December 31, 2007
I think I know my way around Hoboken, but I keep getting lost looking for grocery stores. Last Thursday, when I got off the bus from upstate NY, I decided to take advantage of the Thursday Senior Citizen discounts I’d discovered at a local supermarket the previous week. It was a nice day; I needed a walk, and I knew approximately where the place was. I decided I’d use the opportunity of this walk to drop in on the offices of a young man I met when apartment hunting – the realtor who’d shown me the place I didn’t take in October.
I walked over toward the river (the Hudson, to you Alabamians reading this) which is where I had remembered the market. I walked past the beauty salon where I’d gotten my hair done – subject for another blog post – three weeks ago. Dragging my trusty shopping cart, I went down past the post office where I have bought stamps and sent packages. No grocery.
I knew it had to be over there somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. In some desperation I turned and headed west, but before I knew it I was on the famed Washington Street and knew I was going the wrong way. Never mind, the realtor's office was just a few blocks from there, so I headed that way to ask my new young friend where the store was. When I arrived at his office I was greeted warmly and given directions. After exchanging pleasantries and directing him to my blog, I retraced my steps back toward the river and found the place.
Within a few days it was time for more food. This time I decided to go to the A & P, in hopes of better prices than the other place, which, even with its discount, was way more expensive than I had come to expect in Alabama. It seems everything's except schools organic here, and that means pretty prices.
I had been to the A & P twice, getting lost the second time. I know where it is, I swear I do, but if you come at it from the wrong side you can't see it. I know that sounds crazy. I know I don't have the best sense of direction in the world, but getting lost time and time again just isn't like me. I have trouble picking out landmarks in Hoboken for some reason. The main drag, Washington Street, is easy enough to find but there is a sameness even to the look of this town. Uptown and downtown, the buildings look alike. Maybe I'm too used to using azalea bushes or magnolia trees as landmarks, I don't know. Because on Saturday I couldn't find it again. I realized I'd gone too far west when the cliffs of Jersey City -- the Palisades -- loomed close. I turned around and looked carefully on both sides as I walked back over the familiar streets (which all look rather alike).
Finally I saw a couple of teenage boys who looked like they knew their way around. They told me to go one block over and two blocks up. Sure enough, I came upon the back of the building, just as I had the other time I overshot my goal, and went inside to get groceries.
I spent very frugally, coming in under $30, but in the line I remembered that what I really wanted was Craisins and I hadn't gotten them. Craisins, if you read my food blog you'll know, are my downfall, and the elegant "dried cranberries" in the organic food stores just don't have that chemical crunch and acidity that Craisins do. I have to walk all the way to the A & P to find them, and then I never remember that that was what I came for in the first place.
This means I'll have to go to the A & P again soon, if I can find it. I'm told there is a Shop-Rite somewhere the other side of the A & P, but I have yet to see it. All this exploring is interesting, and I'm learning too. I keep in mind that you have to get lost a little when you're finding yourself.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Day Trip After Christmas
December 28, 2007
It's officially not Christmas any more, so why do I still hear so much Christmas music? Not to be a curmudgeon. I really enjoyed Christmas this year and the runup to it. But now that's gone, as gone as I am from Fairhope and Alabama, so why is the media behind this curve? Can't they let go?
I had a trip to Kingston, New York, where I found a gangly grandson who turned 13 right before my eyes and his ten-year-old brother still begging to open presents all through our carefully wrought seafood dinner on Christmas Eve. I had an idea how to cope with the incipient adolescence of the former, and the latter always wins me over with a bat of the eyelashes on his big, deep-blue eyes. My daughter's friends always give me pleasure, and this year there is a new member of her team, a rock-and-roll singer from Mississippi with a boatload of charm and a desire to make friends with her mother. All bathed me in the spirit of Christmas -- loved ones, soon-to-be-loved ones, and one big day to eat, drink, be merry and secretly contemplate the meaning of it all.
