Tableau 2, The Holidays, and The Real Thing

Speaking of fancy shmancy, outdated albeit charming customs from another century, and writers of a certain rarified,  la-dee-dah circle who so perfectly and meticulously chronicled their own, special realities. . . . 

We're talkin gorgeous, intricate, fin de siecle settings, complex, cossetted, sometimes tragic and always a little larger than life characters from the Gilded Age (often with not such beautiful back stories, so as to move the plot along!); see those pert horses and cozy carriages gently cantering through the city.

There are yet more intimations of elegant merriment as winter approaches. Brightly colored street lights, sparkly decorations, perhaps images of of rich, velvet opera cloaks and other mythical artifacts of long ago fashion. Such acts of nostalgia and sympathetic magic help us endure the months of cold ahead.

The mini story I am about to relate is provoked in part by the change in weather so soon upon us, and a time of year that can evoke glimpses of seasons and whole eras passed; snatches of large, ornately decorated Christmas trees as viewed through the tall windows of old, Greenwich Village-y type town houses, or movies that depict such lovely sights; a stroll on a softly lit, lightly snow covered avenue in twilight. 

Ironically though, what the start of the wintry festivities here often evokes for me is, well, breakfast. A hot brew, a warm nosh, a New York bagel.

You see, when I started boiling water for the first decaf one late fall morning the other a.m. (recent snow storm and below freezing temperatures notwithstanding, still technically autumn!), as I conjured up images of Victorian Christmases, I was reminded of a clever and well written story by Henry James, even though it was not specifically about the holiday; the tale just had that feel. It's an insightful little gem about human nature entitled "The Real Thing," that  like most of James' work (which often reminds me a tad of nineteenth century lush Christmases anyway for some reason), leaves its timeless imprint on our consciousness. 

The narrative revolves around an aspiring artist and hopeful painter (more shades of tableau vivant!) who seeks models of suitable bearing for his portraits. A couple, man and woman, two aristocrats fallen on hard times, approach the painter with an offer of their services; he chooses them, in no small part because of his empathy for their reduced circumstances.  But alas, these two are not the real thing, at least not portrait worthy-wise, and as a consequence, his work is not received as kindly or as well as he would have liked or expected (you will have to read the story to find out what happens; it's short, just do it).

Painting was an important means of visual entertainment, artistry, and historical record in those days around the turn of the century before last, a time which if truth be told was not so very long ago. We no longer engage in the exact practice of tableau vivant as described in the previous post  (yes, do read that too , if you already haven't) but have modified it to our present, technological needs; and even if we did try to replicate that particular amusement in some form, it most probably would not (even in our own, more relaxed  era) center around so prosaic a painted image as for example someone munching a bagel for breakfast with his or her first cup of pressed or poured over  java. 

But let's consider this: in the unlikely event that there ever did happen to exist a famous painting or iconic photo of a simple bagel eater, and some party goer wished to dress up as said nosher just for some old fashioned, tableau vivant fun, the subject of the painting in question might very well be seen wolfing down some goddawful tofu spread with their iconic, circular bread of shiny crust and a hole in the middle. And this choice of a tasteless soy gop in the a.m. as opposed to something genuinely creamy and good would be one of the many, many unfortunate results of our obsession with supposedly healthy foods.

To speak plainly, I forgot how good cream cheese was! Whipped cream cheese and real half & half, not that fat free, watery, thin white chemical swill that people overly concerned with their own mortality choose to pour into their organic, morally sustainable decaf.

So one day in a previous holiday season not too long ago I had some guests over, and in preparation I bought the stuff that was not tofu, just for the heck of it; when I finally sampled this delicacy, suddenly I remembered!!! It all came flooding back, the taste, the texture, the calories that no one cared about because it just added to the deliciousness. The rest is history too, as I decided once and for all it was high time to live a bit dangerously again, and have been stocking up ever since- mainly on the type with chives 'cause I love the saltiness. I may even graduate to heavy cream with my extra strong decaf one of these days. Just saying. 

It's the holidays people! Good wishes and general merriment to everyone, cheers all around and live it up! Get yourself some goodies, and maybe some whipped cream too for that scoop or two of chocolate, high fat, exceptionally smooth, ultra creamy, very chocolatey ice cream, the real old fashioned kind that comes in an oversized cardboard container at the supermarket!!!

Just a thought.

A Photograph, Tableau Vivant, The Passage of Time, and an Accidental Book Review

I've spoken about the fluidity of time because it moves past our consciousness with such alarming velocity. The impossibility of stopping time to capture the moment, the sheer irony of trying to do this in an image obsessed culture that is continually in motion.

By the time the particular sliver of an instance of a movement through space- i.e. what we call "now"- is downloaded (much less read, seen and printed) it's gone forever.

There's an image of my granddaughter age 31/2, standing with her arms bent at the elbow and hands placed on hips, fearlessly and innocently facing the camera, the world, and all the future to come.

She's barefoot and wearing a periwinkle blue dress remindful of a pinafore, with little vines of red and yellow and orange daisy-like flowers trailing up and down along the sides; it gives a happy smock effect and is at least a size too big, and so it reaches almost to her ankles and resembles the kind of outfit a child might have worn a very long time ago. The little wearer of this apparel is standing on the wood floor of a front room that could pass for a parlor. On the wall in back of her is a small, cozy little fireplace of painted white brick with some lit candles placed inside its hearth for illumination.

The scene could be a portrait from a hundred or more years ago evoking a simpler time, and the house is almost that old too. But in the mere seconds it takes to view this latter day tableau vivant on a monitor or hand held screen, taking into account as well the minutes passed before the "send" and the moments in which it all was captured and snapped so confidently into the photographer's hugely intelligent though quite tiny phone, that exact reality and everything contained in it has changed inexorably; now it's just a fleeting scene from the a receding past, never to be repeated in precisely the same way.

