NYC 2024

 This trip was unlike the memorable 2019 NYC Christmas trip, although it was memorable in other ways; not so much an adventure as it was a test of endurance or an obstacle course. Even the weather didn’t cooperate. It was in between weather; not cold enough for long johns but not warm enough to walk around with an open jacket. The weather could go either way and, whichever way it went, life would be uncomfortable. It did and it was.

My bro and I met up with our darling socialist ‘little’ niece, who, at 36, is world traveled, lives and works in Paris for a tech company, the type of which did not exist during my career days so we’re not sure what she does for a living, exactly, but it appears to pay well. The gist, as far as we could determine, is that the company is something of a DEI establishment. Her job is to investigate other companies to determine whether their practices are socially acceptable; no underage hires, etc, things of that ilk. The work sounds both noble and gruesome. 

My bro had suggested a Korean BBQ place for our first dinner together, to which we had all appeared to agree but, after jointly reviewing various options, he ultimately left the dinner reservation venue up to her since she was our guest. “Pick which one has the most appeal”, he said. Imagine our surprise to find ourselves in a Persian vegetarian hole in the wall; Persia. Not that close to Korea, but there we were. In her defense, the place did have a low lit whimsical aura, the food did turn out to be delicious and the sympathetic chef did sneak a side dish of lamb kabobs to the carnivores at the table. The chef apologized for the slow service due to a shortage of waiters, which led her to pontificate on the merits of a living wage. We nodded and kept eating. Persia, apparently, and much to my chagrin, abstains from serving much needed alcohol when cavorting with the next generation.

Undaunted, our niece, in a quite scholarly manner, then went on to explain to us the perils of our USA work driven society as opposed to the work-life balance society of France. My kind and patient bro only once mentioned, sotto voce, the constant strikes that seem to take place when, for instance, the poor down trodden French workers who toil with only six weeks of vacation annually, after a seven hour day and unlimited sick time, were horrified to learn that retirement age would rise to 64 from 62.  We did notice some developmental shortfalls in her thought processes but decided to leave them alone. She is family.

Being the gracious hosts that we believed ourselves to be, we asked what would she like to see during her short 24 hour stay with us in the Big Apple. First stop - Rockefeller Center, where we oohed and aahed the magnificent tree, watched the skaters waltz and trip for a short while, then moved on after our feet became numb. Aside from the ubiquitous visit to Rockefeller Center, what was the next item on her agenda in NYC? She mentioned a very strong desire to visit Magnolia Bakery. Magnolia Bakery? Wait. What? This lady lives in Paris, the land of exquisite bakeries as elegant as jewelry stores. No big boxes, no chain stores, just little gems of breads, pastries and desserts, baked fresh daily, tiny delicacies to enrich the mouth and nose. My bro and I gave each other “the look”. She then explained that the girls on Sex and the City went to that bakery for cupcakes and muffins all the time. Luckily, we found the ‘magical bakery’ and stoically stood in line with all the other tourists, mostly giggly girls with a repartee that consisted almost entirely of squeaky, high pitched OMG riffs. While my bro and I waited outside, chiding ourselves and each other for lacking intimate knowledge of all the SATC dramas, she wended her way through the bakery, bought a little box of four mini cupcakes, which she carried carefully back to our hotel. The much cherished cupcakes were to be a surprise gift to her mother who lives in a small town just below the tundra line.

The next morning, after breakfast, she inquired about a walk through Central Park. Okie dokie. We were up for a brisk walk through that heralded locale. As we wove our way along the various park routes, avoiding horse droppings, pointing out areas of interest and donating small bills to the musicians belting out Christmas carols or the ever popular As Time Goes By, she admitted that she was looking specifically for ‘The Bridge’. “Which bridge?”, we asked. “The bridge from Home Alone 2.” Another wait, what? Apparently Home Alone and Home Alone 2 are cult classics in France. Cult classics? How can this be? What happened to Francois Truffaut? The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. Jules et Jim. Jeanne Moreau. How had France sunk so far. Of course, along with the bridge we needed photos of The Plaza for the same reason. (Back at home and relating this story to Scott, he couldn’t disparage the sentiment since Home Alone saved Fox studio from bankruptcy at the time but that’s another story.) My bro and I were in shock. From the land of Catherine Deneuve, Charles Boyer, Brigit Bardot and Yves Montand, replacement of those cinematic icons came in the form of Macaulay Caulkin? At least we could enjoy the sunny weather while walking the streets and quietly wondering where the world had gone wrong.

Later that afternoon we accompanied her to Penn Station, waved goodbye, then retired to ready ourselves for the evening ahead with Andrea Bocelli. While dressing for our evening, we received a very disheartening email from her explaining that her much cherished cupcakes had been confiscated at the Canadian border. Such are the vicissitudes of international customs; let a transgender terrorist march through security with a plastic bomb under his wig but do not let a young lady bring beloved cupcakes, with receipt from Magnolia Bakery, to her mother.

The walk to MSG to see Andrea Bocelli began with a steady supply of rain, which caused all the taxis to disappear, somewhat akin to cockroaches disappearing when the house lights are turned on. The umbrella vendors, on the other hand, were out in full force, asking exorbitant prices for cheap 'made in china' umbrellas. Ten bucks each. What the hell!!! They were selling for $1 the previous day. I handed a guy $5, took two and briskly walked away. Unsatisfied with my wily transaction, he followed me down the street and wrested the umbrellas back while bystanders photographed us. I was horrified by his appalling lack of manners. Fortunately, right in front of us was another vendor who took my money and gave me two umbrellas for the same price. I yelled at the first guy and would happily have thrown his umbrellas back at him if they were still in my hands. The people standing around us clapped for me, while my bro stood back, way back, silently shaking his head, reminding himself that familial gene pools all have had mutations down through the years. I wasn’t afraid of the little Philippine creep who tried to shake me down. My bro is 6’ tall and could take him for me. I knew he would step up if necessary; after all, he's known me all his life. It was a NYC moment. We walked faster than the taxis bumping along on the rain soaked streets, arrived in time to settle ourselves and chat briefly with our seat neighbors who told us they fly around the country to see and hear him wherever he plays in the USA. We nodded approvingly while we wondered 'who does that' and 'why'.  At the end of the evening, we agreed that the Bocelli concert was lovely but he is losing his voice. It was still raining when we walked back to our hotel but our umbrellas kept us dry. When we left town two days later, we left both umbrellas by the hotel door for future wet souls. 