Yesterday in the rain I boarded a bus from little Kingston to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, from there to hop the bus to Hoboken. The two-hour ride from Kingston was boring until I eavesdropped on the man across the aisle advising his seat mate, a young actress on how to build her career. "It's not what you know or what you can do," he said. "It's who you know. Do you know who Danny De Vito's roommate was in college?"
As a matter of fact, I did, but I decided not to get in on this one.
"Michael Douglas!"
I thought right away of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the movie young Michael produced, with a painfully young Danny De Vito in the cast. Then I remembered that at one point Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman and Robert Duvall roomed together. I couldn't recall any of them helping each other out, but maybe they did in early days. I thought of Marlon Brando; he once roomed with Wally Cox. I don't think this payed off for either of them with much of anything.
Yet his advice was not bad, and the conversation was certainly none of my business. It helped the time pass, and traffic was slow going as we neared the Lincoln Tunnel. We seemed to take a little duck into New Jersey, because we had passed the huge malls in Paramus where the monster Macy's, Crate and Barrel, and Ikea stores are.
The trip through the bus station to the Hoboken bus was a breeze. I've done it lots of times now. I bought something so I'd have exact change, waited with a little group for the bus, and was in my apartment some fifteen minutes after boarding. It's a miraculous little trip.
Now I'm home. Now I'm waiting for a delivery of the furniture I bought last week. My cell phone and IPod have been recharged. Now I'm waiting for some checks in the mail so I can pay for stuff. Now Christmas is behind me and I'm looking forward to the new year.
It's officially not Christmas any more, so why do I still hear so much Christmas music? Not to be a curmudgeon. I really enjoyed Christmas this year and the runup to it. But now that's gone, as gone as I am from Fairhope and Alabama, so why is the media behind this curve? Can't they let go?
I had a trip to Kingston, New York, where I found a gangly grandson who turned 13 right before my eyes and his ten-year-old brother still begging to open presents all through our carefully wrought seafood dinner on Christmas Eve. I had an idea how to cope with the incipient adolescence of the former, and the latter always wins me over with a bat of the eyelashes on his big, deep-blue eyes. My daughter's friends always give me pleasure, and this year there is a new member of her team, a rock-and-roll singer from Mississippi with a boatload of charm and a desire to make friends with her mother. All bathed me in the spirit of Christmas -- loved ones, soon-to-be-loved ones, and one big day to eat, drink, be merry and secretly contemplate the meaning of it all.
Yesterday in the rain I boarded a bus from little Kingston to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, from there to hop the bus to Hoboken. The two-hour ride from Kingston was boring until I eavesdropped on the man across the aisle advising his seat mate, a young actress on how to build her career. "It's not what you know or what you can do," he said. "It's who you know. Do you know who Danny De Vito's roommate was in college?"
As a matter of fact, I did, but I decided not to get in on this one.
"Michael Douglas!"
I thought right away of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the movie young Michael produced, with a painfully young Danny De Vito in the cast. Then I remembered that at one point Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman and Robert Duvall roomed together. I couldn't recall any of them helping each other out, but maybe they did in early days. I thought of Marlon Brando; he once roomed with Wally Cox. I don't think this payed off for either of them with much of anything.
Yet his advice was not bad, and the conversation was certainly none of my business. It helped the time pass, and traffic was slow going as we neared the Lincoln Tunnel. We seemed to take a little duck into New Jersey, because we had passed the huge malls in Paramus where the monster Macy's, Crate and Barrel, and Ikea stores are.
The trip through the bus station to the Hoboken bus was a breeze. I've done it lots of times now. I bought something so I'd have exact change, waited with a little group for the bus, and was in my apartment some fifteen minutes after boarding. It's a miraculous little trip.
Now I'm home. Now I'm waiting for a delivery of the furniture I bought last week. My cell phone and IPod have been recharged. Now I'm waiting for some checks in the mail so I can pay for stuff. Now Christmas is behind me and I'm looking forward to the new year.