This among other reasons- such as not having access to instant moment-capturing, hand held computers or even primitive, personal cameras- no doubt is why the practice of tableau vivant was so popular among a certain, hoity toity, self-obsessed class from the famed Gilded Age, the ruthless though exceedingly well dressed old and newer monied robber barons and their blue-stockinged consorts of a century or so ago.

At the turn of the nineteenth century, at a gathering or party of the old money gods, tableau vivant or "living scene" served as a form of amusement, like home movies or stills projected onto a screen. Participants would dress up and pose as a character from a painting by one of the old masters. The live imitator of the still portrait  would start this party game presentation behind a curtain, which then would be lifted in the manner of revealing a famous portrait into which the party guest had inserted or substituted her or himself, in the full dress of the original artists' model, and voila!

This practice was historically encoded to great effect in Wharton's House of Mirth, when the heroine Lily Bart participates in such an early image-copying bit of fanciful fun.The delicate and naturally ravishing Lily is an aspiring flower whose family unluckily has suffered financial downgrading in an upmarket society; thus is she forced to barter her inherited facility of being ornamentally pleasing and socially accommodating, in order to retain a tenuous place in the realms of in gold.  It's a tricky balance however, and won't keep her in everyone's good stead forever unless she marries eventually and marries well, which means in her case (the declining social status being a major element) most probably to a suitor whom either she does not love or who is part of the clan but like her not really that well provided for. One example of the latter situation would be hooking up with someone who actually must work for a living, even if it's just hi falutin' selective lawyering or part time doctoring (we're not talking ditch diggers here in this set). The novel is part Victorian, part modern, and a wonderful read (barring Wharton's genteel anti-semitism in the character of one of the more socially unacceptable suitors with an income, Sam Rosedale, described as of the "blonde Jewish" type, but still a Yid; just ascribe it to the times and the authorial pedigree, and read it anyway- it's worth it). 

Meanwhile, back at one of those fancy soirees that will feature tableau vivants as part of the evening's self aggrandizing amusement, Lily chooses a magnificent though somewhat suggestive pose from a Reynolds, and when the curtain is drawn back, she reveals more about herself than just a two dimensional image of some rich dame hanging in a museum. The diaphanous, subtly sensual pose of a blue blood's pretty wife in which Lily chooses to cloak herself for this fantasy reveals her classic beauty in all its allure, and has people gasping.

In Wharton's cautionary tale of the pitfalls of vanity however, this particular scene in the novel also has a special, foreshadowing meaning; Lily, a flower whose bloom like all living blooms will not last forever, still has refused to compromise, to assume a more acceptable, usual place in the standing social order, and just marry someone already. 

The 3 1/2 year old in the present portrait, facing down the viewers in front of a simple, candle lit fireplace, is wearing the periwinkle pinafore with many colored flowers that also hints of something from another, more distant era. And although she may indeed grow up as lovely as the former Lily, even now she has that slightly knowing and subtly mischievous expression that signifies girls have come a long, long way since then, if still not totally the whole route. Sometimes she acts like a black belt, takes a firmly defensive, keep-your-distance bodily stance and screams lollypop power! It can be quite unnerving and effective, taking her young age into account. In addition, she even may choose to become an astronaut if she wants.

And that's good. Or as my granddaughter might say, reaaaallly good. And so we keep encoding history and the swift passage of time with our little cameras, whether internally or externally; and at the very least all these nano seconds of experience form memories and create abstract guideposts as we travel through our allotted spaces. The yesterdays comprise an ever fleeting present, and they live on in stories and images remembered from an eternal past.

Let Them Eat Cake

The problem with time is that I can't seem to capture enough of it on my phone to keep up with a continually slipping present. By the time I've downloaded the moment, it's gone. Be present they tell you, so seemingly wisely. How? How?!?

Keeping abreast of the Ever Changing in our post Star Trekkian "warp speed" world is like trying to capture the nano second luminescence of a firefly in June,  or maybe recalling all your passwords simultaneously, which also brings me to the subject of travel; endless words and codes by which to pass through time zones,  the particular joy of airports and their fluorescent-y beaming lights at all hours.  It's astounding that people do this not because they have to, but for fun.

So there I was, traveling 'cause I had to, and desperately trying to get my bearings. If it weren't for the coincidence of the Brat Kavanaugh debacle splashing across the media the day of my arrival and filling the giant hotel screen 24/7 from there on, I'd have been sitting in the room each morning staring blankly out the window, wondering where in the myriad compartments and ziplocs of an over packed roll-ee my stuff was hiding; anticipating another bout of weak shower pressure, crazy, hard water hair, and planning a hectic and jet lagged day.

But thanks to the ineffable Brat K, I was able to take my mind off all that. His dark story of Animal House romps, relentless, unwarranted persecution, tearful, angry denials, a sworn history of intense moments of deep prayer, unbelievably honest hard work, obsessive calendar notating and a moral compass so accurate it practically made me ashamed to be alive on the same planet with the guy provided constant distractions to busy the mind. This spectacle seemed designed to hypnotize  my American, bible thumping, TV watching, provincial, travel loathing soul, and so it did. Just about every network blared the "job interview" for the Court of Supremity, non stop.

Yet  the Brat refused to confess, and hell and damnation were palpable in the pixels. The extravaganza alternately was portrayed as either akin to the Salem witch trials or a cautionary tale of extreme ferocious-frat boy-fumbling-fishiness and then some.  Any way you cut it, Justice Boy Wonder was looking like an unrepentant sinner who just might not be believed, much less saved. . . .