The next morning we were up at dawn to ready ourselves for the day ahead. At the hotel door we hopped a cab, whose well versed driver whirled us down to the bottom of Manhattan and the ferry boats that traveled around the local waters to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. The wind on the waters whipped through our hair and froze our nostrils; we were so grateful for our earmuffs. As we neared the statue, my bro opined that Lady Liberty was fatter than he had expected. I explained that everyone in the USA is overweight. This prompted a barrage of information on my part about the lack of phys.ed. and health education in public schools, etc. When his eyes glazed over and closed, I stopped. Of course that could also have been because of the bitterly cold wind slicing through us while we stood on the top deck of the ferry remarking on the skyline. We wandered around Ellis Island unhurriedly, savoring the predictable emotional dramas that rose within us. Imagine. Mom was eight years old when she and her mom made their way through that enormous building. They had never seen a building like this; so huge, so filled with people. How terrifying. How bewildering. How daunting. We sincerely thank you, mom and Nonna. Your family lived great lives because of your fortitude. 

After our inspirational day, we walked back to our hotel in midtown, having stopped at Eataly for a much needed afternoon snack and last minute gifts. Admittedly, I could spend hours, if not days, in that heaven on earth. I loved sauntering around the hand prepared fast food islands, the slow eating bar tops and restaurant, the mountains of Italian breads, the aged meats, the berry jams, all under one roof and all wanted to come home with me. I wanted to buy everything I laid eyes on. Secretly, I am glad that we do not have such a venue within the confines of our town, or our state, for that matter. I would weigh two or three hundred pounds and would die a happy ‘death by cholesterol poisoning’. Nonetheless, that place is proof that God loves us. 

We ate our last dinner at Casa Lever; an odd name for an Italian restaurant but it was just around the corner from the hotel. We arrived on time, only to be met with a very tall maitre d’ who adroitly sneered down his long aquiline nose “do you have a reservation or are you ‘just walk ins’”. Well, technically we walked in with a reservation, but I, uncharacteristically, kept my mouth shut. I was glad that I did; the food was excellent, even the waiter was entertaining and I usually disdain entertaining waiters. While my bro and I were commiserating about the ‘rollicking’ events during this trip, one of our best moments came just then, as we watched a young tween, and his stereotypical NYC matron mother. Everything about her was crisp and eloquent, from her understated makeup, her elegant hand movements and her well modulated voice. We couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying, but she did not stop talking to the kid throughout the entire meal. Meanwhile, his eyes alternately wandered, closed or rolled but never quite met hers. We determined that, due to the almost Vidal Sassoon cut on the kid, the crested blazer indicating some hoity toity private school and sullen demeanor, he would never know unmitigated joy but would grow up to be either a mass murderer, having begun his career with killing tiny animals or would become a vile and consequential litigation attorney. Either way, we knew he would be ‘special’. His mother would see to that. Fortunately, we would be dead by then. 

After dinner we walked to the little 30 seat theater where we watched the performance of a completely diabolical version of Macbeth. Shakespeare would have hung his head, which saddened me greatly since Macbeth is one of my favorite horror stories. Witches and cauldrons, a mad OCD wife, a stabbed and dead king; who could ask for more. (Dickens’ ghost story ended with happily ever after; not so for the Macbeth folk.) Of course the performers were young so they thought that their take on this classic was fresh and innovative. Nope, but even Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith had to start somewhere so, at the end of the evening we thanked them profusely, extolled their unconventional novelty and then walked home, sadly realizing that we have become world weary and cynical. Well, it was bound to happen, even the characters in Midsummer Night’s Dream had to wake up to real life. Bah humbug. Still, it was a great trip with the last of my family.

Musings on Fall

Jim Gaffigan likes to make fun of people inspired by the fall’s foliage. Apparently humans are insensitive to the leaves’ impending doom, as are the leaves. Leaves only know spring and summer; fall is leaves’ hospice. They are about to die while humans gleefully jump into their funereal pyre and dreamily muse on the aroma of burning leaves. 

 This morning I knew that fall had arrived; its dead leaves’ scent carried on the breeze and there was nothing positive about it. Driving down the road I’m reminded of Monet’s Haystacks series; each painting’s colors dissimilar because of the contrasting light and atmosphere. Here the hay has been baled into circled stacks, laying quietly in their fields. It also means rodents are looking for new homes and I, like our neighbors, mean to not let them illegally enter our premises, that’s why I’m on the way to the hardware store to pick up some mouse traps. 

 Admittedly, the fall is both hopefully romantic and tragically melancholy. The steepled, white clapboard church in town stirs more potential, whether in the form of an encouraging beginning with a wedding ceremony (“white lace and promises. . . .”) or a sorrowful ending with a funeral (“all the chapel bells were ringing. . . . ”). The surrounding foliage forms a vibrant sunset of color, giving each ceremony more gravitas and possibly forewarning us of the coming darkness of our winter.

 Paradoxically, fall also is the time when everything starts to happen. While young lads spent the summer morphing from dumb dork to brainy nerd, young ladies spent the summer morphing from gangly stick figures into the curvy long legged stuff of teenage dreams. Fall and boys intermingled. 

Recall the famous poem we all learned in high school: 

 Trees by Joyce Kilmer: 

 I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree * * * 

 A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair. * * * 

 Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree. 

 Alternately, our high school version went like this: 

I think that I shall never see a boy that quite appeals to me. 

A boy who doesn’t alway wear a pound of grease upon his hair. 

A boy who wears his shirttails in and doesn’t have a silly grin. 

But boys were made for fools like me and who on earth would date a tree. 

Baking is another fall staple. Warm kitchens, the aroma of cinnamon in the air, pink cheeks and pumpkin pies, pecan pies, cherry pies and the 'all American' apple pies. All varieties of apples fill the grocery aisles. Scott and I have debated the pros and cons of taffy apple vs caramel apple. Most important, though, is the quality of the apple beneath the outer sugar shell. Scott: forever my bright red shiny crispy apple.