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Demon Barber and the Diabolical Diplomats
December 21, 2007
Sometimes I'm glad I'm not officially a movie critic. The debut of the new film Sweeney Todd starring Johnny Depp is one of those times.
Much as I almost literally adore Johnny Depp, I'm going to pass on this one. A friend of mine observed that I don't like musicals, which really isn't true. I love Carousel and Guys and Dolls and Gypsy and Company and ever so many others. I know revealing this list dates me, but so be it. When the Brits came into town with the "revolutionary" first musical on roller skates, I thought it a fluke and haven't liked very much since. This means I don't get excited about anything by Andrew Lloyd Weber or really much of anything that comes from across the pond. I was particularly repulsed by the idea of Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury doing a Victorian song-and-dance about murdering people and baking their remains into pies.
When I lived in Geneva, I was thrown with a lot of Brits, for whom the tale of Sweeney Todd was a deliciously evil delight. It was a straight stage play -- apparently an old chestnut in England -- before it was made into the musical that has now been embraced by the dynamic duo of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp.
I am enraptured by Johnny Depp, both the man and his work, and have been from the first moment I laid eyes on him as the bizarre Edward Scissorhands. An actor with extraordinary gifts and a decidedly offbeat tendency to pick challenging and difficult roles, he is to be admired for taking this one on. And according to experts who have seen it he and his director are up to the task. They make more of the material than anyone else would have dared try.
It's just still not my thing. I'll watch clips and excerpts, but I'm not one for such dark and frightening works, and I have no doubt these two guys would scare the socks off me. I wish them all the best this time, but they'll take the trip without me.
I'd be more interested in the entertaining Charlie Wilson's War, with Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts in a ridiculously unflattering wig, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman. A trio of the best actors and most appealing movie stars (almost up there with Johnny Depp, as a matter of fact). Based on a book by the late George Crile, it's about the U.S. Congressman in the 1980's who funneled money to the resistance fighters in Afghanistan and the people who surrounded him. With this cast, it can't help but be a delight to view.
Sometimes I'm glad I'm not officially a movie critic. The debut of the new film Sweeney Todd starring Johnny Depp is one of those times.
Much as I almost literally adore Johnny Depp, I'm going to pass on this one. A friend of mine observed that I don't like musicals, which really isn't true. I love Carousel and Guys and Dolls and Gypsy and Company and ever so many others. I know revealing this list dates me, but so be it. When the Brits came into town with the "revolutionary" first musical on roller skates, I thought it a fluke and haven't liked very much since. This means I don't get excited about anything by Andrew Lloyd Weber or really much of anything that comes from across the pond. I was particularly repulsed by the idea of Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury doing a Victorian song-and-dance about murdering people and baking their remains into pies.
When I lived in Geneva, I was thrown with a lot of Brits, for whom the tale of Sweeney Todd was a deliciously evil delight. It was a straight stage play -- apparently an old chestnut in England -- before it was made into the musical that has now been embraced by the dynamic duo of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp.
I am enraptured by Johnny Depp, both the man and his work, and have been from the first moment I laid eyes on him as the bizarre Edward Scissorhands. An actor with extraordinary gifts and a decidedly offbeat tendency to pick challenging and difficult roles, he is to be admired for taking this one on. And according to experts who have seen it he and his director are up to the task. They make more of the material than anyone else would have dared try.
It's just still not my thing. I'll watch clips and excerpts, but I'm not one for such dark and frightening works, and I have no doubt these two guys would scare the socks off me. I wish them all the best this time, but they'll take the trip without me.
I'd be more interested in the entertaining Charlie Wilson's War, with Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts in a ridiculously unflattering wig, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman. A trio of the best actors and most appealing movie stars (almost up there with Johnny Depp, as a matter of fact). Based on a book by the late George Crile, it's about the U.S. Congressman in the 1980's who funneled money to the resistance fighters in Afghanistan and the people who surrounded him. With this cast, it can't help but be a delight to view.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
New Jersey State of Shock
December 20, 2006
Now, nothing against the state of New Jersey, mind you. It's just that I'm living here now, and I'm in a state of shock.
