July 27, 2007
I just came back from a whirlwind, semi-impromptu trip with my husband to Busch Gardens/Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia. I realize that this is the sorta trip that families with oodles of kids go on. In the kid department right now, we are oodleless, but we like coasters (even rode one on the day we got married) and we like to experience the weirdness of straight-and-narrow America.
Now Busch Gardens is special in the world of theme parks because it’s owned by Anheuser-Busch and thus the policy is to let adults drink beer anywhere they please on the grounds (this is contrary tohow most amusement parks operate--usually beer is only available in one restaurant and you have to drink the beer within the confines of said restaurant). The downside is that what is available is Anheuser-Busch beer, but luckily at some of the food stands they went a little deeper into the cooler than just Bud and Bud Light—-like a stout called Bare Knuckle, which was inoffensive. I mean it was no Sam Smith’s or Guinness for that matter, but still, a buzz was achieved. Oh, and make note: there wasn’t nearly as much vomiting as you would expect in a place that combines loop-d-loops with beer guzzling.
As I’ve already begun to rant about Busch Gardens, let’s really hash it out here. The theme of the park, if you aren’t familiar, is Europe. As in Europe the continent, not the terrible ‘80s band that gave you the hit single Final Countdown (which should only ever be praised if you are talking about G.O.B. theme’s song from Arrested Development).
Needless to say, the whole Europe theme was cheesy--especially because they totally cheated in the France section by also including a subsection there named "New France" (that's Canada, to you all reading this, and Canada is absolutely not in Europe). Also, the England section was a rip off--it had zero rides in it, a whole assful of shops, but no rides.
We went to ride coasters, and the coasters we rode. Their brand new one is called the Griffon and was a lot of fun. Its first hill is a 90 degree drop and before you go down it, the ride hangs the cars over the edge for 4.5 seconds--that's right, you just hang there. You really need to be in the first or second row to appreciate this. Plus, it had an entrance we found by accident for “single riders” who wanted to ride. This line was significantly shorter than the regular line—-a 10 minute wait as opposed to 30. The downside to that line was that I didn’t necessarily always get to sit next to my husband because, as single riders, they treat you like corks stopping leaks in barrel and just stick you anywhere in any row to fill empty seats. We did sit next to each other on it twice, and we rode it four or five times, so it wasn't too bad.
There was also the Big Bad Wolf, which is a coaster I've heard about since I was a kid. I can remember people wearing t-shirts proclaiming that they had survived a ride on the damn thing. So I was happy to take it on. It has no loops, but is cool ‘cause it kinda takes you through a fake village and the woods like a running wolf. It is a coaster that is definitely best ridden in the front car—the front car is a totally different experience on this one. It was fun, but not without its issues. First off, the real major hill is right at the end, and to get up it, the ride kinda comes to a startling halt in order to start the chain-aided climb up, so it throws the whole flow of the ride off--but then it drops you right over this river. It is exhilarating, but still a little off kilter.
The other coasters there are: Apollo's Chariot, which is another non-looping ride, and is basically just a ton of camel hump hills, with the first hill being a 210 ft. drop. It is a great ride, you go weightless something like six times without ever going upside down. Camel humps have always been a favorite feature of coasters for me. Alpengeist is a looping coaster, and it feels like a long ride. Of course, I’m sure you’re not on it for very long, but as far as coasters go, it feels like a lifetime. And finally, the Loch Ness Monster, which I believe is the oldest coaster in the park, and it shows. It does loop, and it is steel, but it rides like a wooden coaster. That is, it roughs you up quite a bit, throwing you to the left and right, threatening to give you whiplash.
So those are the coasters. There’s also a haunted house ride called the Curse of DarKastle that was fairly high-tech--you wear 3-D glasses and CGI ghosts wreak havoc on your psyche (and eyes). And though the effects are great, what really makes the ride is that it in itself is a coaster and you go up and down hills and the car spins around.
They also had a mini zoo—wolves, lorikeet atrium, bald eagle. Call me crazy, but the older I get, the less I enjoy zoos. Wild animals in enclosures sadden me. The enclosures never seem large enough and the animals look bored beyond belief. As for a captive bald eagle, all I thnk is: Wait, isn’t this giant creature a symbol of freedom, and you idiots have it shackled to a perch? Sigh.