Louisiana

 The first day of the October 2000 Louisiana Biking Trip began with my swerving to miss a truck that had unceremoniously turned right in front of me and subsequently left me stricken on the side of the gravel road, quite battered from the fall and the heavy bicycle whose spinning wheels now lay on top of me. Our trip sweep (the person at the back of the group) hefted me over to the local ER where I spent the rest of the afternoon listening to people speak and behave in what could only, politely, be called a languid manner. While I waited, I casually looked around the room and noticed that all the instruments were kept in a big red Craftsman box, which did not exactly fill me confidence, then again, neither did the doc who drew the curtain aside. He took one look at my arm and insisted on x-raying my elbow even though I demonstrated that I was able to bend it and move all my fingers. However, he didn’t seem too bothered about the open wound and accompanying blood that was seeping out of my lower arm and dripping all over my now raggedy tee shirt. His distracted manner and irrelevant questioning caused me to consider asking about the correspondence course from which he had received his degree but at that moment Nurse Ratchett entered and began scrubbing the wounded arm with iodine while coldly asking “does this hurt?” In my head, I was punching her lights out and asking “does this hurt?” but she looked like she could take me down with one punch so I kept my aside in my head. The doofus doctor, meantime, stepped away to make a private phone call; problem was that I could hear him on the other side of the curtain saying to whomever: “you gotta come down and see this filly from California”. In the meantime, no one was at all concerned about my scraped legs, which had turned various shades of blue, purple and red and appeared to be more lumpy than they were that morning. I inquired about a possible hematoma, but the good doctor gave it 'no never-mind’. I made a quick and heartfelt bargain with God to get me out of here asap. Miraculously, our trip leader appeared and, thankfully, removed me. By day end, I was back with my tour group, popping ibuprofen like M&Ms and promising God restitution. 

The rest of the trip was equally eventful. We learned, in real time, that there are no leash laws in Louisiana, so dogs can, and do, run wild. We also learned that they especially like chasing after city slickers riding around in fancy bicycles. We gave new meaning to the expression: “ride like the wind”. My favorite traveling companion, Martha, greatly expanded her vocabulary during their pursuit of her legs. Suffice to say that, for an accountant, she could be quite colorful and impressively did not repeat herself for prolonged periods of times. I learned how to kick at cavernous canine maws while pedaling like Dixie, even with my blue-black legs. 

Finally freed from marauding dogs, we stopped to take a breath. Martha insisted on having her picture taken standing beside the Baptist Church of Light sign that was posted below a stop sign, which was liberally shot through with bullets. We concluded that someone wanted that Baptist light to shine through more readily or there was an underlying message from God condoning the right to bear arms. Either way, we noticed that bullet holes were an integral part of the local scenery.

The next day we rested after our previous day’s 25 mile bike ride. Instead, we were treated to an air boat ride through the swamps. The wetlands were redolent with bald cypress and cypress knees; the locals call them Bustillos. As we noisily moved through the waters, the air filled with egrets, pelicans and hawks. The surrounding waters were dotted with snakes and alligators. The guy next to me wasn’t concerned that he was sitting a foot or so away from an alligator. I was nervous but he said he knew the gator wouldn’t touch him. He was an attorney; mumbled something about professional courtesy. Surprisingly, at times the air boat floated on less than six inches of water, not that that gave me comfort since it meant that snakes could slide aboard at will. I was glad to be seated in the middle, between two people, figuring they would be eaten first and, really, I was considered more of a toothpick after a meal.

A couple of days later we left the swamps for Francisville, a delightful Anytown USA, with a wide main street dotted with three arm street lamps, quaint antique shops (new and used antiques) and a couple of excellent restaurants. At the edge of town, a small cemetery sported somewhat dilapidated headstones from the previous century with carved names such as Submit; below her name it read 1834 -1852. Understandable, with a name like that. Another headstone gave a man’s name and under his name the names of four wives; best guess, they had each died in childbirth or he had killed them for putting too much sugar in his morning coffee. Men had more capital leeway in those days. 

We spent a glorious next day ambling through the country side, joking alongside fellow travelers and then racing away to catch up with other members of our troupe. At one point Martha and I rode along a trail that saw a chain gang working in the nearby ditches. Naively, I was hoping for a smiling Paul Newman type but only saw the likes of a dozen growling Ernest Borgnines. Added to that troubling scenario were the two big bellied sheriffs, one on either end of the chain gang (think Burl Ives chewing on a ‘ce-gar’), sitting astride their horses, with a large rifle across their laps. They said nothing when the prisoners leered at us and very graphically expressed their desires regarding our persons. Never mind the ‘failure to communicate’ moment, these guys communicated their intentions loud and clear, inspiring our own Tour de France moment. 

Next stop, Jacksonville; straight out of Deliverance. I couldn’t even find this place on the map and a cursory look around explained why; all the buildings and shops, including the gas station, were shut and boarded up, actual tumbleweed blew across the road. Inexplicably, the antebellum mansion in which we all stayed was absolutely magical. An alternate reality proved to be the maxim here; filled with stately old world antiques, silk covered sofas and damask curtains, thick oriental rugs, deep down sherpa blankets. Wow. Our highly polished mahogany dining table sat below a huge gleaming crystal chandelier that must have weighed more than all of us combined. The table itself was set with Sevres china, Polish crystal and sterling silver (of course Martha and I checked the markings!). Another Wow. What was going on here? I went with Twilight Zone while Martha suggested One Step Beyond. After dinner, it was advised that we forgo an evening stroll and not step outside the mansion after dark. Martha suspected werewolves, I went with vampires, although neither one of us was up to any kind of fact checking. It brought us no comfort that the windows and doors seemed to have no locks, although a little bell tinkled whenever the front door was opened and closed, which continued to leave us wondering: what the heck was this exquisite mansion, its furnishings and accoutrements, all doing here in the middle of nowhere?