I have to admit it; there's nothing remarkable about denial. I made a decision to move here and acted on that decision. It's the move itself that has brought about a shock to my state of being and my life. And I like it.
I live by the philosophy that change and challenge are vital to life. Some change is sad, even tragic, some disappointing. I'll warrant that. Finding the way to use disappointment as a path to growth is neither fun nor easy and not always productive. On the other hand, making what appears to be a difficult but positive decision without a great deal of deliberation produces a shock to the whole system. That's where I am now.
A lot of the adjustment of moving to a new place is adapting to processes and procedures. Instead of going to my car and driving 15 minutes to an hour to get somewhere I need to be I put on a lot of wraps (a usually-unnecessary step in the previous climate) and walk about ten minutes to the train or five to the bus (where I might have to wait ten minutes). From there I am conveyed to a place within a short walk of where I want to be, so I walk some more.
Yesterday the weather was better -- it warmed up to the low 40's -- so I decided to go to Manhattan to buy a sofa. I did a little research on the Internet (Googling "New Jersey Furniture Stores") and found that the nearest furniture store to me is two and a half miles away, on W. 23rd St. The ones in New Jersey were at least 15 miles away and would have required a transfer or two by bus. I was on West 23rd in 20 minutes. I found just what I wanted -- a classy showroom, a smooth salesman, and a sofa and chair I liked within my budget. I bought it and made arrangements for delivery December 28.
The whole excursion took a little over an hour. And I was in New York, walking through the crowds, negotiating the lights with the little man striding to tell you it's your turn to walk (as long as you take big steps). (In Hoboken, some of the lights give you a countdown -- flashing 10, 9, 8, 7, and so on as you run to make lift-off without getting lifted off the street by a whizzing car.) City life is exciting.
Little by little, I'm getting stuff accomplished like learning which days to put out the trash. I tried to put a couple of cartons on the street last night (knowing tonight is the official recyclables night) and they were ignored, so I carried them back upstairs to avoid a fine or other police action.
Gradually, like Alice perhaps after a little time down the rabbit hole, I find myself changing. Even my way of writing is changing, as I see, editing this. I'm using more commas, more semicolons, more parentheses. I am still cautious. I must still be in shock. I am certainly in a different state of mind.
Now, nothing against the state of New Jersey, mind you. It's just that I'm living here now, and I'm in a state of shock.
I have to admit it; there's nothing remarkable about denial. I made a decision to move here and acted on that decision. It's the move itself that has brought about a shock to my state of being and my life. And I like it.
I live by the philosophy that change and challenge are vital to life. Some change is sad, even tragic, some disappointing. I'll warrant that. Finding the way to use disappointment as a path to growth is neither fun nor easy and not always productive. On the other hand, making what appears to be a difficult but positive decision without a great deal of deliberation produces a shock to the whole system. That's where I am now.
A lot of the adjustment of moving to a new place is adapting to processes and procedures. Instead of going to my car and driving 15 minutes to an hour to get somewhere I need to be I put on a lot of wraps (a usually-unnecessary step in the previous climate) and walk about ten minutes to the train or five to the bus (where I might have to wait ten minutes). From there I am conveyed to a place within a short walk of where I want to be, so I walk some more.
Yesterday the weather was better -- it warmed up to the low 40's -- so I decided to go to Manhattan to buy a sofa. I did a little research on the Internet (Googling "New Jersey Furniture Stores") and found that the nearest furniture store to me is two and a half miles away, on W. 23rd St. The ones in New Jersey were at least 15 miles away and would have required a transfer or two by bus. I was on West 23rd in 20 minutes. I found just what I wanted -- a classy showroom, a smooth salesman, and a sofa and chair I liked within my budget. I bought it and made arrangements for delivery December 28.