 All in all it was a particularly resonant moment with the Thanksgiving holiday right around the corner and pictures of sugar plums and puritans bouncing dreamily at the edge of the crisp, autumn air soon to be blowing through our streets; sex, beer and rock & roll. . . . All that was missing were the orange and reddish leaves, cut outs of folks dressed like Miles Standish, images of reprobates in stocks, and decorative, farm stand corn husks, mainly because it was still a bit early in the season.

If only I liked beer, I thought. Apparently some really important people liked beer, not just ordinary slobs. If I liked beer I could imbibe one and be convivial! Take my mind off the red eye that loomed quietly but menacingly at the end of the week. Get high in an acceptable, collegial manner. Feel really down home. And all in innocent, collegial fun. Whatever happened, happened. I'd be in a good company. Is it not obvious by now that a lot of educationally privileged ivy league-ers may spend a good portion of their halcyon years in the halls of learning passed out, blacked out, and stone cold, knackered, drunk?  

But unfortunately I don't care for that particular brew, never have, mainly because I am probably allergic to it-  it always makes me a little sick. I think it's the hops or something, or maybe the grain, of truth.

I eat cake instead.

 I like cake.

Oops, time to go.

Engineered Onions, Tires That Go Pop! Part One

“It smells good here, but it’s a little bit weird.”

The odor was vaguely pine, or at least something pleasantly evocative of the great outdoors-  a hint of Pure Nature to mitigate the extreme grunge of the parking lot in which we were sitting. It was a place where every few minutes a panel truck would pull up scratchily with an intensity that made the gravel pop really, really loudly. A workman would jump out of the driver's seat, head purposefully inside the store, dash back out minutes later and be gone. A piss stop no doubt.

After a long and much too eventful road trip, we were sampling the offerings of a supposed Dunkin’ Donuts, chilling at a ravaged picnic table in a small parking lot on an empty road in the middle of Massachusetts. It's the part of the state where no sandy beaches lie nor visible mountains tower, but there are trees, and lots of ‘em.

If you’ve perused this blog before you also probably know about my newfound romance with Dunkin’ Donuts. So I imply sort of regarding  the authenticity of this self styled member of the famed coffee concession because if it weren’t for the familiar orange logo we could have sworn it was just a crappy convenience store in the middle of nowhere with a tiny counter at the back. The decaf we sipped was tepid, watery and tasteless, the beloved Old Fashioneds rock hard, but we were glad to be alive. More about that in a moment.

The store’s bathroom- a major reason for stopping- was decidedly low tech, with no sensor on the hand drying contraption but just another “old fashioned” kind of setup- a pull down, brown paper towel dispenser. Inexplicably I found these brittle little pieces of paper comforting. Right outside on the wall beside the bathroom door a bulletin board with the catchy title “Contractor’s Corner” displayed a mulch of business cards pinned up at every crazy angle. This too calmed me- it seemed so “solid.”

Yes, it all could have ended very differently we reminded ourselves, as the barely eaten chunks of donuts slipped off the napkins onto the table, had we not just randomly happened upon the tire place about an hour’s ride back.

Prior to finding ourselves in the small graveled parking lot of this semi-rural convenience store, we had started out that bright August morning, weary but not yet totally defeated, on an escape from the vampirish horrors of real estate- an enterprise that had been crushing our souls for most of July.

Wading into the morass of selling was the ultimate fair seeming evil, and right in character it appeared to become tantalizingly fruitful quite early in the game; but there was a catch. The buyer who pounced as soon as the listing went online wanted us out in more or less a minute or so. I can’t get out of bed that fast, much less pack up a house on fast forward and we still had no place to go. Three weeks into the process of trying to continue to negotiate and keep showing we were pretty much disgusted with the whole thing; it was taxing our attention spans and making us exceptionally testy. So we folded up shop and left town.

In our growing desire to cleanse the minds of the silly putty called real estate, we had sprung for four new tires to help speed us along the interstate. The prospect of a small, recuperative vacation to meet up with family lay serenely before us. The new tires gave a false sense of security, the rubber-hits-the-road smugness that comes with rubbery smelling, spanking newness under your chassis.  The eternal possibility of inedible, faux donuts and thin, make belief decaf lying in wait somewhere up the road notwithstanding, it still seemed like the perfect time to head for the hills.

That is, until we found out about the unbelievably screwed up tire situation and the near, total, road disaster. . . .

(Part Two Next Week)

Blog Alert!

Hi Everyone!

I've been writing this goddamn blog regularly every week or two for over half a decade, soaring on flights of fancy from the ridiculous to the sublime, or the reverse, a concept supposedly coined by Tom Paine in "The Age of Reason" in the year 1794. 

They didn't have computers back then in the eighteenth century, and I read this "fact"- the Tom Paine attribution- on the internet of course, which means I have no idea if it is indeed accurate, like so many other factoids, beliefs, events, thoughts, dreams, ads, lies, manipulations, errors and other unsubstantiated, flatly stated stuff with which we are bombarded now daily.

But I digress.

Actually, I don't digress.

The purpose of the blog has been to state momentary truths, whether opinion or fiction, and to do it in a thoughtful, entertaining, unique, compelling manner that would make my readers laugh, tear up, grunt, snicker, chuckle, cringe, agree, recognize, think, get their hackles up, be soothed, possibly identify and enjoy.

And I've been enjoying doing that just about every minute!

Even if everyone of you but a precious few does not write back me to with your own thoughts to let me know you are out there, I persevere.

It's okay. Really. I love what I'm doing.

The problem is that I am exceedingly busy this summer and thus am taking a brief hiatus. No doubt I will be back in the fall with all sorts of wry ruminations on present and past adventures.

