

At first I resisted, knowing that if I got sucked in it all would lead to hours and hours of frustration as I tried to figure it out. Backing up your entire life as you know it thus far in pixels, so that it all may be uploaded, up, up, up and away into, and then downloaded at some future date: The Cloud.

A dozen or so calls to Apple within 24 hours because they hooked you in, trapped you into intimations of immortality in a manner that Wordsworth never dreamed.

Blake’s infinity in the palm of a hand- i.e. your device- but eternity in an hour??? Good luck! Indeed a far cry from the world in a grain of sand but a concept relying rather heavily on things, many many things, all sorts of things! Devices, devising, ipads, iphones-uphones-mephones, cameras, screens big and little, and screams too of being fed up with the process of figuring out how to back up all your stuff, an assortment of techies along the way smart and dumb, and of course: The Cloud.

And finally, the process of uploading. A rather hellish experience for the uninitiated and a far cry from Valhalla. It took the better part of three days, numerous cries and calls for help, and a growing if somewhat odd, obsessional predilection for eternal screen life amid visions of cloudlike formations. But I did it! I did it!!! And now I’m set, baby! What, me worry?

My life, my idiotic little existence, every stupid or sublime image, thought, photo, tune, video or impulse- the good, the bad, the ugly- all tucked away for time immemorial: The Cloud.

Now what?

Fireworks

I was clocked, socked

down for the count;

screened, cleaned,

infected at the font

could not even hop

- barely lift a mop-

allergy shmallergy!

when would this stop?

laid low by the virus

oh how it did tire us

consulted the ipad

oracled “really bad”

ran to the doc

took some pills

key to the lock

for cure all ills

regarding one’s health

there is no surety. . .

definitely need

better security

a stronger firewall

to lift the pall:

an order tall!

(or maybe just a waterfall. . . .) 

Nick and Deedee, Part One

For years I thought the mini-blind over the kitchen window was lopsided because it continually tilted slightly to one side no matter how often I tried to straighten it out by playing with the cord. Finally at some point in the ongoing struggle to achieve symmetry, I realized it was the window that was off center, not the blind, and the realization- insignificant as it seemed- had a rather marked effect on my general perception of things. I began to realize that an alteration of one’s comfortable world view- indeed, of reality itself- could very well be applied to relationships as well, and specifically to the one we had with our friends Nick and Deedee.

When Nick and Deedee were in their thirties, and even later on in their forties, they gave off the distinct air of being unwaveringly in the right at all times and able to carry on with their lives in this manner of surety for an infinite period of time. Such an image of life lived as a series of decisive acts with no doubts aforethought was both enviable and somewhat contagious, though few could carry it off exactly as they did, if at all. Most of us still had doubts, lots of doubts. In truth, they were a little bit like method actors on a Becket stage in how they approached even the most prosaic of subjects. No matter how ordinary the topic they had real purpose when they spoke and were unusually definite about almost everything, from their opinions on politics to the kids’ curfews or where you should buy your vegetables. It was during a time of self-actualizaton craziness- the me generation- and these two were natural human potential trainers.

As a consequence of being so certain about everything, Deedee and Nick never showed any need whatsoever to explain themselves, or justify their views; this act would go contrary to their whole persona as a united, impenetrable front. From the outside, they were the perfect couple, and by extension, the perfect family with their two perfect children, a boy and a girl. Upon a closer look however, their personal lives were a little less constant, or at least Nick’s was, and I suppose the kids’ and Deedee’s too as a result. Their son was a bit of a bully, the daughter a well behaved sneak. To the world though they displayed an espirit de corps bordering on fanaticism. 

Our kids, a boy and a girl, were not ostensibly as perfectly polite or neat as their kids, but they were nicer. As a family however we definitely were messier, psychically disheveled. Our neurosis proudly hung out there quite inconveniently for all the world to see. We were far from perfect and could not pretend. It was mortifying. I was anxiety ridden, Tex a wild man. This is just how it went in those days. . . .

Nick and Deedee, Prologue

It’s oft said that we live on borrowed time. The age old adage so redolent of high flown, philosophical notions of mortality however also rings true in more prosaic ways. It’s not always about eternity- even though eventually it does seem to wind up that way- sometimes the phrase simply presages the plain ol’ stresses of everyday living.