The whole excursion took a little over an hour. And I was in New York, walking through the crowds, negotiating the lights with the little man striding to tell you it's your turn to walk (as long as you take big steps). (In Hoboken, some of the lights give you a countdown -- flashing 10, 9, 8, 7, and so on as you run to make lift-off without getting lifted off the street by a whizzing car.) City life is exciting.
Little by little, I'm getting stuff accomplished like learning which days to put out the trash. I tried to put a couple of cartons on the street last night (knowing tonight is the official recyclables night) and they were ignored, so I carried them back upstairs to avoid a fine or other police action.
Gradually, like Alice perhaps after a little time down the rabbit hole, I find myself changing. Even my way of writing is changing, as I see, editing this. I'm using more commas, more semicolons, more parentheses. I am still cautious. I must still be in shock. I am certainly in a different state of mind.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Too Cold or Not Too Cold
December 18, 2007
I learned something yesterday: Just because it's too cold to go outside doesn't mean you can't go outside.
The day before, it was snowy, slushy, grey and cold. Besides, it was Sunday and I had laid in supplies the day before. I looked out the window and decided I just would stay in all day. This meant that I had to make a decision around 3 P.M., because I had been looking forward to a presentation of Christmas carols at the R.C. Church of Sts. Peter and Paul just a few blocks away. An old fashioned carol-sing, with only the beautiful old ones about angels and shepherds and the baby in the manger, held great appeal for me this year of change in my life. I hoped I would hear "Bring a Torch, Jeannette, Isabella" and "Lullaby of the Christ Child" along with the merry "Deck the Halls" and "Joy to the World."
But I thought about it Sunday afternoon and realized I wasn't up for it. I would literally be travelling out of my comfort zone -- my warm apartment, my funky clothes -- and into what I wasn't entirely sure. I elected to stay in and watch my new television instead.
Yesterday the sky had cleared and the temperature was 33° at least. I saw a young woman walking past my building with neither hat, gloves nor scarf, and she didn't look to be cold. "How can she not be cold," I thought -- and maybe she was cold, but she was hiding it very well. Maybe, unlike me, she's acclimated. Maybe it's time I worked on that.
I had business to attend at my bank, five or six blocks away, and that girl didn't look cold, so I bundled up and went out. I stopped by the grocery, which is one of those expensive gourmet ones, and spent more than I should on a few items, but I learned that I can do it. I expect to go out today to do my laundry and tomorrow it's going up to the low 40's so maybe I'll go swimming. Anyway, this is a lesson I'd learned years ago, when to capitulate to the weather and when you just do what you gotta do. The New York Times says pretty much the same thing in an opinion piece this morning, so I must be on the right track. (Already I'm learning to gauge my intellect on whether the Times coincides with my own views; I must be adapting.
Everything is different here from the things that had become everyday to me in Lower Alabama (aka L.A.). So far, so good. I always thought I was pretty good at change.
I learned something yesterday: Just because it's too cold to go outside doesn't mean you can't go outside.
The day before, it was snowy, slushy, grey and cold. Besides, it was Sunday and I had laid in supplies the day before. I looked out the window and decided I just would stay in all day. This meant that I had to make a decision around 3 P.M., because I had been looking forward to a presentation of Christmas carols at the R.C. Church of Sts. Peter and Paul just a few blocks away. An old fashioned carol-sing, with only the beautiful old ones about angels and shepherds and the baby in the manger, held great appeal for me this year of change in my life. I hoped I would hear "Bring a Torch, Jeannette, Isabella" and "Lullaby of the Christ Child" along with the merry "Deck the Halls" and "Joy to the World."
But I thought about it Sunday afternoon and realized I wasn't up for it. I would literally be travelling out of my comfort zone -- my warm apartment, my funky clothes -- and into what I wasn't entirely sure. I elected to stay in and watch my new television instead.
Yesterday the sky had cleared and the temperature was 33° at least. I saw a young woman walking past my building with neither hat, gloves nor scarf, and she didn't look to be cold. "How can she not be cold," I thought -- and maybe she was cold, but she was hiding it very well. Maybe, unlike me, she's acclimated. Maybe it's time I worked on that.