In the meanwhile, feel free to scroll back a few years and reread some of the stories, poems, essays and posts. 

For now though stay cool and check me out again in September. . . .

There is another way- Dunkin' Donuts!

The Dunkin’ Donuts across the street from the Starbucks- not facing it head on but a little over to the right- seems without a doubt the Everyman’s Cup. Situated a bit unobtrusively, not proudly or haughtily on a corner like its larger, more prominent competitor, it sits quietly in its modest locale a few stores in. Plunked on the wrong side of the street as well, it's sandwiched between the optometrist and vegetable place, the entire location bent on proclaiming itself proudly ordinary!

You have to scuttle past crates of cantaloupes and peaches in good weather and mounds of grayish yellow snow in winter to get to the heavy orange handled door; once inside you immediately scan the few skimpy tables and window stools for a possible seat not too near the garbage or condiments. The place is smaller than its rival and the soundtrack pure Seventies- think Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and Elton John’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”- a confluence of happy, uplifting beats that makes you glad you came. 

Likewise the clientele is more down to earth and at least slightly if not more bedraggled than the spirited bunch at Starbucks, or perhaps just seems that way because of the setting. There are the usual toddlers, moms, retirees and busy folks on their breaks, a few sleek looking residents from some of the newer, more expensive condos, and now and again the itinerant overweight NYC cop huddled in a corner scarfing down some quick form of  sustenance. But whether rich or poor, young or aged, infant or teen, fat or thin, shlumpy or well dressed, the space induces a kind of strange transformation where everyone suddenly seems old and distinctly working class. It just has that kind of effect on people, like a sort of social time machine that propels you to a simpler, stupider time, which is all part of the ineffable charm. 

The coffee at Dunkin’ is much better than that of its competitor, and their brewed decaf- always on hand- infinitely drinkable, if not exactly designer quality like the brew served at the very spiffy and brand newest café around the corner, the one with the high prices and low seating capacity. This latter place whose trendy Italian sounding name eludes me and has a sound track of soft jazz- and is now the third caffeine dispensing pusher in the neighborhood- declares itself socially sustainable, or something vaguely moral like that. And in truth the java is tolerably good and the smallish space impeccably pristine; but there’s a coolness about the venue that makes you not wish to settle in for too long, which is probably the whole idea behind the shiny, metallic feng shui. In and out fast, as the computer chings up as many quick sales as possible! Whereas at Dunkin’ you can hang out for as long as you wish, even if you don’t necessarily crave to sit under those unforgiving, cheap, flickering lights for too long on rickety stools.

Another distinctly human feature of our very own neighborhood Dunkin’ Donuts is that they accommodate requested do-overs, and without a gripe,  if it turns out the brew served was tepid, having sat near the bottom of the urn for far too long with no takers. They just put on another pot and tell you it will be ready in a few minutes without fear of corporate reprisal. The counter people seem part of a small family owned enterprise- Indian or Pakistani perhaps, not super caffeinated, cheery or sullen wannabe hipsters moving fast and dancing madly behind the Starbucks counter after (or maybe instead of) school. The teens in fact who man Dunkin’s percolators- no matter the ethnicity- clearly seem much more like cousins or nieces or nephews though they may not even be related. The disparity in ambience no doubt has to do with the idea of a chain like Starbucks versus a franchise operation like Dunkin' Donuts.

Both places are dirty naturally, but the dark color of the tables and strategic lighting tend to camouflage this sorry state at Starbucks, while at Dunkin’ there is no denial possible- it’s just all too real. This may be a small price to pay though, the lack of any semblance whatsoever of an esthetic factor, given some of the other alluring qualities, the fact that it's cheaper not being the least of these. 

I am willing to acknowledge that I just may wind up disillusioned about my new coffee spot one of these days, and I have been known to frequent the newer hip place too because I love the tasty brew; I also freely admit that Dunkin' coffee is not exactly gourmet level and that you have to go there at certain times and avoid the after school crowd. But probably my dislike will never grow to the level of contempt I now feel for Starbucks and their unconscionable, discriminatory practices toward among other things decaf drinkers.

Finally, Dunkin Apostrophe Donuts has me totally convinced it or "they" truly and genuinely are down home, simple, hardworking, good-hearted, typical American folk because they drop the final “g” in the name and in this way manage to sound so very familiar and real and comforting and downright regional; ironically however, as far as the actual, specific region, I’m not  exactly sure whence. . . .

Outer (and every) Borough Starbucks Reconsidered

This is part reprint of an earlier piece, re-thought, rewritten, re-edited and reconsidered, 'cause basically I'm through with Starbucks, now and forever.

The Bronx Starbucks I talked about in a previous post is still a neighborhood joint, no other way to describe it. 

There still are walk-able shops in the vicinity, a supermarket, shoe repair, hardware store, tax preparer, optometrists, pharmacists, lawyers, dentists and other real services. If need be, you could survive without a car by just doing everything on foot here. But it might also mean using iceberg lettuce in your salad on occasion as there are not a plethora of gourmet markets and nary a Whole Foods in sight- that also being the nice part at times.

Cooking at home however still is not the only option. The neighborhood continues to have a slew of restaurants, none of them great, but several tolerable and one or two good. There are at least four varieties of Asian in addition to Mexican, Spanish, Greek, Italian, Irish, kosher, real pizza a la the Bronx, a couple of  diners, two soft serve yogurts, and a Jewish delicatessen- one of the last in the city.