One last thought on Busch Gardens. We stopped for lunch in the Germany section at this huge cafeteria/theater called Das Festhaus only to encounter a bunch of idiot college-aged kids--part of the park's cast-- singing and dancing in a gazebo in the middle of the room (an oompah band was playing in the attic of the gazebo—pleae, don’t make me explain what I mean by attic of the gazebo). Anyway, these very blonde performers are wearing tyrolean garb, singing Germanesque songs and dancing polkas (which I'm pretty sure are Polish dances and not German, even though Germany did help herself to Poland at one point).
Somehow, they also managed to work in a version of the Chicken Dance (yes, the very one that is standard at nearly every wedding). And as I sat there munching on French Fries (try eating healthfully in a theme park) all I was thinking is, "These performers must be drama/theater majors from universities all around the country. Poor things must think this is the first step to Broadway. They must hate doing this." I mean can you imagine--doing five 30-minute shows a day hoofing around like the Hitler Youth Choir?
The next morning, we spent two hours tooling around Colonial Williamsburg (our hotel was literally a two-minute drive away). Luckily, you don’t need to buy tickets for most of it. You can walk around it freely for the most part. If you want to see inside the fort or the capitol bldg or the governor’s residence, etc. then you gotta cough up some shillings, or whatever it is they charge.
At one point, I nearly had a heart attack when they started shooting cannons off in what turned out to be a mock town meeting on a green to announce Virginia’s decision to secede from the crown. It was not all that inspiring -- I don't know why -- maybe because I've been to too many similar places over the years (most notably Long Island's Old Bethpage, which is a historical town my parents used to take us to nearly every summer for a day trip) or maybe it was just the fact that it was very hot, and the sun was baking all of the horse poop on the streets into a pie of mad crazy stinkiness.
The important thing is, right outside of the Colonial part, there is a small “downtown” plaza of shops. One is called The Peanut Shop and it sells gourmet foods and kitchen wares. The point here is, if you are appalled by the tourist prices for food in Williamsburg, go here. They have canisters of nearly every thing they sell sitting open on shelves for customers to taste. So go, “sample” liberally then skip lunch and the $7 sandwiches.
Finally, we chose to take the long way home by driving across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel. Neither my husband nor I had ever done that before, so now we got to knock that off ofthe engineering marvels we needed to see list.
The most important thing about the bridge-tunnel is that it is a death trap for seagulls. There were at least a dozen seagull carcasses on every one of the bridge portions. Part of the problem is the damn birds just sort of spread their wings and hang in the air, riding wind gusts or thermals or what-have-you, right near the edge of the bridge. They hang very low to it because the bridge is just 20-25 ft away from the water, and I imagine they are hovering looking for fish to eat and then *WHAM* get walloped from behind by passing vehicles. Luckily, I neither hit any nor saw any in the midst of being hit.
So that was our typical family trip with our little family or two. It was fun. It was whirlwind (we drove down on Tuesday afternoon and were back in Brooklyn by 11:30 p.m. Thursday night). It was totally, unmistakenly an American vacation experience. I enjoyed it, and I enjoyed how it reminded me of the family trips that I used to take with my parents and siblings. Exhausting, but fun. Always fun.
July 23, 2007
Saturday was the Siren Festival at Coney Island. It is a free concert presented by The Village Voice. Let me congratulate my husband and me for once again making it to both the Mermaid Parade and Siren Festival this year (though last year we sat out the Mermaid Parade when it started to downpour as we prepared to get on the train with friends -- we changed plans on the fly and instead we went bowling at the Port Authority. That was a remarkably interesting day.) Anyhow, hitting both of the big hipster events means that I am pretty much wrapped up with my Coney Island visits for 2007 (geez, I love that beachy community).
My husband and I managed to get out to the stages in time for the first band to play (scheduled for 1:30 pm), which was fortuitous because the first act was the one band that I truly wanted to see: The Twilight Sad. I've got one of their EPs and their debut long-playing album, and since the spring I have been trying to get to see them live. The issue is that the foursome are from Glasgow, Scotland--not exactly local.
Ahhh, how easily touched I tend to be by Scottish bands. My whole being is moved.