I had business to attend at my bank, five or six blocks away, and that girl didn't look cold, so I bundled up and went out. I stopped by the grocery, which is one of those expensive gourmet ones, and spent more than I should on a few items, but I learned that I can do it. I expect to go out today to do my laundry and tomorrow it's going up to the low 40's so maybe I'll go swimming. Anyway, this is a lesson I'd learned years ago, when to capitulate to the weather and when you just do what you gotta do. The New York Times says pretty much the same thing in an opinion piece this morning, so I must be on the right track. (Already I'm learning to gauge my intellect on whether the Times coincides with my own views; I must be adapting.
Everything is different here from the things that had become everyday to me in Lower Alabama (aka L.A.). So far, so good. I always thought I was pretty good at change.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Facing Reality
December 16, 2007
There's a major storm system in the Hoboken area. Now is the time to face the reality of my life change and explain how I'm coping.
It hasn't been all that hard. I didn't make the move on an impulse, even though it took everybody, including me, by surprise. I have lived in this part of the country before, and I remembered the need for wraps, layers, mittens, scarves and hats as well as umbrellas and snow boots. The cold hit the second day I got here, and snow came gradually, giving me time to beef up the wardrobe of layers of clothes necessary to travel in the cold.
And today, snow and slush are all over the sidewalks. By nighttime there might be a good deal of ice. So I'm staying inside. I keep my eye on the weather forecast which says it won't go above 40 until Wednesday. I'll mostly stay in, going out only for trips that are absolutely necessary. Luckily, the cable guy came yesterday and hooked up everything, including the television set I bought the day before. Therefore I have already had a visit from Charles Osgood and the Barefoot Contessa and Nigella Lawson, as well as those designer guys over on the Discovery Home Channel and Chris Matthews who helped me catch up with all the politics I've missed over the past two weeks.
Unpacking is a challenge. I can't put the cartons out on the street until next Thursday night (I missed last Thursday by my own fault; in the meantime I've filled my apartment and the halls on all floors with stacks of cardboard and newspapers. I've tried to arrange my furniture and leave paths between those stacks of trash to simulate the cozy home I hope to have, some day, some way.
It's become increasingly clear to me that I won't be in this particular apartment more than the one year for which I've signed the lease. Maybe the Fairhope house will sell before then and I can look at putting that money into a condo or at least upgrade to a classier apartment. In the meantime, this is a nice enough place, with closets big enough for the tons of unpacked cartons I have yet to deal with. I like the location, I like the layout, but of course I need a bigger kitchen and a classier bathroom -- and a real bedroom would be nice. (I'm sleeping in what's known in brownstone language as "a hall room," 5' x 10', which holds a single bed and my laptop and not much else. Of course there is a nice living room and a decent sized but less than inspiring kitchen. All this makes me think the parties for which I used to be rather famous will not happen until I move. But never mind; I don't know anybody to invite yet anyway.
The reality is that everything takes time. I'm old enough to know that; don't remind me. In a year my life will be very different. That's what I like about this choice. In my previous life, I knew exactly what to expect each day would bring, and I came to know what the rest of my life would be like. And I didn't like the picture very much. It made me feel old just thinking about that.
Not that I feel young, exactly, but I don't know what lies ahead. That's reality for me.
There's a major storm system in the Hoboken area. Now is the time to face the reality of my life change and explain how I'm coping.
It hasn't been all that hard. I didn't make the move on an impulse, even though it took everybody, including me, by surprise. I have lived in this part of the country before, and I remembered the need for wraps, layers, mittens, scarves and hats as well as umbrellas and snow boots. The cold hit the second day I got here, and snow came gradually, giving me time to beef up the wardrobe of layers of clothes necessary to travel in the cold.