Since I wrote the original piece, a new, more upscale coffee cafe has opened as well, and the brew, I have to admit, is superior; however the space is small and a bit weird with a staircase to another smallish area, so you can't really hang out though you can enjoy a quick cup, and maybe a little pastry to go with. Best of all- barring the coffee places of course- the restaurants all deliver and you can order Chinese food at nine o'clock at night if the yen so grabs you, in contrast to what often goes or does not go on elsewhere in the country. Speaking of which, to date the neighborhood is still extremely diverse, racially, ethnically, spiritually and cosmically, so the kind of incident that has been in the news of late regarding a possible racist incident at a Starbucks somewhere elsewhere more likely than not just would not happen here.

Minutes from the glamour and lure of “downtown”, which is how we usually refer to the borough of Manhattan from the Bronx, this outer borough Starbucks still seems to be having none of that. To begin, although it sits on a sunny corner, the windows as always remain noticeably dirty, which doesn’t make the afternoon pick-me-up of a double shot of whipped grande mocha shmoka seem so very romantic. It is not trendy. 

Once inside however, you still smell the signature, acrid brew of the famous brand and for some strange reason feel comforted. Mercifully this is not nor ever will be the Upper West Side. The demographic is more relaxed, no Manhattan Masters & Mistresses of the Universe, at least not as yet although lately "they" from those other boroughs have been making inroads; it's all about the rent these days. For now though, you don't feel like you're interviewing for a job when you order your "tall" small. Exceptionally weird as in scary characters hanging about are at a minimum too. There usually is a line depending on the hour, and a bunch of students, retirees, baby strollers and one or two roaming toddlers doing their cute toddling thing and telling their mommies what they wish to order, but clearly this location is neighborhood all the way. After three the teachers come in from all around, exhausted, and few eighth graders from the Catholic school across the street.

Not a destination Starbucks, many of the customers are noticeably scruffy, shlumping around in sneakers and old sweat pants. The barristas are still kids working after school. There is not a whole lot of cache or élan. And as it happens it is not always so sunny these days. 
   
Outside facing the store a couple of benches might be taken up at a certain time of day by health aides and their charges, these helpers screaming into their phones as seen through the large windows like watching a silent movie. Occasionally, like very rarely and usually in the summer, a couple of tourists will have made their way uptown to this most northern reach and are huddling close together at the window, intently poking at their GPS and wondering how they got here.

This still is sounding dangerously like a somewhat suspect riff on “Our Town,” Bronx style, but please rest assured the neighborhood is more urban than ever, real and gritty, yet like Grovers Corners, people are friendly for the most part. There are smart phones and laptops everywhere, not enough free time, no one marries the boy next door, and subways, buses, highways and uncommonly large public schools all loom within earshot. 

When I first penned the piece, I concluded it on a light note, which verbatim went as follows: So please keep this information to yourself- the place does not wish to be discovered. Then again, would anyone really want to venture up to this northern tip of the city to chance a lukewarm, thin cappuccino foam? So go tell whomever you want. No problem. It’s the Bronx. 

Now however I feel quite differently about the whole thing and in truth am  really pissed, not just with this place, but with all Starbucks, in every hamlet and metropolis, everywhere in the entire world. For in addition to their overpriced cups of burnt Joe- the uneven quality of which we tend to ignore because of the "scene" and plethora of outlets by which to plug in- and now of course the appearance of a kind of insidious corporate racism regarding what constitutes perceived paying customers at one of their locations somewhere, they've actually crossed another very big line as well. It's a line that pushes this chain a little too far over to Big Coffee Fascism for my taste, and clearly discriminates against non-addicts, or those simple souls who crave decaf (think the company's bottom line- addicts tend to come back more often and buy more coffee).

You see, they- i.e. the many and all Starbucks, yes all of them-  no longer serve brewed decaf, ever, period. This is what they told me. Company directive. If you're going that route you have to settle for something resembling tepid brown water. First they limited the caffeine free brewed elixir to "before 1:00" then slowly moved it back to "before 11:00" before eliminating it altogether.

The dismal result is that now if you don't wish to speed along with dilated pupils and trembling hands on the brand's unique shots of bitter, highly caffinated and addictive brown effusion, you have to settle for something sans caffeine called "a pour over" (a watery swill that also takes forever to prepare as it painstakingly, slowly drips into the cup- thus a double whammy) or a joke called "decaf Americano" (an even more bitter, contemporary version of instant coffee a la the 1950's that is equally and possibly even more horrible, given the lack of flavor combined with price).

And so recently I have acquainted myself with a new, admittedly less glamorous though much more predictible and reliable pick-me-up "go to" that has a lot of potential, yes, the very one and the same Dunkin' Donuts.  It's the newer, re-branded version of the original from times of yore, the resuscitated ol' purveyor of mainly sugary confections for kids' parties and chintzy work conferences whose signs now annoyingly dot almost all of the landscape everywhere because they have upped their game, spiffed up the logo, smoothed out their beans and want your business.


I will expound in much greater detail on the many, many charms (and pitfalls)  of this more down to earth, coffee bean valhalla next week, so stay tuned!

Four Phones

Something to Ponder

We have four phones including two ancient flip, one land, one prepaid smartie- pants, three computers (all quite elderly, two of which are almost expired), one ipad mini slow as molasses and basically nothing really works.

In addition, we do not feel especially tech saavy and frequently are frustrated beyond belief. Example: an hour spent talking to a local rep about why you cannot sign in to your “my verizon” aint’t nuthin’ next to two hours or more with a disembodied voice on the other side of the planet who does not speak your lingo very articulately as you try to figure out how evil, monstrous little things and other electronic devils latched onto your desktop. . . . And these are but a few silly instances of stuff that can happen, a lot of which can be worse, much worse.