Anyway, The Twilight Sad's jaunts to New York are not all that frequent. Apparently, in fall 2006 they were in New York for a three month spell, but I didn't discover them until early 2007. They were scheduled to play Luna Lounge in April or thereabouts in anticipation of their first full-length album's release, but canceled when the band they were opening for couldn't get into the U.S. due to visa difficulties. Oh, the frustration. Oh, sweet relief!
Experience has taught me that Siren is not the best place to see a band live. The open-airness makes for terrible sound, and then there is the crowd to deal with. However, this time around, the sound on the W. 10 St. stage was outstanding. And because The Twilight Sad went on so early, the crowd was minimal, so we got close and I loved it. They sounded great.
James Graham (the singer) was entrancing to watch, he tended to face profile and roll his eyes into his head, all demonic-like. And he sings with a fierceness and a passion that is quadrupled by his thick Scot's brogue. So good. Mark Devine is a mad drummer -- he looks fourteen, but hammers away with such driving force (sometimes with Graham's help) so precisely that it is total entrancement. That spell is matched by the droning hum of Andy MacFarlane's guitar. And what is a shoegazer-influenced band without a laconic bass player? It only helped that bassist Craig Orzel looked and acted like a clone of a U2's Adam Clayton (when he was a younger, more innocent rock star).
So yeah, Siren made me happy. If only because I finally got my first live taste of The Twilight Sad -- sure, they didn't play my favorite song, "Three Seconds of Dead Air" from the self-titled EP, but I didn't expect to hear it, afterall it is nearly nine minutes long. And though we had fun while we were there, the other bands simply didn't impress like The Twilight Sad.
We checked out the alt. country of Elvis Perkins (son ofPsycho star Tony Perkins -- yes, I know he later turned out to be gay, but he still managed to father a child) and the rockabilly punkness of the Detroit Cobras (both of which were on the Stillwell stage which had considerably more miserable sound). Then we trekked back over to the other stage and took in The Black Lips (who, frankly, came off as goofy and sloppy--sorry, I know a ton of folks love that band) and We Are Scientists, who sounded pretty alright, but not so much that I wanted to buy an album by them (which is pretty much how I've always felt about them--in offensive, but not worth an investment).
***
Every once in a while, we all do something that we'd never thought we'd have to do, or have the bravery to do, but we do it anyway. We do it, and we are no lesser or greater for it. We are just human. I did something like that on Friday night. I did something I thought I'd never have to do, and I handled it well. I amazed myself, really, with my control and even-handedness. We are amazing creatures. We humans have startling abilities to adapt and roll with the challenges life pours down on us. And, honestly, we are made stronger. Our mettle tested, we emerge that much heartier.
July 20, 2007
So I’m cat-sitting. Some friends are on a trip to California to celebrate their first wedding anniversary and I’ve been given charge of their cats—Lola, Pork Chop, and Ron Jeremy (I kid you not)--for a few days. Their apartment is in Ridgewood, Queens.
Last night we drove over there, and my husband and I were struck by the neighborhood. It seems stuck in a time just a little. Sure, there is an enormous, newly built CVS right on Fresh Pond Rd. (don’t ask me where the actual Pond is, we saw no hint of it), but most of the shops on the major avenue have a nostalgic look to them. Not that they were opened five years ago and chose to look retro, rather they are retro. These are businesses that have easily been in the same spot for thirty years. Many of the signs are hand-painted, and if not, they are corrugated plastic with plastic, bubble marquee letters. This is a film location scout’s wet dream for capturing the New York that existed between the end of WWII and the ‘80s.
And the apartment, well, our friends’ apartment is huge. Naturally, I was jealous of that. In my mind I was moving in our furniture and arranging the rooms. I’m sure the rent is cheap, too. Ridgewood is not exactly the happening neighborhood that Williamsburg is—we counted only one visible bar (the sign called it a tavern actually, and it looked like the kind of place where arena rockers like Aerosmith and Journey are on the jukebox—not my cup of tea, as they say). I didn’t see a single art gallery or hip clothing store. There were plenty of barbers, Polish delis, auto supply stores, laundromats, etc.