The next morning, as usual, we were given our route directions and everyone headed off at their own pace. Martha, though, was curious about the town’s one functioning retail establishment, the local pharmacy across the street from our mansion, that also bragged about its “Bonnie Blue finest local ice cream”. I reminded Martha that we were in the south, with emphasis on ‘the south’ and ought to be off with the rest of the gang and not to go stirrin’ up trouble but when Martha fixed her mind to be doing somethin’, by cracky, she was gonna do it. Nothing for it. I shook my head while we moseyed on over, entered the establishment and I watched while Martha quipped to the young lady about wanting to know more about the local ice cream; where was it made, how long had the brand been around, the usual nonsense, at which the young lady displayed a deep frown and remarked that she had worked there for a number of years but didn’t ‘got no answers’; only that she would have to ask Miss Elly, which silently begged the question: why wasn’t she even curious about the product being sold under her auspices (apparently formal education, or any kind of education, is not a priority in this neck of the woods). So, of course, Martha, who could not let this go, asked to speak to Miss Elly. Miss Elly was as tall as a cypress knee and looked like one; gnarly brown body and hair as white as snow. Her voice and manners, though, were captivating. She gave us each a very generous sample of the ice cream. While we licked and made positive murmuring noises (albeit the ice cream sucked), Martha asked how the pharmacy stayed viable. Miss Elly pointed toward her left and noted that up yonder was the asylum for the criminally insane, then pointed right and told us that the regional old age home was just down the road, then pointed straight ahead and stated that the local state prison was also located “nearby”. Holy freakin’!!!! I gave Martha my best Clint Eastwood evil stink eye. Now was Martha ready to get the hell out of here???? 

We had been traveling, biking and dining for six days and the next morning saw the end of the trip. After our last breakfast together, only Martha and I, and another couple, David and Louise, were heading to New Orleans. The tour company hired a cab to take the four of us in that direction while the other eight members headed to Baton Rouge. Once we were out of town, our driver, Faze, surprised us by lighting up and sharing a fatty with us. After that things got a bit out of hand. Louise, completely wild, was insisting that we do very rude things to passing motorists who, fortunately, were few and far between. Martha was yelling Cajun swear phrases she had recently learned while fighting off feral dogs, while Faze and David led us on several rounds of “Jambalaya Pork Meat Pie” until David fell comatose, but not before he and Faze took a blood oath to get their next tattoos together in New Orleans. I quietly played my Cajun-In-Your-Pocket game until the battery wore out. And then a state sheriff pulled us over. Rolling down the window was a mistake, we realized, when the sheriff waved his hand in front of his face without blinking an eye and slowly shook his head with a ‘we were old enough to know better’ look. Gratefully, we were able to escape what could have been a nasty situation by David regaling the sheriff with a story that we were on our way to a Leaders’ convention. The sheriff laughed; he didn’t believe any of it. He was old enough to have been around the block a few times, but appeared to be open to friendly bantering since we looked like a fairly benign group of bozos. We giggled a lot. He grinned and nodded a lot. Faze beeped his horn impatiently and suggested Louise show him her breasts; we were close enough to New Orleans, but David would have none of that. The sheriff checked his watch. It was nearing his shift end and he looked like he was in no mood for lots of paperwork, which is what our presence at the station would have guaranteed. I recall that tee shirts exchanged hands, maybe another fatty along with them; at least that was how I remembered it. Martha made no loud assertions, for which I was especially grateful because I needed her to share the upcoming expenses in New Orleans and being thrown in jail would not be helpful. The sheriff wished us well, suggesting that we drive to our destination with the windows wide open and expressed a “Laissez les bon temps rouler”.

We arrived in New Orleans only to find that a voodoo convention was going on. The town was packed, not to mention weird, if not batshit crazy, which was in keeping with this entire trip. We shared a large room at the local Omni hotel but soon discovered that one of Martha’s bed legs was broken. She had left a 4:40 am wakeup call to catch her flight the next morning. I, possibly still experiencing the after effects of the ‘vapors’ from our cab ride, knew that she would have no restful sleep so I called the front desk to have someone come by and fix her bed. She demurred, saying she could sleep on it at an angle but I insisted that it needed to be repaired (we also received at 50% discount on the room for our troubles). Of course, everything in the Big Easy moves more slowly than one would expect, so it was after we had fallen asleep that the maintenance crew finally arrived. All four of them took to moving her bed, hammering on the frame and calling on their walkie talkies for new parts, then waiting around while smiling and staring at us in our nighties. Since Martha was getting upset at their slow and gentle ways (sometimes she could be so strict), I donned a robe, went downstairs and procured a double mint julep at the bar which I brought back to our room. We sucked on that for a bit and afterwards, repairs completed, it didn’t matter that Martha would get, at most, two hours’ sleep before leaving town. My flight didn’t leave until mid-afternoon so I was able to help her on her way then went back to my comfy bed for the next eight hours. So ended what was to be our last trip together. 

In the new year, Martha, dear friend and traveling companion, was diagnosed with a debilitating illness, NHL, and passed away a few short years later.

Valentine's Day 2002

 On Valentine’s Day 2002, charity began at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel (she of Pretty Woman fame) for lunch. This wasn’t any old chic luncheon, this was the Beverly Hills Old Guard charity luncheon and fashion show sponsored by The Colleagues, a group of very very rich older ladies with nothing to do except ‘host’ charity luncheons, in style. 

As I pulled up, I wasn’t particularly surprised at the number of high voltage cars in the valet area, although I was amused at the valets’ stares when I turned up in my trusty Saturn. They had that “hired help park in the rear” look when I ground to a stop. Undaunted, I was my usual chipper self and twerped “try not to scratch it” as I tossed my keys to whoever.  

Walking through that sea of multi-face lifted, anatomically corrected and hair dyed babes, I was grateful that I was just visiting. I had the same creepy feeling that I might have walking through the Hollywood wax museum; Gloria Swanson stared at me again and again. I thought that some of those smiling cat faces ought not to be allowed out before dark, speaking of scaring the horses. 

Anyway, once inside, I looked for my friends’ table. Colleen, whose mommy is one of the Pasadena OG, had been attending this event with her mom for many years. As time went on, sisters and friends were added to the group and eventually they had a table of their own. Half of the table’s costs were subsidized by mommy’s firm, which made the event only mildly unaffordable. We did appreciate the irony of her being listed in the program as one of the Sponsors (buy a table, be a sponsor), right next to Betsy Bloomingdale and Arlene Sprague; nice table, nice view. I was clearly out of my league here, but having a good time nonetheless. 

And it was Valentine’s Day so the view was a sea of cherry, burgundy, fuchsia, hot pink and shades of red that God did not intend to be part of nature. Of course, God probably didn’t envision a sea of smiling cheshire cats either. I was shocked, though, that a number of those babes were wearing satin and velvet before five o’clock. Maybe I wasn’t out of my league here. Where was the fashion police. 