The information super highway in effect has all but wrecked our lives, mainly because there simply is no way to beat the system unless perhaps you are a strange but brilliant tech geek though often not even that; and forget streamlining, or even considering for one mad moment, putting it all on one device because that is the very scariest of all. Think friends, family, doctors, bank accounts, credit cards, business contacts, self help lines because all this is driving you completely nuts, to say nothing of virtually everything that comprises your identity, body and soul, mind and spirit, the virtual footprint that has replaced the YOU; the “I”that is not in essence or in any way whatsoever the ME.

I long for the days of heavy, fraying, torn and frequently outdated telephone books, dirty phone booths that eat your quarters with relish, hand written receipts from merchants of every stripe, endless wait times on the phone with bureaucratic functionaries in bad moods who hate their jobs, cashing checks at the grocery store, waiting in line for long spells at the bank, books that only can be read with covers and crisp pages, your personal health info crammed into burgeoning file cabinets at the back of your doctor’s office, exhausting trips to department stores that often yield nothing, no robocalls in the middle of the night and more face to face contact all over the place, whether you like it or not.

And slowness, slowness, slowness. . . .

So now you can sit at your screen all weekend long and particularly during a rain storm, perusing hundreds, nay, thousands of items perennially “on sale;” big deal! Big flippin’ deal! Chances are you can’t find anything, will no doubt have to return it all anyway, and really want to touch the material and still pay homage to caveat emptor.

Oh Star Trek with your obsessive concerns about time travel, unknown tech dangers and the threat of losing our humanity. . . those episodes indeed were the prophets of doom!

Happy Memorial Day (and ditch those damn devices will you, if you dare. . .).

New York Pooch

You know it’s spring when New York dogs start tiptoeing through the tulips; decorously sniffing at the resplendent profusion of yellow and red Dutch-inspired blooms cozily planted here and there along the sidewalk, the iconic petals often protected by the confines of low, black, iron fences to keep out said dogs.

The particular flowers of which I speak were sitting happily on a pretty little traffic island. The pooches in question were residents of the neighborhood out on a stroll with their dog walker and fellow coffee klatch doggy buddies. In truth, though just mere, domesticated canines, they believe themselves to be rightful heirs to the hustle and bustle of the streets, the nods of doormen, the fragrance of the blossoms, the whiz of passing cars and runners, and of course the wonderment of curious, stopping toddlers so much closer to their own modest, nearer-to-the-sidewalk height.

As we passed like two ships in the night, except that it was noon and the sun was shining, and I was traveling solo while they were in a little band, I could not help but notice how very  individually and gotham-like each pooch presented itself; each one quite different from the others, and yet all with that same cosmopolitan whiff (or should I say whoof?).

The black brooder with pointy ears, part wolf, part poor sap, ever vigilant. The shaggy busybody, coolly attired in one of those fashionable doggy sweaters, continually looking around, checking things out. The white haired little devil, impertinent and small and so cute; The corpulent, serene scratcher, plopped down on the pavement all fluffy and puffy, bountifully maned in a champagne hue. You could just hug them all, almost.

Because of allergies and upbringing I’ve never actually had my very own pootch with whom to cavort and chat, walk and confide in. At this point I also probably would not want the responsibility. Nor for same reasons do I skip up to random mutts for a good nuzzle. But in the deepest recesses of my dyed-in-the-wool, small apartment dweller’s urban heart, I’ve always retained a soft spot for the idea, along with a healthy dollop of chronic pooch longing. I even fantasized on occasion about a scotch terrier named ‘Duff after Macbeth’s nemesis and all the fun things we would do together.

And so I retained a long lasting if quiet interest in poodles, spaniels, mutts of all sorts. Excluded from this panoply were only chihuahuas for reasons of temperament, as well as dogs the size of ponies and giraffes.

If dogs assume human qualities, then stereotypically NYC dogs can be seen as neurotic, pretentious, scruffy but occasionally well dressed, stuck up, intellectual snobs who like to go for walks in the city, as well as picky foodies who quite often are spoiled. Perhaps they come off as a little brash and hard edged at times, but always willing to help a stranger with directions. They wouldn’t touch a bagel anywhere else in the country and truly believe the place where they live is the center of the universe. . . .

Lucky for them they don’t have to pay the rent. In essence they’ve got it made, and they know it. Who needs the wild prairie when you can stroll, chat, socialize, window shop and never have to worry about grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning the house, meters or alternate side parking? Like I said, they’ve got it made, bless their scrappy little New York hearts. . . .

This is What They Do

This is what three year olds do. 

They hide things. Small dolls and tiny animal figures, plastic bracelets from the plethora of places that have sprung up and make a small fortune selling little plastic bracelets and sparkly hair things for three year olds. 

Three year olds hide bits of things they find on the floor that suddenly  seem useful or interesting. And tiny doll's shoes, maybe under a pillow. And tiny dolls.

Conversely, they bestow gifts!
Plastic bracelets, stickers, soft cuddly dolls. . . . See above.

Three year olds try to sound sophisticated and socially adept. They present themselves  as incredibly verbal and surprisingly seem to know all sorts of words. But sometimes the inflection is misplaced or the stress falls on the wrong syllable, or perhaps a consonant is mispronounced, or something. . . .
"I have an ideeeah!"
"Dats funneee!"
"Aak-choo-uh-leee. . . . "
"I'm ready, let's doe!"

Yes, maybe they haven't quite mastered the hard "g" yet but they know words like actually and already- and for some reason this freaks me out though I suppose they have to learn these things sometime.

They also like to talk on the phone.
Hi. . . whaddya doo-in?

Three year olds hug you and make you dance with them. Then they twirl, fast!

Sometimes they even can spell their names out loud, quite proudly as a matter of fact.

Yes, this is what they do.

Just thought I'd mention. In case you forgot or maybe were wondering.