When will the next toothache emerge? An ingrown toenail that totally zaps your peace if mind? A back going out! That pulled hamstring, torn meniscus, or other such exercising disaster undertaken initially with the happy intent of staying alive and in perfect health forever. A miserable cold, ugh! It takes so damn little to upset the equilibrium, the illusion of harmony, yet most of the time we continue to act as if the greatest problem of all that we ever could encounter is the occasional boredom and frustration of daily life and the planning of what to do next to distract ourselves. How about an unexpected splinter to suddenly demand your full attention. . . .

Each time we have to face the inevitable, such as a scary lab test to rule out the very worst, a worrisome symptom of some sort, we vow immediately to start living life more enthusiastically. We swear that if the results come up benign and we are given a reprieve once more from the looming awfulness, we surely will stop wasting time and squeeze out the very last drop of joie de vivre, whenever, wherever, however. You know, make the most of each day, seize the moment blah blah.  But as soon as we receive the desired, non-scary news from the doctor, we’re back to the same old neurotic routine, pointlessly busy with the daily cares and anxieties of our hum drum, quotidian existence.

And yet there always are some people who somehow manage to seem as if they’ve got if all sewn up, every silly anxiety and moment of useless indecision safely stowed behind a neat little package of competent exuberance. . . which brings me of course to my tale.

Ode to Spring

Guess What

When I walked out today

I saw a man pursuing the horizon. . . .

Whoops- is there nothing new under the sun?

When I set out today

on my forty-five minute minimum

radical-free vigorous stroll of an arm swinging

deep breathing (and soooo anti-oxidant)

run-on sentence of a walk with no punctuation

you know heaven in a wildflower eternity in a hour

sort of thing

I saw a man absorbed

in eating berries off the branches thin

of an edenic manna-bursting life tree

leaning sideways on the city sidewalk 

all straw hat and eyeglasses, steel-rimmed fox in grapes

just like that other duo Woody Allen & Huckleberry Finn

rolled into one

Gosh. Hadn’t he heard?

Acid rain, pigeon shit, crazed dictators

and other sundry toxins not so fun?

Guess not.

Xaturated Part Two: More on Language and Stories

Confessions of a Refugee Child

I was an observer of two worlds, old and new. Language intrigued, customs abounded. We colored eggs in soft, stripey pastels and devoured milk chocolate bunnies along with stinging gobs of deep red horse radish as we did our intricate seder preparations. I rehearsed the four questions in a new, blue Easter bonnet.

My brother received traditional bar-mitzvah training in what seemed an imposing synagogue in our south Bronx neighborhood known familiarly as the “KI,” a phonetic abbreviation in local slang which I believe stood for something like “Kehilath” Israel, signifying a kind of gathering. It was a large, impressive, somewhat old and architecturally interesting building with an ornately carved façade. There was a swirling though dimly lit gallery upstairs for the women and girls and a larger, lighter space downstairs near the ark for the men and boys; and it was here that a serious mess of dahvening took place -especially during the holidays- alternating with simpler schmoozing among the securely tallised. On Yom Kippur we’d hear the occasional wail of an ambulance coming to retrieve one of the elderly, wizened, frail little die hard fasters who refused not to pass out.

But I was a girl and relegated to the upper, circular chamber, which at times could be a bit lonely even on the high holidays when it was a tad livelier. The women wore tight heels and stiff skirts and black lacey things that seemed to bristle when they chatted- a bit formally- as they half watched the men. Many of the families were of refugee origin and se habla Yiddish just about everywhere, alternating with a growing contingent of Espanol speakers. Up the corner from the shul stood a Baptist church frequented by local African Americans then called Negroes. The church, a brown clapboard affair redolent of the 19^th century, rocked the sidewalk with seismic jolts on gospel Sundays.  As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, Grovers Corners it was not, though the 1940 film adaptation of Wilder’s classic idyll with William Holden did keep us going for a while when it finally made it to 1950’s TV; we watched it on the twelve inch and I was mesmerized. The notion of a town that was ours, where everyone lived in their own little houses and spoke flawless, friendly English of the polite, provincial sort, and where you fell in love with the boy next door. . . .

Bat mitzvahs were not very common for girls at the time, and so I was educated instead at the David Pinsky Folkshul, which I attended four afternoons a week. It was named after the esteemed, Yiddish writer, playwright and poet, sometimes spelled Pinski, and associated with the then progressive labor Zionist movement. The followers of this philosophy were instrumental in founding the state of Israel and their ideological heirs now mainly form of the two-state, peace movement.