After we had air kissed, said our hellos and settled in, I had time to peruse my goody bag and was somewhat annoyed to find that it included a bottle of men’s cologne in a velvet bag (what was I supposed to do with that?). Putting our bags back down, we set ourselves to the serious business of determining who was who. We could do so with impunity because we knew that we were nobody (at least I knew that I was nobody in this crowd; I wasn’t even wearing red). There was Nancy Reagan, looking a little chubby; might have been the dress. Betsy Bloomingdale was wearing a dress with a fur collar; what the hell was that about - it was 74 degrees outside. There were a number of famous faces out there, even a few famous men, but when the food arrived, we lost interest in outfits, except for one babe who must have gotten lost on her way to an ice skating event. She was wearing a short skirted red sequin affair with a black bustier and a coordinating black Sonja Henie hat with red flowers that sat up another six inches over the crown. 

After lunch the fashion show began - a retrospective of Pierre Cardin’s career (which explained the men’s cologne). He sat next to Larry King, who later came up to the podium and sang My Funny Valentine to his wife du jour. I was impressed that he could remember her name, never mind the lyrics to the song; that alone was the price of admission. 

And then the event was over and Colleen and I all milled around, standing and waiting for our cars. I knew mine would be one of the last to arrive because it would have been parked the furthest away from the more splendid cars. While we waited, I realized that Ricardo Montalban (he of the genuine Corinthian leather fame) was seated by me. I did my best to ignore him, but he spoke  first by apologizing for not standing and then launched into a long saga about his five hour back operation; can’t say that I was riveted, but listening seemed to be the polite thing to do. Meanwhile, his wife Georgiana was not amused by the attention he was bestowing upon me and quite rudely suggested to Colleen that I was misbehaving. Colleen struck back by calling out “well, he hit on her first”. Fortunately, their car arrived at that very moment. I was, gratefully, left  to wonder about the possible outcome of that little scuffle. 

As I suspected, my car was one of the last to arrive. I looked it over to be sure that it had not been scratched or dinged before tipping the valet and heading back to real life. 

Biking Through Bryce

 It was 2003 and time for my annual biking trip, this time through Bryce, Zion and the Grand Canyon. As usual, I rifled through old socks, tee shirts and underwear for a batch of “one last wear” clothes that I could sweat in and toss at the end of each day. Admittedly, that collection would repulse a homeless bag lady but it worked; returning home with a suitcase of newly purchased souvenirs and no malodorous laundry was worth giving up my Barry Manilow tee shirt.

I hit the road and drove and drove to the music of Earl Bostic. As I passed through Las Vegas (ah, the days of Frankie, Dino and Sammy), I contemplated the wisdom of wearing Depends on long trips and made a mental note to write to Kimberly-Clarke about alternate marketing strategies; forget June Allyson, market to the long distance traveler. A short ways out of Vegas the road took an abrupt turn and I found myself in the midst of the canyons; wide eyed. These were no ordinary reds, purples, browns or pinks - this was Claude Monet territory; burnt sienna, aubergine, mocha and salmon. And this was just the appetizer course. I couldn’t wait for the rest of the week’s colorful menu. Six hours later (yes, my little Saturn could do 90+), I arrived at the Crystal Inn at St. George, Utah where I was to meet the rest of the tour group. 

The next morning heralded the official beginning of our trip. I was treated to a free continental breakfast. Plenty of coffee but no non fat milk. What is it with the other 49 states. There’s an obesity epidemic; would it kill these people (no pun intended) to switch to at least low fat. I stared at the gargantuan waitress in disbelief when she said no to non fat. The heifer had the temerity to glare back as if I had asked to share her toothbrush. The lead story in the local paper was about David Letterman’s Montana cabin being illegally occupied by a bear. Personally I would have found an article on the virtues of non fat milk much more compelling, not to mention that at the time Letterman’s girlfriend was knocked up. He had much bigger problems than Yogi’s visit. 

The tour group members finally gathered. We all introduced ourselves and then we piled into two vans and spent the next couple of hours heading for Bryce while telling each our life stories. One man’s name was Thold. His wife Ruth said to think of shopping with a lisp: sold, Thold. After hearing other people’s names I circled back and, while I didn’t exactly remember his name, I remembered shopping so I called him Thale (as in ‘sale’) a few times. I thought I was cute until his wife took me aside and remarked: “Linda, he’s married, which makes him no longer on the market, not for sale, he’s sold!”. Ohh. The hazards of being single in the midst of married couples. There were two other single ladies, utterly adorable and, like me, not nuns.

We began with a four mile hike into the canyon, along the Rim Trail, down into the Navajo Loop Trail. The canyon was surrounded by hoodoos and fins. Hoodoos are the pillars of rock that are left by erosion, which reminded me of an old Cary Grant routine about who do and you do but only one other person saw the movie so the whole schtick was lost on the group. Back at our hotel, I tossed my sweat drenched clothes into the trash. During dinner I reiterated my philosophy on wearing and tossing old clothes, after which a couple of men took me aside and asked if I would have a private chat with their wives because their bags were huge. 

Bryce, I was told, is one of the best places in the country to view the sky at night so after dinner I walked onto my room’s back patio and found myself staring at the expansive white ribbon that is the Milky Way; so magnificently cosmic and low in the sky. I was sure that if I was a foot taller, or even stood on a chair, I could touch those glowing stars. Here was the mystery and marvel of the universe, the wellspring of awe. I stared up at the stars as long as my neck would let me. It was the second time in two days that nature filled me with wonder. I guess there is something to be said for the natural wonders of the universe. I always thought it was shoes. 

The next day we hiked four miles to the highest outpoint and it wasn’t even lunch yet (with a hint of a whine). Once there I looked straight down at the very vertical drop, silently grateful for the guard rails and then spent the next 15 minutes looking out over the sheer breadth of color palette before me.

While waiting for one of the tables to finish lunch, one of the ladies and I moseyed on over to the nearby buffalo ranch. She took one look and snorted “we make much better ones in Colorado”. They looked fine to me but my only claim to fame is distinguishing between paper cocktail umbrellas. 