Okee, gotta doe now. . . .
                                                  

The Wisdom of the Ages (Reader Participation Encouraged!)

"The holidays. . . ." in any of the four seasons they are designed to mark, often send me right back to my youth and memories of people I knew, things learned along the way; I suspect these occasions have a similar effect on most of us. Over the years, different bits of advice on how to get through life often have come to mind again at such times.

For instance, my mother told me "never leave the house dressed like a shluch!" More about this cryptic message in a moment.

But first, another essential nugget to live by, and also a veritable mantra that the entire family- nay, an entire race- frequently paid fealty to- that well known homily that warned emphatically (if somewhat ominously) "don't be a schmuck!"

These two admonitions, deceptively simple, merit further consideration and deeper analysis if one is truly to understand the correct way to live. On the most basic level, why would you want to dress like a shluch or act like a schmuck, and thereby court personal Armageddon? Would anyone choose to do this, unless they simply did not know better? And frankly, one should always know better.

More to the point, exactly what is a shluch? How do you pronounce this word, and why should you never, ever contemplate walking out the door looking like one?

The correct way to pronounce shluch (sometimes anglicized as shluck, an offshoot of shlock) has you saying it with a guttural "h' at the end, as if you're choking; and in the context of how this terrifying term generally is used, certain horrible insinuations flow  freely from it regarding specific fashion gaffs. At least that was my understanding. Let's just say that it indicates something much, much more than merely being disheveled, disarrayed, disarranged, rumpled or even bedraggled. In the literal sense of its definition in fact it may even be lesser in its implication of bad dressing than one might imagine, depending on the particular outfit; however as you already may have guessed, philosophically and sociologically this condition indisputably can herald nothing short of a major, major disaster concerning your future.

Let me provide some examples: 
-a shluch may let her slip show beneath her hem, if she wears one.
Does anyone still wear one? A slip?? This is of no importance. What matters is that if a shluch does choose to wear one, this is precisely the kind of unsightly and upsetting fashion debacle that may very well ensue. To add insult to injury in the eyes of any potential viewer, such a shluch may not even have the sense to be embarrassed about the slipped slip- further proof of something not good, and certainly nothing to be emulated but avoided at all costs. I'm quite sure that your mothers told you something quite similar, perhaps using a different word.

-another example of shluch behavior would be the donning of clothes that seem ill fitting in some way, even imperceptibly, as this very well could be the undeniable, almost signature mark of a shluch. Again, there is a subtle, qualitative rationale to the rating of this misstep in the shluch hierarchy. A schluch could be dressed in brand new togs, expensive, non-sale items that were completely, outrageously overpriced and no one ever tried on before. But if they hang. . . or the sleeves are too long. . . .

-and finally, needless to say it goes without saying that we should not even mention fabric that appears to look creased when this condition was never meant to be part of the original, manufacturer's "look. . . ." It's just too upsetting to even contemplate such a gross, shluchy misstep.

-it's like this: you want to put your best foot (and torso, hips, arms, legs, neck, shoulders, thighs and the like) forward at all times. No one will take you seriously if you dress like a shluch. Do you know what could befall you if you dress like a shluch?!? Think about it. Don't believe what they tell you, about anything. It's all about not dressing like a shluch! Everything. This is what it's all about.

I think I've made my point, and if you were paying attention it's well taken. Let's move on to an issue of yet more seriousness, one that requires extreme caution in eluding, that is if you know what's good for you. Hopefully you do know what's good for you.

You never, ever, ever, not in a million years, ever want to have anyone look you straight in the eye with pitying, contemptuous exasperation and let fly with the dreaded words you're such a schmuck. . . . 

The expletive when hurled at you in this manner is sooooo much worse than having people saying these things behind your back (as for example, what a schmuck. . . ), because in the latter scenario you may not realize folks are dissing you since you are not present, and it may all just be malicious gossip anyway. But to have this said to your face. . .  this does not bode well. You did something that spells L-O-S-E-R, or worse, I-D-I-O-T, and someone else- possibly quite a few others- know about this action. It's incontrovertible, you did it. You did something schmucky and acted like a complete and utter schmuck. This never feels good.

On the other hand, don't be such a schmuck tossed out at you almost sotto voce indicates something quite different, maybe a singular, qualifying, absurd mistake, perhaps a one shot deal of complete idiocy, and therefore the implication is that you may not always be a schmuck, but just watch yourself anyway. . . . 

A variation on this theme is when you metaphorically beat your own breast and say how could I be such a schmuck??? This indicates the worst kind of judgment error on your part, in cards or shopping or love or maybe real estate, the kind of unabashed schmuckiness in a particular instance (like a major life decision) that allowed you to be taken advantage of, or simply put perhaps you somehow managed to do yourself in with another kind of extremely obvious, incredibly stupid and ill-conceived schmuck-like behavior that then had intensely deleterious consequences. And honestly, it's so bad that you really can't get solace from the ol' "no one's perfect" adage. In this case you have to live with it. You may get over it. Or not. Hopefully yes.

And lastly of course is the condition of terminal shmuck-dom, but the miserable souls who are infected with this lifelong plague are too annoying to even talk about; usually they have no friends because they don't deserve any and even their enemies are easily bored with them. So why waste time thinking about this variety, or the particular condition, as it only affects total schmucks? You're never going to have anything to do with them anyway, unless you have to. And alas, probably you will have to at some point because most of us do. And it won't be pretty. Get over it. Put it behind you. 
Not surprisingly, the field of politics often attracts this type.

But everyone seems to fail at one time or another, and examples of being an ordinary schmuck in everyday life are myriad, ubiquitous, they surround us and are everywhere we look. There simply are too many to mention, a billion contexts and situations in which this can happen- just fill them in yourself. The word has made it into the English dictionary and clearly we all know what it means. It's worldwide and has no borders. Just look around.