And today, snow and slush are all over the sidewalks. By nighttime there might be a good deal of ice. So I'm staying inside. I keep my eye on the weather forecast which says it won't go above 40 until Wednesday. I'll mostly stay in, going out only for trips that are absolutely necessary. Luckily, the cable guy came yesterday and hooked up everything, including the television set I bought the day before. Therefore I have already had a visit from Charles Osgood and the Barefoot Contessa and Nigella Lawson, as well as those designer guys over on the Discovery Home Channel and Chris Matthews who helped me catch up with all the politics I've missed over the past two weeks.
Unpacking is a challenge. I can't put the cartons out on the street until next Thursday night (I missed last Thursday by my own fault; in the meantime I've filled my apartment and the halls on all floors with stacks of cardboard and newspapers. I've tried to arrange my furniture and leave paths between those stacks of trash to simulate the cozy home I hope to have, some day, some way.
It's become increasingly clear to me that I won't be in this particular apartment more than the one year for which I've signed the lease. Maybe the Fairhope house will sell before then and I can look at putting that money into a condo or at least upgrade to a classier apartment. In the meantime, this is a nice enough place, with closets big enough for the tons of unpacked cartons I have yet to deal with. I like the location, I like the layout, but of course I need a bigger kitchen and a classier bathroom -- and a real bedroom would be nice. (I'm sleeping in what's known in brownstone language as "a hall room," 5' x 10', which holds a single bed and my laptop and not much else. Of course there is a nice living room and a decent sized but less than inspiring kitchen. All this makes me think the parties for which I used to be rather famous will not happen until I move. But never mind; I don't know anybody to invite yet anyway.
The reality is that everything takes time. I'm old enough to know that; don't remind me. In a year my life will be very different. That's what I like about this choice. In my previous life, I knew exactly what to expect each day would bring, and I came to know what the rest of my life would be like. And I didn't like the picture very much. It made me feel old just thinking about that.
Not that I feel young, exactly, but I don't know what lies ahead. That's reality for me.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Sinatra's Night in Hoboken
December 13, 2007
To say that there's a Frank Sinatra cult in Hoboken is rather like saying that the citizens of Washington, DC, take an interest in politics. They love the guy here!
Last night was the first-ever Frank Sinatra Idol contest, held at the Hoboken Historical Museum in honor of his birthday. Being the first, it was notably small, cozy, and hilarious, with an enthusiastic crowd (including yours truly) shrieking, stomping, clapping and sometimes whistling for the sometimes tentative performers.
Emceed by Hoboken's smooth Sinatra imitator Gary Troy Simpson, who claims he's also known as Rev. SimpSinatra (couldn't prove it by me; I'm new in town), the show was a great amateur display with flashes of brilliance and occasional professional pipes coming from unexpected places. There was a well-placed Sinatra-lookalike sitting down center who stood at an angle so as to expose his well-rehearsed facial reactions. The folks behind me kept saying, "Look at that guy! He looks like Frank!" A studious little man who looked as if he could be an officer at a bank sat in front, visibly cringing from time to time and I kept wondering what he was doing there.
The mayor and his wife came in fashionably not-quite-on-time, and were seated in the front row. The room had a party atmosphere, just as The Chairman of the Board would have wanted. I had half-expected this contest to be something like, "Who will be the NEXT Sinatra?" but I was one of the few in the room under 70, so it was more like Old Home Week for Old Hoboken. A lady started the proceedings by presenting a poem she had written about how much she and everybody else loved Frank Sinatra. Then the first performer got up and gave us a rendition of "You Make Me Feel So Young," followed by a few other numbers, with excitement building as the repertoire widened to include "Night and Day" and a couple of versions of "New York, New York." Some of these guys could really sing, but nobody sounded much like Sinatra. We didn't think we'd found a real winner until a young Hoboken Parks Service employee named Joe Riccardi, with his little fedora and his perfectly phrased pauses, got up and sang a swinging "Nice and Easy." He and another performer credited their mothers -- who were in the audience -- as their inspiration for learning to sing like Sinatra. Both were excellent. In fact, the contest ended in a tie which made it even more fun. There had to be a sing-off to settle it.
A great write-up of the event, with a video, can be seen here.