Back in our vans we headed to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. About 30 minutes from our final destination we were stopped by a couple of forest rangers. Apparently a control fire had gotten out of control and no cars were allowed on the road “for now”. Smokey the bear quips ensued. We headed back to Kanab, which we had passed through earlier, with raised eyebrows and a slight shudder. Best guess, this place was a stagecoach stop back in the olden days. The lovely village of Kanab featured a reasonable Best Western, which our tour group took over (the smoke signals confirmed our stay) and boasted a Chinese restaurant (not even if I were starving), a tee shirt shop (is nothing sacred, they’re right up there with cockroaches) and the Rocking V Cafe, where we were to dine that evening. 

The Cafe exterior looked doubtful but once inside we were agape at our surroundings. The place had all the color and ambiance of a Sedona art gallery. While we were being seated I looked over at the next table to see what those diners were having; their food looked good. The table was patronized by four of the dearest little white curly haired ladies I had ever seen. I could almost smell the lavender seeping from their cuddly size bodies. They all sported pretty flowered dresses and slightly pink cheeks due to the margaritas they had been daintily sipping. I asked how they had enjoyed their fare, and all four emitted the most charming British accents extolling the virtues of the victuals. I remarked on their darling accents and was sweetly told that it was I who had the accent. Properly chastised, I agreed. They went on to say that they had left their hubbies behind, on the sofa in front of the telly, to live their vacation wild and free. Listening to their delightful stories and giggles I was absolutely sure that I had entered an alternate universe, asking myself the salient question: you left the hubbies to run wild and you chose Kanab? Then again, entire TV series had been built on less. As they got up to leave, one of them hugged me. Truly, she was pillow soft and smelled of lavender. After our quite successful dinner, the owner came by to chat with us. He was an Italian from Jersey who tired of the cold weather so came here. Wait, what! Here? I had to wonder: What the hell was in our water? Or was this where the Criminal Protection folk dropped off their 'clients'?

We spent the next two days hiking canyon trails ten miles this way and biking twenty miles that way and then the last two big days arrived. We were to hike through the Narrows; make our way into the inner gorge of the Snake River as it wound around the rocks. I knew the hike through river water would destroy my trusty leather and gore-tex boots that fit like sleep socks so, before leaving L.A., I had hied myself down to the local Big 5 Sporting Goods store and purchased a pair of boots for $13. In keeping with my travel style, I would wear them once, allow their destruction through the river and toss them afterwards. We trooped in to the gorge, enjoying the fantasy of keeping our boots dry for about five minutes, after which even our feet became wet and numb with cold. The next 2.5 hours saw us trudging deep into the Narrows, observing one astonishing sight after another: small waterfalls, hanging gardens of fern, other delicate vegetation cascading down the canyon walls. At times the walls were over 1K feet high and sometimes only 40 feet apart. We slogged from bank to bank, veering sideways rather than straight through the water. In short order we learned to step on the white spots in the water, which indicated a more stable sandy bottom, rather than the green spots that were rocks, slippery with moss. Likewise, we learned that brown water meant shallow and warm, whereas green water meant deep and cold. I found it all very exciting and forged ahead. By lunch, the wimps had turned back and there were only eight of us left. Sometimes the water was ankle deep while other times it was knee deep. I didn’t want to think about what manner of microscopic wildlife had found its way into my socks and boots. It was the longest, toughest water aerobic exercise that I had ever endured. Yes, the boots were tossed at day end, valiant Gunga Dins.

Our last day was the best and the worst. We were to climb Walter’s Wiggles, to Scout’s Landing to Angel’s Landing. Walter’s Wiggles consists of a series of switchbacks carved into the cliffside, pretty much straight up. There were three of us valiant souls who always seemed to be at the front of each hike but even we three sounded like asthmatic race horses on occasion. A lot of water and gatorade was consumed. After hiking to Scout’s Landing, we enjoyed a picnic lunch. 

And then we were ready for the trek to Angel’s Landing, which is the supposed locale for the upcoming return of the messiah, who will deliver his message to the angels, who will, in turn, deliver his message to the world. Again, I had to ask myself: Aren’t the angels and the messiah together already? Don’t they have conference rooms up there? Why here? Anyway, only three of us were daring, or foolhardy, enough to trek to Angel’s Landing. Usually half a mile is not a big deal until one considers that this trek takes place on a sheer wedge of rock 2K feet above the valley floor with only a chain bolted to the rocks to give the handhold needed to reach the Landing. I remember looking down into the yawning abyss and thinking that this trek could kill me now or I could lay on my deathbed in another 60 years and regret not having taken this hike when I had the chance. Then again, it was a straight drop down, no net, no guard rail, no nothing, just me and the hope that the traveler before me hadn’t weighed 300 pounds and had loosened the bolts holding the chains that would keep me alive. Off I went, on a wing and a prayer, except that the prayer was more often akin to ‘holy crap, jesus christ, oh damn, what the hell was I thinking’. Even worse, I couldn’t turn back because someone else was right behind me. But I did it, stood on the Landing, experienced the panoramic view and probably was two pounds lighter for the adventure. One and done. Well, there was the return, but that's another story.

On the shuttle back to the lodge the driver called out points of interest. One formation apparently was said to look like the virgin Mary. A lady in front jumped up and agreed: “wow, it sure does look like her”. What? I could only ask myself: What was in that woman’s water? How would she know what Mary looked like; was Mary over for dinner the week before Easter? 

Two of my dinner partners, both named Barbara (Babs and Baba) were from NYC and had never been to Vegas so wanted to stop there before returning to the big apple. We reiterated the “whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” mantra. Both ladies were divorced and wondered about the number of men roaming around that town. I allowed that the odds were pretty good but that the goods could be pretty odd. 

The next day, we all said our goodbyes. Traveling back through Vegas I noticed a group of hitchhiking Elvises. Enough, the song in my head was “six days on the road, and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight”.  

