Ways And Means
Hello World,
Well, just when you expect the month to settle down and peter out, instead we have another week full of notable events and remarkable occurrences. I ought to know, because here I am, remarking on them right now and writing notes about them besides. Jumping on the bandwagon of the recently departed, we lost two jazz legends in Sal Mosca and Max Roach, followed by Leona Helmsley, and bringing up the rear, another one of our cats, who may not have been considered a celebrity in the wide world, but in our house, was certainly a star. I don't doubt George Steinbrenner's assertion that Heaven needed a shortstop, and it would seem self-evident that musicians would always be in demand beyond the Pearly Gates. But I'll admit that I'm stymied at the question of what gap there could have been in the hereafter that needed to be filled by The Queen of Mean at this point, when you would think that enough nasty people had already passed through its portals to render the late Leona wholly superfluous. Of course, I could say that there's just no standards anymore, but that would be mean, and I think we can all agree that one Queen of Mean is more than enough.
Meanwhile, we can thank one of our alert readers (thanks, Deb!) who was kind enough to send along the following date-related information:
=================================
For those looking for a holiday in August, feel free to co-opt my birthday, which is also a National holiday in Costa Rica:
Many pilgrims come to Cartago, Costa Rica, annually, to visit the city's principal church, the enormous Basilica de Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles, on the feast day of the Virgin of the Angels (August 2). The church has a statue of the Black Madonna known as La Negrita, who supposedly had great healing powers. The sick come to her statue in hope of a miracle from La Negrita.
According to folklore in Costa Rica, La Negrita appeared to a young native girl named Juana Pereira, in 1635. The rock where La Negrita made her alleged appearance is kept in a backroom in the basilica and is revered as a sacred relic and object of inspiration. The rock is supposed to be in the same location it was when La Negrita originally appeared, but it has been moved as the basilica was rebuilt. It is common for pilgrims to touch the rock in reverence.
I figure, if August 2 is a National holiday, then we deserve the day off.
=================================
I personally think that would do a lot to improve August, which I don't mind saying, certainly has room for improvement, and you can quote me on that. After all, people don't call me The Queen of Mean for nothing. (They'd better not!)
In other news, and this of a more local character, I was in downtown New York City last Saturday, on a get-together with two college students, and a somewhat vague plan to take in some sights. I had no trouble hopping aboard the 10:00AM train from New Rochelle to Grand Central, and I was hoping that my optimism was not misplaced that the bathroom renovations in the terminal had been completed since my last visit, several months earlier. That proved not to be the case, as half of the bathrooms were still closed, and the lines for the remaining ones were wrapped all around the lower level, even at that hour of the morning. I had a date to meet at 11:00, and still had to take a subway down to Washington Square, so standing on a long line was not an option for me. So instead, I dashed up the stairs two at a time to the main level, and ran like a crazy person through the main concourse to the subways. On a Saturday morning at 10:45, the concourse is a roiling sea of tourists, with half of them standing around taking pictures, and the other half posing. Even running as hard as I could, I felt like a salmon swimming upstream, and was basically making no headway in the crush of humanity. About halfway along, I heard myself say, "It's like Grand Central Station in here!" And don't think I didn't sound just like The Queen of Mean when I said it.
I jumped on the first subway to come along, and got to Laguardia Park not too much later, where I found the young ladies waiting at the foot of the Fiorillo Laguardia statue, and even have the pictures to prove it. Around the corner, the roads were closed and a street fair was going on, full of booths with all manner of colorful skirts, scarves and bags fluttering in the breeze, not to mention my favorite, the sidewalk psychic booth. Anyone who knows me will be surprised that I walked right past the funnel cake and zeppoles, and we enjoyed a more sensible brunch at Crepe Creations instead. Thus fortified, we took the subway even further downtown, until you would think you would run out of dry land, but stopped just in time at the historic Alexander Hamilton U.S. Customs House, handily located next to Battery Park. This Beaux Arts treasure has been beautifully renovated and is now serving a variety of purposes, including The George Gustave Heye Center of the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of the American Indian, and which has the added advantage of free admission. Although I was expecting more in the way of native artifacts, this display was more artistic, and included photographs, sculpture, videos, ceremonial outfits and musical instruments. For me, the biggest surprise was an exhibit of contemporary Indian art, and I was totally astounded at wildly inventive and exotically colorful paintings that looked like Paul Gaugin in the South Seas. (We found out the hard way that if you lean in towards them too close, the motion detector alarms go off, and the guards come flying in at you from every direction.) There is also a wide-ranging reference library, with a variety of artifacts, books and media. It will come as a surprise to no one that I availed myself of their gift shop, and while I was aghast at the $400 turquoise necklaces, $100 tiny silver spoons and $600 glass paperweights, I still managed to get a decorative stuffed cat ornament, some postcards and a eucalyptus candle for Bill, all of which I thought was a steal at under $20.