One more thing about the bank officer in front of me. He got up to sing and blew us away. He said he wasn't a Sinatra imitator, he had just come because it was Frank's birthday. He sang "My Way," with a beautiful, trained voice, a professional style, and an ease in front of the audience. I've tried to find him on the Internet, because I busted him when he sat down, "You're a professional, aren't you?" and he admitted it. He said, "I'm not here to compete, I just wanted to sing one for Sinatra." His name is James Michael, and I don't know where he came from, but he made my night.
The son of one of the Hoboken Four sang beautifully, but didn't make the finals. He told one story, that the Hoboken Four once got kicked out of the state of Florida, but he didn't know why. Guess that's one story the Four didn't want to get around -- at least to their sons. (Maybe Frank Jr. knows.)
As you can tell, I had a wonderful time. It's interesting how many Italian men love to sing. And if Hoboken is any example, they want to sing like Frank Sinatra.
To say that there's a Frank Sinatra cult in Hoboken is rather like saying that the citizens of Washington, DC, take an interest in politics. They love the guy here!
Last night was the first-ever Frank Sinatra Idol contest, held at the Hoboken Historical Museum in honor of his birthday. Being the first, it was notably small, cozy, and hilarious, with an enthusiastic crowd (including yours truly) shrieking, stomping, clapping and sometimes whistling for the sometimes tentative performers.
Emceed by Hoboken's smooth Sinatra imitator Gary Troy Simpson, who claims he's also known as Rev. SimpSinatra (couldn't prove it by me; I'm new in town), the show was a great amateur display with flashes of brilliance and occasional professional pipes coming from unexpected places. There was a well-placed Sinatra-lookalike sitting down center who stood at an angle so as to expose his well-rehearsed facial reactions. The folks behind me kept saying, "Look at that guy! He looks like Frank!" A studious little man who looked as if he could be an officer at a bank sat in front, visibly cringing from time to time and I kept wondering what he was doing there.
The mayor and his wife came in fashionably not-quite-on-time, and were seated in the front row. The room had a party atmosphere, just as The Chairman of the Board would have wanted. I had half-expected this contest to be something like, "Who will be the NEXT Sinatra?" but I was one of the few in the room under 70, so it was more like Old Home Week for Old Hoboken. A lady started the proceedings by presenting a poem she had written about how much she and everybody else loved Frank Sinatra. Then the first performer got up and gave us a rendition of "You Make Me Feel So Young," followed by a few other numbers, with excitement building as the repertoire widened to include "Night and Day" and a couple of versions of "New York, New York." Some of these guys could really sing, but nobody sounded much like Sinatra. We didn't think we'd found a real winner until a young Hoboken Parks Service employee named Joe Riccardi, with his little fedora and his perfectly phrased pauses, got up and sang a swinging "Nice and Easy." He and another performer credited their mothers -- who were in the audience -- as their inspiration for learning to sing like Sinatra. Both were excellent. In fact, the contest ended in a tie which made it even more fun. There had to be a sing-off to settle it.
A great write-up of the event, with a video, can be seen here.
One more thing about the bank officer in front of me. He got up to sing and blew us away. He said he wasn't a Sinatra imitator, he had just come because it was Frank's birthday. He sang "My Way," with a beautiful, trained voice, a professional style, and an ease in front of the audience. I've tried to find him on the Internet, because I busted him when he sat down, "You're a professional, aren't you?" and he admitted it. He said, "I'm not here to compete, I just wanted to sing one for Sinatra." His name is James Michael, and I don't know where he came from, but he made my night.
The son of one of the Hoboken Four sang beautifully, but didn't make the finals. He told one story, that the Hoboken Four once got kicked out of the state of Florida, but he didn't know why. Guess that's one story the Four didn't want to get around -- at least to their sons. (Maybe Frank Jr. knows.)
As you can tell, I had a wonderful time. It's interesting how many Italian men love to sing. And if Hoboken is any example, they want to sing like Frank Sinatra.
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