Atwood's Cockroaches

 After leaving the gym on a Friday afternoon, I hopped into my lovely and perfect 1993 Midnight Blue Saturn (bought new and now only two years old), and turned on the engine. Nothing. Good thing I had already spent three hours at the gym or I would have whipped myself, and the car, into an exasperated frenzy. Instead I called AAA. After a few minutes under the hood, the young man said “you need a new battery”. I held my tongue with this master of the obvious. Instead I asked that he jump it and follow me to the nearest repair shop, which he did do. At the shop, much unintelligent gibberish, on both sides, ensued. What was I talking about? I was talking girl talk (think Charlie Brown adult: wha wha wha). What was the mechanic taking about? He was talking mechanic talk (same wha wha wha). Ultimately, it came down to the universal language: the amount of money required to fix the problem. Since it would take a while to replace the battery, it was suggested that I retire to the lounge room that only slightly, but deeply, smelled of soaked in oil, stale cigarette smoke and equally stale french fries. I parked myself on the grand and gracious deep purple faux leather, sticky to the touch, and bound together with duct tape, sofa. Nearby, on a small table, sat an urn with ‘freshly brewed that very morning’ coffee; no cups, next to a dilapidated pink box filled with half pieces of dried donuts; no napkins. Fortunately, I had a copy of Blind Assassin with me, so I gingerly settled myself down on the sofa to enjoy a long read. I must say that whenever I read one of Margaret Atwood’s books, I find myself very grateful not to be her; what must go on in that woman’s head to spew forth this type of dystopian literature. Her picture on the back jacket shows a wild eyed face with even wilder hair; altogether an alarming countenance. Unnerving doesn’t begin to describe her or her books, for that matter.

As I sat reading, in a somewhat disconcerted frame of mind, I spied, out of the corner of my little eye, a movement on the ground. At first, I ignored it but as it grew larger it appeared to be working its way in my direction. I then had to give it my full attention and realized that I was staring at the most massive and mighty cockroach that I had ever seen in my life. A small child could ride this thing. This monster was as wide as the length of my thumb. I’ve seen smaller new born babies. I jumped up and ran yelping into the body shop. My wide eyed, quite stricken face motivated a couple of young guys to ask what was wrong. Even I didn’t recognize the tiny high pitched voice that squeaked out of me: “there’s a huge cockroach in there; please do something”. The man closest to me scoffed, snarked “girlie”, walked past me into the waiting room and stopped dead in his tracks. I cleared my throat, stood behind him and hummed the tune “macho, macho man”. After all, what’s a mechanic if not a macho man. He collected himself, gamely walked up to it, stood over it, then stomped on it and crunched it. I heard the crunch. I thanked him profusely, prudently  stepped over the dead body and returned to my book. A very short while later I noticed that the cockroach's parts were moving, leaving me to mull the often stated adage that cockroaches will one day inherit the earth. I sprinted past it again, back into the shop area, and again, that tiny disenbodied voice that came out of nowhere: “excuse me, but that cockroach is still moving; I don’t think it’s dead”. That same mechanic now started to sweat, leaving me to wonder if he had seen the same horror movie that was now playing in my head, in glorious technicolor and with surround sound. This time he manly stood over it, stomped on it and ground it into a pancake, then kicked it out the door. Profuse thanks and gratitude and back to my seat and book I went, pondering if just such events were the inspiration for Margaret Atwood’s books. I was left wondering if that dead cockroach was wallowing in some residual chemical puddle from the body shop’s discarded liquids, inhaling the pernicious juices and gradually returning to its third life. My mind wandered to visions of the cockroach waiting at the exit door for its mechanic killer at shift end, then eating him alive. In that moment, I made two life altering decisions: I decided not to leave the shop first and to stop reading Margaret Atwood’s novels. 

At the same time another mechanic came out and said that the battery could not be replaced immediately because some neighboring part had to be ordered from the dealership, wha wha wha, money, wha wha wha, more money. I was done; smelly rooms, giant cockroaches, shakedown for more money. I called a friend and, near tears, asked for a ride home. The next morning the same friend took me back to the shop, then followed me to the dealership in my jumped car. I strode into the dealership with a look of sheer dejection, destitution and helplessness. I stomped my pretty little foot and, pouting at my loss, used just the right combination of helplessness and outrage that the battery and alternator were replaced for free. Screw you, Margaret Atwood and double that on cockroaches. 

The Big Three

Bill Burr famously began one of his comedic tirades with “everyone believes that everyone else’s religion is stupid”. Then went on to say that they all share the same tenets: “don’t kill anyone, don’t touch my wife, and that’s my motorcycle”. Brilliantly simplistic and he’s right. 

Having nothing else to do, I mused on numerous theosophies, gleaned over the years through various outlets. So, here’s how I believe it all started. I should note that no bible, torah, koran, sea scroll, hieroglyphic or ouija board was studied or reviewed prior to, or even after, this writing.

Except for the groups which explicitly reject evolutionary theory as being in conflict with what they see as biblical truth, the rest of us learned that as apes evolved into knuckle dragging Neanderthals, they further evolved into tribes, and, as Homo sapiens tribes, agreed that ethnocentric cooperation was needed to survive. Clubbing each other to death would become a no win game and was not a solution to anything, certainly not to living longer, and how else would a wife be able to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor. Various groups thought alike, which brought them together and helped them to stay alive, albeit life still was short and violent in certain instances. While this peaceful ethnocentricity was evolving, admittedly, things went awry on many, many occasions over the centuries. (Jumping ahead to the Greco-Balkan war, Battle of Cannae, WWI, WWII, Vietnam, Korea, Crimea, etc. Some of those wars came later in the religious timeline, but still, you get the idea; lots of movies and lots of crosses on the ground before a peaceful resolve came about; it's temporary, still waiting.) 

Peace and prosperity always seemed to be in short supply in the olden days. When times were hard, the sage elders determined that certain sacrifices were required. (Here’s another example of things going awry.) Although sacrificing protesting virgins into bubbling volcanos brought needed rain on the rare occasion, those rituals later were determined to be somewhat chancy. Too, enough mothers complained that they were not happy about donating their sparkly virgin daughters since, alive, they brought a greater dowry to the family upon their marriage to another mortal than the occasional rain shower would bring forth on the land by some unknown and mysterious god, oftentimes citing the four vestal virgins who were buried alive for uh, “interrupting” their chastity as examples. (Girls needed love too.) Nothing good came of all that sacrificial nonsense; it never really took, except in the movies. Watch Joe Versus the Volcano with Tom Hanks. 