The next part of our plan was to round up some knishes at a pretzel cart on the corner, especially when we found out that one of the young ladies from Pittsburgh, had never even heard of a knish. We walked for blocks past food carts on every corner, and none had knishes. We finally settled for pretzels, but it was just not the same thing at all. Then we found ourselves at Trinity Church St. Paul's Chapel, where they have a wonderful memorial exhibit about 9/11, as the building had been used for the feeding and comfort of rescue workers at Ground Zero, from the very beginning and throughout the recovery efforts. The Chapel was built in 1766 (it's obviously going to take more than terrorists to knock that thing down!) and features a display of George Washington's pew on one side, and on the other side, the pew of George Clinton, who was New York's first Governor in 1777, and Vice President under Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. From there, we walked along Broadway and noticed small streets off to the side had been closed to traffic, and set up with chairs and tables for restaurant patrons to dine al fresco. At Broadway and Liberty, is a small plaza with decorative benches, planters, architectural elements and tables with checkerboards on top. Anyone who's been watching the news lately knows what happened next, and even I was surprised that my bad luck jinx followed me all the way downtown and caused the Deutsche Bank building at Ground Zero to burst into flames, mere yards from where we were sitting, and summoning dozens of fire trucks with their sirens screaming, plus clouds of black smoke in every direction. Obviously, it was not my intention to jinx the Deutsche Bank building, and I felt bad about that, so I didn't take any pictures of it burning, which set me apart from everyone else in the neighborhood at the time, all using their cell phone cameras to capture this moment in history. I may be mean, but I'm not diabolical.
That was about all the excitement I could stand in one day, so I decided to pack it in and head for home. I spotted a nearby subway station, and was soon speeding back to Grand Central Terminal, which was subdued compared to the morning, and just in time to catch a train back to the suburbs. The trip home was quiet and uneventful, and it reminded me of something I had noticed earlier in the day, that unlike many other localities, New York City is one of the few places you can be with its own soundtrack playing all the time in the background of your visit. It seems that everywhere you go, on the subway platforms, at the parks, in the stores or even just out on the streets, there is always music playing all day long, and probably longer. It's like having your own theme music following you around for some extravagant imaginary Big Apple adventure movie, where you get to be the star, at least in your own mind. Like a lot of things, you don't really notice it until you get home and it's not there anymore, and you return to being just an ordinary nobody, instead of the Toast of Broadway. I suppose it's just as well, because something like that could easily go right to your head, and the last thing we need around here is another Queen of Mean, and I ought to know.
Well, just when you expect the month to settle down and peter out, instead we have another week full of notable events and remarkable occurrences. I ought to know, because here I am, remarking on them right now and writing notes about them besides. Jumping on the bandwagon of the recently departed, we lost two jazz legends in Sal Mosca and Max Roach, followed by Leona Helmsley, and bringing up the rear, another one of our cats, who may not have been considered a celebrity in the wide world, but in our house, was certainly a star. I don't doubt George Steinbrenner's assertion that Heaven needed a shortstop, and it would seem self-evident that musicians would always be in demand beyond the Pearly Gates. But I'll admit that I'm stymied at the question of what gap there could have been in the hereafter that needed to be filled by The Queen of Mean at this point, when you would think that enough nasty people had already passed through its portals to render the late Leona wholly superfluous. Of course, I could say that there's just no standards anymore, but that would be mean, and I think we can all agree that one Queen of Mean is more than enough.
Meanwhile, we can thank one of our alert readers (thanks, Deb!) who was kind enough to send along the following date-related information:
=================================
For those looking for a holiday in August, feel free to co-opt my birthday, which is also a National holiday in Costa Rica:
Many pilgrims come to Cartago, Costa Rica, annually, to visit the city's principal church, the enormous Basilica de Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles, on the feast day of the Virgin of the Angels (August 2). The church has a statue of the Black Madonna known as La Negrita, who supposedly had great healing powers. The sick come to her statue in hope of a miracle from La Negrita.
According to folklore in Costa Rica, La Negrita appeared to a young native girl named Juana Pereira, in 1635. The rock where La Negrita made her alleged appearance is kept in a backroom in the basilica and is revered as a sacred relic and object of inspiration. The rock is supposed to be in the same location it was when La Negrita originally appeared, but it has been moved as the basilica was rebuilt. It is common for pilgrims to touch the rock in reverence.
I figure, if August 2 is a National holiday, then we deserve the day off.
=================================
I personally think that would do a lot to improve August, which I don't mind saying, certainly has room for improvement, and you can quote me on that. After all, people don't call me The Queen of Mean for nothing. (They'd better not!)