It makes you think. At my age, you begin to wonder if you need to be in the hip neighborhood anymore. I mean, I love Williamsburg, but the rents are steep. But look what I get for the rent, besides more space than I’d have in Manhattan. Right out the door there’s plenty to do—bars, galleries, antique furniture joints, McCarren park, the parks right on the East River, Bedford Avenue’s boutiques and record shops, and more. It is also gloriously close to Manhattan. One stop on the L and *poof*, your ass is in the city. The commute from here to my office is a trim twenty minutes (if the trains are cooperating). My gym is two blocks from my apartment. It is all terribly convenient.
Billyburg also has a population of people in it that, for the most part, share the same interests as me. Walk into a bar and nearly everyone in it will be able to talk about the same bands, books, and art or they will easily share with you their latest tattoo. I did not get the feeling that Ridgewood is populated with people whom I have much in common with.
Yet, Williamsburg is not going to be the Williamsburg I love for long. The developers are here, raising glassy towers into the sky. One-bedroom condos are selling for $1 million, and the artists are being squeezed out, further and further east. So is Ridgewood an option? Hmmmm… something to think about.
July 15, 2007
Last night a friend became a pusher for Harry Potter. She had just seen the new film that opened in theaters this weekend–Harry Potter and the Colon of Fiery Diarrhea, or whatever it is called—and wanted to know if I was going to see it. Of course, I am not.
First of all, it takes some kinda special movie to even get me to a theater. I take issue not with seeing a film on the big screen, but with the cost and discomfort of doing so—though another friend of mine is currently in Thailand and he reports that movies there are dirt cheap (like everything else) and you sit on plush couches and you can drink beer; he’s seen both Transformers and the new Die Hard movie TWICE since he’s been there just cause it’s a luxurious thing to do. Back to Harry Potter, though. I won’t be going to see it, because I am one of the few who hasn’t been smitten by the boy wizard. Though, I do applaud Daniel Radcliffe (he who plays Potter on screen) for taking on the lead in Equus, which is one of my favorite plays.
My friend then suggested I try reading the books. “Just try the first one,” she pleaded. A resounding no was my reply. I told her that A) I dislike suspending my disbelief for fantasy novels B) I stopped reading children’s novels when I was in the third grade and C) I read books for poignant character studies and well-written turns of phrase. She conceded there are no well-written turns of phrase in the Potter books.
Also, her telling me that the rest of the world loves Harry Potter backfired. The thing I find least appealing about popular things, is the fact that they are popular. So knowing of her's and the world's personal adoration for this series of books did nothing to sway me. I still have never seriously considered reading one of them. Buuuuut, as I am now within 40 pages of finishing the book I am currently reading, I should consider my next literary move. Is there room for the lightning-bolt-scarred Potter and his wand, broom-riding athleticism, moppish best friends and predictable plots? No, I am afraid there is not. Perhaps I'll give The Sorrows of Young Werther another spin.
***
Lately I've been obsessing over my feet. Do not consider this a foot fetish, however. Rather, I have some messed up tootsies that are more or less a constant source of pain. They are in the worst possible shape ever. And that, without a doubt is because of all the running.
Right now, I am missing a toenail on my right foot (for weeks that nail was painful to the touch and there was a bruise underneath it and then it started lifting away from the toe and eventually I was able to remove the whole thing). Just a purplish, exposed nail bed tops the middle toe on that foot. I’ve lost nails before, so I’m fairly ok with it. Funny, ‘cause friends are not. Nothing, it seems, makes people cringe like a good story about losing a toenail. I have painful calluses on the balls of both feet, with well-defined, rock hard ridges along the sides.
My left foot has a huge bruise across the arch. That has nothing to do with running though–going down a hill barefoot at the wedding last weekend I stumbled on a tree root and fell. Voila—bruised arch. Try running seven miles on something like that. It's not fun. It hurts. My running shoes, with their outstanding arch support, make it hurt even more.
I wonder how one goes about finding a reputable podiatrist.
July 8, 2007
This weekend my husband and I went to Pennsylvania for a wedding. What did I learn? Pennsylvania is in need of much better road signage. Dorney Park has absolutely no lines for its roller coasters during the afternoons. The city of Bethlehem has a quaint old cemetery with many 200 -year-old graves, and a surprsing number of the female dead were named Anna. The city of Reading no longer has hundreds of outlet centers in it. But none of that is what I wanted to go on about.