Enough about sex. Going back to the evolution of religion, apparently everyone started out as members of their various pagan tribes, learning about fire and the wheel and stuff like that. Then Abraham came along and suggested that the good people of Judea should form their own tribe. So now we had Jews; Jews from Judea, aka the Israelites. And this little group with their little rituals worked for a while. But the only constant in life, even then, was change. Along came Jesus the Jew and declared himself the messiah, ironically, forming christianity. Wow. A messiah. A lot of people, more women actually, were tired of carrying around two sets of dishes (no dishwashers until the 1970s), so they decided to follow Jesus. Watch The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston. (These followers later evolved into the Catholic church, with tales of Mary Magdalen marrying JC, etc. but that’s yet another story; see Jesus Christ Superstar as MM sings I don’t know how to love him.) Anyway, following Jesus around worked for a while; he was an engaging raconteur, worked some great magic tricks: turned water into wine (who didn’t like that?), took a basket of fish and a baguette and fed hundreds, walked on water. Plus, he had a nifty beard and a John Wick vibe. Well, it was all good until Mohammed came along and said “He’s not the messiah; I’m the messiah”. Oh! Great! Another macho man contest. By then, though, a lot of people were ticked that they couldn’t eat meat on Friday so they figured, what the heck and followed Mohammed. 

And that brought us to Islam and The Big Three.

Now, as another aside, the Big Three are the ‘outies’. Outies go to an outside establishment to pray, confess sins, meet with other members of the tribe, repent their sins, celebrate various theological holidays and eat too much. On the other side of the planet are the ‘innies’. Hinduism is the oldest documented ‘innie’ religion; goes back over 3K years. The Hindus had lots of minor gods, so there were lots of holidays celebrating those gods. Following the Hindus, there was Buddhism (Hindus had too many holidays and gods; Buddhists had only Buddha) and Taoism (three gods) and a few other factions along those lines. Those folk believed in reincarnation, somewhat. Personal aside: I remember when the current Dalai Lama was in town to give a talk. During the Q and A, one man, a psychiatrist, said he had a patient whose life was so horrible he wanted to kill himself to find peace. What would the Dalai Lama suggest he say to him? The Dalai Lama replied: “well, we are not 100% certain of what is on the other side”. Wait, what? That answer perked me up. Since the entire oeuvre of those ‘innies’ was all about self reflection, peace, kindness and everlasting life through reincarnation until Nirvana was reached, when the Dalai Lama said he wasn’t so sure, it did give me pause, but let’s return to that little eye opener some other time.

Now, going back to, and following along with, the Big Three, which were all run, and not very well, by men (sorry fellas; it’s true) which of course brought trouble (again, sorry fellas; it’s still true). Guys just can’t get along.“You still wanna be the leader? What for? You’re a lousy leader. I wanna be the leader”. So, as tribes went, the Jews broke into Sephardic or Ashkenazi tribes. One group went one way while the other roamed in another direction. In those days, everyone was a nomad; no border walls. The Islamics had the same leadership problems; broke into the Sunni and Shias, while the christians settled ‘happily’ into Catholicism (red shoes, big bucks, beautiful churches, frankincense and don’t forget the all powerful Crusades: Errol Flynn holding down the fort while King Richard went off to smite the Muslims). Ah, the good old days.

The all powerful Big Three ruled their assorted domains as they damn well pleased. No one was knowledgable enough to question their supreme authority until around the mid 1400s when Martin Luther and the Gutenberg printing press came along. Martin Luther was tired of the Catholic church; too many rules and not enough charity. Life changed dramatically when ordinary people learned to read. Reading was a game changer. The fine print was very enlightening for the working classes. Around the same time, or shortly thereafter, Henry VIII was trying to dump Catherine, his first wife (she couldn’t give him a male baby so what good was she? This was before the male Y chromosome was discovered, so it really wasn’t her fault, but that’s another movie. In fact, there are a lot of movies about him, even a few songs: "I'm Henry the Eighth I am"). Anyway, he famously denounced Catholicism and announced a new religion: Protestantism; those who protested the church and, purely serendipitous (she says ironically), this allowed him to marry Anne. Of course, all hell broke loose (pardon the pun). While priests were running for their lives, Catholic churches were losing their roofs, Henry’s wives were losing their heads and all the denominational money was going who knows where (well, Cromwell knew, but later, he too lost his head). While the King of Hearts was screaming “off with their heads”, next island over, the Scots liked the idea of Presbyterians, brought forth by a Swiss man, John Calvin, the basis for which was somewhat akin to ‘Catholic Light’ or maybe it was 'Protestant Light'; not sure which. Not to be left out, northern Ireland went Protestant while the rest of the country remained Catholic.

So here we were, what started out as tribalism, had now become a source of separateness and exclusivity, not to mention patriarchy. A lot of people didn’t know which way to turn (and don’t get me started on the Spanish Inquisition); where was God's light? People threw up their hands and, wanting to keep body, soul and family together for a while longer, decided to hop the next ship and leave the country, now that they knew the earth was not flat. A bunch of folk came to north America, landed at Plymouth Rock, where the Indians said “what the hell are these white people doing here and what's with those outfits”, then went back to worshipping the great outdoors and revering everything to do with animals and the land. That all changed after Europeans wiped out most of them with European diseases but, again, that’s another story. Back to getting away from all the nonsense in Europe, a lot of people still missed that old time religion, although not so much that they wanted to return to the old country, so the men started their own religious factions while traveling across country. Women didn’t get into the act until the 1800s. In no time, there were Amish, Mormons, Methodists, Baptists, Jehovah’s witnesses, Mennonites, etc. Listen to Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show by Neil Diamond or turn on the TV today and somebody is preaching about salvation, most often about sending money to keep the ‘ordained’ TV minister in Armani and a private jet (so many more stories). The new ministries mixed with the old and a sprinkling of the Big Three religions still managed to sneak into the new world, ergo St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Temple Emanu-El in NYC and the Islamic Center of America in Grand Rapids. And there you have it. That was then, this is now.

To bring this diatribe to a close and, circling back to the wise words of Bill Burr, pretty much all these religions and philosophies boiled down to: (1) the golden rule, (2) the seven deadly sins, and (3) the ten commandments, which still doesn’t explain why everyone thinks that everyone else’s religion is stupid since they’re all basically the same; ask any wiccan, dudeist, druid or radical fairy.