And so this particular diatribe of mine once again reminds me why I have finally accepted that I never will be a self-actualization trainer, devoted zen acolyte or one of those ludicrously obnoxious, insanely positive goof balls who is perennially smiling; nonetheless, the common sense bestowed upon me by elders, about the essential precepts of shluchs and schmucks, admittedly has helped get me through. . . .

Reading helped too.
Even Polonius, insufferable schmuck that he was (the archetype of a total schmuck!), had a point or two in his parting speech to Laertes. Don't do this son, definitely do that, blah blah blah endlessly on and on, and yet all with a grain of truth!
But aye, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of never daring to leave the house looking like a shluch, nor for one instant acting like a schmuck, what dreams may come. . . . 
It truly is the undiscovered country, that lifelong business of eluding shluch-dom and schmuck-dom. Like everyone else, I've had my regrets, but at least I was warned. 

What golden nuggets of folksy wisdom learned at the knee do you have tucked under your belt that you would like to share with us? 

The Story that Almost Was

I did it, I did it,
The computer's a con. . .
With a click of the key
this week's post was all gone!

I wrote and I wrote,
and the words they did flow,
when all of a sudden,
Hey! Where did they go?!?

The narrative chortled
like a mad opera singer
'cause the tale that I'd keyed
was a real, true humdinger-

But just as I'd finished
the edit all clean,
I found myself staring
at a big, empty screen!

I lamented and struggled
with folders and files,
but this obstinate program
should hence be reviled.

We live in a time
when things move too fast!
Such instant commotion
is not made to last. . . .

So tune in next week
(and with a dollop of luck)
I will not be so careless
and back it all up!!!

Oh February, month so weird. . . .

Oh Feb-ru-ary, month so weird,
of sunny days your sky is cleared,
so fair and foul it makes me howl,
with threats of storms we be afeard.

For various and sundry reasons
frequently we praise the seasons,
but Feb-ru's air? A blast I dread
and oft just want to stay in bed
(reading of course to gather some force)!

Through bleakest cloud we schlep and strive,
my plants are barely still alive.
A month so short it should not faze
and yet we stumble through its haze.

March may tease and not so please
but I for one am glad Feb's done.
There is no glad, it makes me sad
to fashion verses oh so bad. . . .

(This may not pack the punch I seek-
a New York winter makes me weak-
my post bespeaks an arctic creak,
but I did banish Feb this week!)

Who is She This Time? Another Installment in the Ongoing Adventures. . .

There's a story by the ineffable Vonnegut called "Who Am I This Time?"

It's about an amateur theatrical event that takes place in a small, New England town, and also a love story. The plot involves a community theater- "The North Crawford Mask and Wig Club"- and some auditions that take place for the town's would be Thespians.

Despite the usual tryouts, everyone pretty much knows beforehand who most probably will be snagging the male lead because it always turns out to be the same guy, Harry Nash. Inevitably the auditions end with Harry Nash as the winner, not as a result of any communal clairvoyance or drama club nepotism, but because Nash, a most unassuming individual in his everyday meanderings, is a veritable master of the amateur acting profession and then some.

There is no funny business or preferential treatment involved in the choice of male lead for these amateur theater productions. It's just that this after-hours actor who invariably lands the starring role happens to be, unfailingly, the very best choice. Harry Nash simply is a fantastically talented individual and a real pro behind the small town footlights. One would never suspect any of this however from the guy's shy, self effacing demeanor while off the stage; in this same vein, usually no one is more surprised than Harry himself when he gets to star each and every time.

Harry Nash apparently could play anything from Abe Lincoln to Stanley Kowalski. When he auditioned for the lead in Streetcar Named Desire for instance, he first appeared on stage a bit awkwardly, wearing something that resembled a "grade school graduation suit" and a "dinky little red tie." He started the audition with his back to the audience. But when he turned around, suddenly he was "huge and handsome and conceited and cruel"- the metamorphosis into the role of the sensual, animal-like and crass Stanley, body and soul, absolute and complete. In essence he was a natural.

What does this have to do with the Nootch?

Well, there is a kind of parallel between Harry Nash and most ordinary toddlers in their everyday trial-and-error behaviors-  the sometimes bumbling, often comical endeavors these kids toddle into and then astonish themselves by completing. Toddler accomplishments in fact often are followed by shy and/or surprised responses- just like those of Harry- when something that looks challenging ends up quite successfully; this is mainly because of the simple discovery that he or she is a natural at the particular activity- like catching a ball or jumping- before which this facility or knack was unbeknownst. Shortly after finishing the feat, the child, like Harry, returns to a previous, unassuming, sometimes puzzled world view, as in "I did that? 

All of which leads me to the Nootch. . . .

In the tiny, less than minutes long video I received one day- a moving snapshot of a tiny dancer- it's the Nootch's turn to do some toe pointing alongside the teacher. Right point, left point, all the delicate positions in perfect form as she marches beside her instructor, the other children sprawled on the floor watching as they await their own turns. 

She doesn't miss a step, it's incredible. So small, so earnest, so precise. A natural!

When this brief and intricate individual jaunt down pointy lane with the large mirror to the right and the teacher alongside concludes with all the finesse she can muster, the Nootch tentatively turns around and humbly walks back to her place in line with the others, a curious look of surprise and almost disbelief on her face. 

Her execution? Perfect. The timing? Spot on, she missed nary a beat.

Her expression on the way back to her place  onthe floor? Quizzical. Almost apologetic.   Golly, I hope I did okay. . . I think I did . . . .Did I really do that. . . really???