The classes were co-ed, there was no school on Fridays in deference to Shabbat, but during the four other days our cultural study was neatly divided: Yiddish lit on Mondays, a favorite;  Modern Hebrew on Tuesdays, a time of rebellion as I disliked the too compact letters and hard sounds, so unlike the melodic Yiddish; Jewish History on Wednesdays with its stories of prophets and kings; scriptures in the ancient tongue on Thursdays, a kind of anomaly and everyone’s least happy moment-  really, quite impossible, because we never got past the first few words of Genesis as the deep symbolism and archaic meanings inherent in each of the mystical letters to say nothing of the attendant commentary were so unbelievably dense and incomprehensible. Someone must have insisted on including the biblical verse in a mainly secular program as a kind of nod to tradition. 

However Genesis Thursdays did turn into a sort of rebirth or salvation as it happened, we struggling interpreters being saved from this most challenging literary hurdle by Mrs. Hirschberg, a survivor herself with the telling, ominous blue tattoo on her arm. In fact Mrs. Hirschberg took downright pity on us and often spent this fourth day of linguistic agony singing the praises of Zion instead of deciphering text; she was fond of recounting the social and political aspirations that poured forth from the newly formed land of milk and honey, assuring us that we would always have a home in Zion. She sent us out into those mean streets on wintry afternoons with the small, square cards that had those neat rows of slots for quarter donations to ensure the planting of trees in an arid homeland, and we heeded the call; knocking on strange doors, catching unsuspecting relatives in their moment of weakness and putting them on the spot.

Mondays and Wednesdays clearly were my favorites among this carefully planned weekly schedule of storefront scholarship as Yiddish was front and center then- and it was here that my love of literature was honed to the level of obsession as we read through the great Yiddish poets and storytellers in the original- most of us being able to zip through Sholem Aleichem almost with the ease of gobbling up a Grimm’s fairly tale. The classes were conducted in Yiddish, most of the children, my classmates, being of immigrant/refugee parents and subsequently more or less cozy in the idiom; but with each other we conversed in English because of the dread inherent in being tagged “mockies” or “green horns,” just wanting to be cool and American. The melting pot in truth was a rough peasant stew continually in need of tasting, refining, but we were determined to become part of the mix, non totally “white” as we occasionally were seen notwithstanding- even by other, more assimilated Jews.

We were such a feisty, hearty and ragtag bunch, smart and mischievous, confused and rebellious little partisans often still fighting the battles of WWII at home while learning to assimilate and out-Amerikanize even the native born with their strange, non-European customs, flat accents, pink bubble gum, weirdly odd though oddly appealing Disney characters and a profusion of tattered superhero comic books.  It seemed to us as if it was the Americans who were the strange strangers in whose land we had landed; through the vagaries of political fate, chance and luck we had been born to continue the story of a people while learning to eat cheeseburgers and bacon. In the end we were able to proudly spout curses in two or more languages, depending how many were spoken at home.

My father, a fierce labor Zionist Eisenhower republican- not as unusual a combo as now it sounds-  when he began to get the alarming gist of what indeed might ensue with the raising a girl child in America, was convinced I should attend a yeshiva, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. I remember the arguments. Her slightly pagan Hungarian background left her contemptuous toward the ultra religious folk, whom she snidely referred to as “Yekkes,” which Wikipedia now tells me is “a Jew of German speaking origin,” so I don’t quite get the connection, though obviously this term became synonymous with orthodoxy, sanctimony, hypocrisy and all she hated about religion; the notion of “Modern Orthodoxy” was not even a blip on the horizon yet.

In any event, the main thing was not even that, the hatred of Yekkes and anything smacking of fundamentalism or religious pretension- it was simply that my mother did not wish to pay for a private education- we were poor by middle class standards, leading to the wearing of my own working class pedigree with pride later on when it became more fashionable. In the end of course I went to public school and eventually did wind up marrying a goy, which was ironic since my mother hated and mistrusted goyim even more than Yekkes, though who knows if this would not have happened anyway- it’s so hard to predict things.

In retrospect,  we were not so very different from any of the others who grappled with old and new ways of speaking. The majority of the population is/was/ were, always would be immigrants, reluctant, desperate or grateful upon arrival, no matter how recent or far back, non-native speakers.

Conversation once comprised the social medium, screens were smaller and fewer, there was no google translate, and gestures assumed significance. I still have trouble though with my connectors- the prepositions- and can’t always swear to the consistent and proper use of the tenses as they relate to time.