The wedding made me want to take a moment to reiterate my love for my husband. He is gentle and sweet and like no other man I have ever met. There will never be another.
It is not mine, this heart that I was born with, it is his. He is the one who holds it, the entire, pink, beating ball of it--day in and day out. I surrendered it to him a long time ago, and I do not want it back. It is his. My heart thumps, flutters, aches, and breaks in unison with his.
From our first date and ever since, there has been an ease of knowing. An immediate comfort. A humor. A passion. A best friendship. An undying connection. There is nothing that can disrupt that. It is the truest love. He is what makes me most happy. He is my favorite thing. To think of life without him is to think of nonexistence. There is nothing that I cannot endure to be with him. Not one thing.
Last night he held my hand as we slept. I woke up and found us intertwined. Those are the sort of moments that make me gush. I want him, and anyone who reads this, to know that I love him. With my everything, for eternity, with my everything.
July 2, 2007
Pres. G.W. Bush commuted the sentence for Scooter Libby. Pres. G.W. Bush is a fucking idiot. Libby is fucking lucky that Pres. G.W. Bush isn't running for office again.
***
What is it like to have a job where you simply cannot get away from what's going on? Like a weather person. No matter where you go, the weather is there.
***
When do the things that meant so much to you begin to fade in importance?
July 1, 2007
It’s a sort of crushing, the feeling of life, I think.
***
I have to admit that I do not get the appeal of the legendary Strand book store near Union Square. This sentiment is contrary, I'm sure, to what most of hip New York feels. I just don’t enjoy going there. Yes, there is an allure to browsing thousands and thousands of books. However, the aisles are too narrow and too crowded, the shelves too tall, and the selection too hit and miss. Also, there are way too many hard-bound used books. Sure, hardcover books look great on a shelf, but they’re truly a chore to lug around and hold open to read on the subway.
I spent at least one full record album there this weekend (that is, while I was there I listened to the entirety of The National's newest album, The Boxer on my iPod), and the whole time I felt lost and hopeless. My first instinct was to go up to the Barnes & Noble on the north end of Union Square, but then I felt guilty for not choosing an independent store. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I go into Virgin Megastore when I know that the charming and spacious and clean and airy and indie Sound Fix is something like three short blocks from my apartment in Williamsburg. So guilt firmly set in, to the Strand I went.
It didn’t help that I went to the Strand not knowing what I was going to buy. I’ve just read two nonfiction books in a row (Elizabeth & Mary, which is a history of the relationship between Queen Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots and quite good, and Rousseau’s Dog, which I liked less and looked at the love/hate relationship between thinkers David Hume and Jean-Jacques Rousseau). So all I knew was that I wanted a novel, but I didn’t have anything in mind. When it comes to novels, I like depressing stories about fatally flawed characters who are unequipped to cope with what the world throws at it. If the main character is mentally insane or drug addicted or an alcoholic, that is all the better. German authors are good at fitting that bill. Yes, the Germans do dour, drunk, and desperate so well.
So did I get a German novel? Well, close enough--the author is Austrian: The Loser by Thomas Bernhard. I have to admit that I’m a little frightened by it. Though the story is right up my alley, the writing is highly stylized. Get this bit from the back cover: “Written as a monologue in one remarkable unbroken paragraph…” Zoiks! The whole book is one paragraph! And then there is this, from the Translator’s Notes: “…the logical transitions between clauses (but, although, whereas) are often missing or contradictory, and the verb tenses are rarely in agreement.” Ack! Oh well, I hope it is worth the effort. I hope also that it isn’t anything like the writing of Thomas Pynchon, whom I gave one chance and have never gone back to.
***
It is a very funny thing to smile very slowly and deliberately, with great effort. To first say, in response to someone to whom you are talking, “Oh, that’s great! That makes me very happy.” And then, slowly, with a great deal of trying, smile. The smile will look, at first like teeth gritting. It must be done, though, as that is your natural way of smiling. It is necessary to slightly quiver your lips, too. It’s something ridiculously funny to see. It might not translate so well written down like this, but believe me, it is funny to witness.