In other news, and this of a more local character, I was in downtown New York City last Saturday, on a get-together with two college students, and a somewhat vague plan to take in some sights. I had no trouble hopping aboard the 10:00AM train from New Rochelle to Grand Central, and I was hoping that my optimism was not misplaced that the bathroom renovations in the terminal had been completed since my last visit, several months earlier. That proved not to be the case, as half of the bathrooms were still closed, and the lines for the remaining ones were wrapped all around the lower level, even at that hour of the morning. I had a date to meet at 11:00, and still had to take a subway down to Washington Square, so standing on a long line was not an option for me. So instead, I dashed up the stairs two at a time to the main level, and ran like a crazy person through the main concourse to the subways. On a Saturday morning at 10:45, the concourse is a roiling sea of tourists, with half of them standing around taking pictures, and the other half posing. Even running as hard as I could, I felt like a salmon swimming upstream, and was basically making no headway in the crush of humanity. About halfway along, I heard myself say, "It's like Grand Central Station in here!" And don't think I didn't sound just like The Queen of Mean when I said it.
I jumped on the first subway to come along, and got to Laguardia Park not too much later, where I found the young ladies waiting at the foot of the Fiorillo Laguardia statue, and even have the pictures to prove it. Around the corner, the roads were closed and a street fair was going on, full of booths with all manner of colorful skirts, scarves and bags fluttering in the breeze, not to mention my favorite, the sidewalk psychic booth. Anyone who knows me will be surprised that I walked right past the funnel cake and zeppoles, and we enjoyed a more sensible brunch at Crepe Creations instead. Thus fortified, we took the subway even further downtown, until you would think you would run out of dry land, but stopped just in time at the historic Alexander Hamilton U.S. Customs House, handily located next to Battery Park. This Beaux Arts treasure has been beautifully renovated and is now serving a variety of purposes, including The George Gustave Heye Center of the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of the American Indian, and which has the added advantage of free admission. Although I was expecting more in the way of native artifacts, this display was more artistic, and included photographs, sculpture, videos, ceremonial outfits and musical instruments. For me, the biggest surprise was an exhibit of contemporary Indian art, and I was totally astounded at wildly inventive and exotically colorful paintings that looked like Paul Gaugin in the South Seas. (We found out the hard way that if you lean in towards them too close, the motion detector alarms go off, and the guards come flying in at you from every direction.) There is also a wide-ranging reference library, with a variety of artifacts, books and media. It will come as a surprise to no one that I availed myself of their gift shop, and while I was aghast at the $400 turquoise necklaces, $100 tiny silver spoons and $600 glass paperweights, I still managed to get a decorative stuffed cat ornament, some postcards and a eucalyptus candle for Bill, all of which I thought was a steal at under $20.
The next part of our plan was to round up some knishes at a pretzel cart on the corner, especially when we found out that one of the young ladies from Pittsburgh, had never even heard of a knish. We walked for blocks past food carts on every corner, and none had knishes. We finally settled for pretzels, but it was just not the same thing at all. Then we found ourselves at Trinity Church St. Paul's Chapel, where they have a wonderful memorial exhibit about 9/11, as the building had been used for the feeding and comfort of rescue workers at Ground Zero, from the very beginning and throughout the recovery efforts. The Chapel was built in 1766 (it's obviously going to take more than terrorists to knock that thing down!) and features a display of George Washington's pew on one side, and on the other side, the pew of George Clinton, who was New York's first Governor in 1777, and Vice President under Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. From there, we walked along Broadway and noticed small streets off to the side had been closed to traffic, and set up with chairs and tables for restaurant patrons to dine al fresco. At Broadway and Liberty, is a small plaza with decorative benches, planters, architectural elements and tables with checkerboards on top. Anyone who's been watching the news lately knows what happened next, and even I was surprised that my bad luck jinx followed me all the way downtown and caused the Deutsche Bank building at Ground Zero to burst into flames, mere yards from where we were sitting, and summoning dozens of fire trucks with their sirens screaming, plus clouds of black smoke in every direction. Obviously, it was not my intention to jinx the Deutsche Bank building, and I felt bad about that, so I didn't take any pictures of it burning, which set me apart from everyone else in the neighborhood at the time, all using their cell phone cameras to capture this moment in history. I may be mean, but I'm not diabolical.
That was about all the excitement I could stand in one day, so I decided to pack it in and head for home. I spotted a nearby subway station, and was soon speeding back to Grand Central Terminal, which was subdued compared to the morning, and just in time to catch a train back to the suburbs. The trip home was quiet and uneventful, and it reminded me of something I had noticed earlier in the day, that unlike many other localities, New York City is one of the few places you can be with its own soundtrack playing all the time in the background of your visit. It seems that everywhere you go, on the subway platforms, at the parks, in the stores or even just out on the streets, there is always music playing all day long, and probably longer. It's like having your own theme music following you around for some extravagant imaginary Big Apple adventure movie, where you get to be the star, at least in your own mind. Like a lot of things, you don't really notice it until you get home and it's not there anymore, and you return to being just an ordinary nobody, instead of the Toast of Broadway. I suppose it's just as well, because something like that could easily go right to your head, and the last thing we need around here is another Queen of Mean, and I ought to know.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 6:27 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home