Browse Category: New Jersey

HELLO AGAIN, ADAM

Originally posted on the website:
ctmonkeybanner

Last night I went to an open mic event at a writers group in the Hudson Valley in New York. It’s a monthly event. This is the third time I’ve been there to read. The meeting is held nearly 80 miles from where I live. But with all the driving I’ve done in my life, 80 miles is a mere jaunt across town. I like the virtual anonymity of the group. No one knows me. No one remembers my name. There are at least 20 or more writers who sign up to read each month. Some are very good. Some show signs of promise. Some… well you end up wishing that a few would run out the back door and dive into the chilly Hudson River. Each reader is allowed five minutes. They say that everyone gets 15 minutes of fame in their life. I drive over an hour for 5.

Participating in the Hudson Valley writers group (and another group in the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania) has become part of my better writing strategy. It has been good to brush shoulders with several talented published writers. The encouragement and feedback after reading is also helpful. For instance, even though no one remembered my name, a few did remember that at last month’s meeting I read a piece that I wrote in 2004 while my father was suffering with cancer. It was called “It’s Not Like the Movies.”

My opportunity to read was nearly foiled last night. As I entered the town in which the meeting is held I looked at the passenger seat of my car and realized that I forgot my reading material at home! In my hurry to get out the door and on my way, I forgot to grab the folder with my printed article. My heart sank and I almost jammed on the breaks in the middle of the main street. But a thought came to my mind. I remembered that the writers group has an office in the building where they meet. They would most likely have internet access. Backup copies of my writings are stored on a top secret web server. Thankfully, I uploaded the latest revision of the article I intended to read. With a little luck the group’s director would allow me to use their computer to access and print the article. Luck was with me and I was able to print it. Ah! The wonders of modern technology! Forget your papers at home and they will meet you 80 miles away in a matter of minutes!

The article I read is titled “Adam.” Some of you might remember it. I wrote it at 4 AM after sitting in a New Jersey bar all night. One thing I noticed just before I got up to read last night was that this article was originally written on February 14, 2003 – Valentine’s Day. How appropriate! For those who would like to read it again and for those who did not read this article before, I am including it here. I remember when I first wrote this, one good friend of mine emailed me and asked, “Are you okay? That was pretty intense!” I told her then, “Yes, I’m okay. It’s the other guy in the story that wasn’t.” Funny how life goes. At this time in my life, over the past few months, I’ve become “the other guy” again in certain respects. I’ve become “Adam” to a certain degree. If you ask if I’m okay, I’ll still say, “Yes.” But I might not be able to answer so quickly and confidently right now. I guess what I should say is, “I will be okay.” These things have a way of working themselves out.

Read the original “Adam” article here.

I’M TOUGH. BUT NOT LIKE THAT.

Originally posted on the website:
ctmonkeybanner

Do you like the thrill of being in a crowd? Are you in need of bodies slamming against yours? Do you like the rush that goes through you when a mass of people moves suddenly and you are lifted right off the ground and carried several feet before landing? Do you like the pleasure of a cute, sweaty girl jiggling all over you and her hair all in your face? (It’s no problem if you keep your hands up at least by your chest so you don’t inadvertently grab anything you shouldn’t, if you know what I’m saying. You need to keep your hands up anyway to protect yourself from the moshers.) If you are craving any of what I just described, than there is only one thing you need:

A Primus concert!

My good Buddy O, my son T, and I went to Roseland Ballroom in New York City to see Primus last night. (Yes, I’ve reverted to using initials instead of full names again. Remember, I’m incognito here.) Buddy O is a huge Primus fan and he’s a fantastic bass player. If you know anything about Primus, you know that their music is driven by the song writing and bass playing of Les Claypool. It is no wonder that Buddy O loves their tunes. He and I have played some of their songs together in the past. So, I knew that he would definitely appreciate going to this concert. And my son T, he likes Primus a lot too. See, I’m raising him right!

We three bumpkins from New Jersey attempted to use the trains to get into the city instead of driving this time. We took the Path train from Newark to 33rd St. in Manhattan. Then we got the R subway up to 49th St. From there it was just a short walk to Roseland on 52nd St. Once we figured out just how to use the machine to purchase Metro cards, the trip into the city was a smooth one. The subway between 33rd and 49th was completely packed at 6:30 when we got on it. We couldn’t even reach the bars to hold onto. We had to press our hands against the ceiling to keep our balance. There’s one problem being a tall guy. As soon as I lift my arms over my head, my armpits are right in someone’s face. Luckily for my fellow passengers, I had applied copious amounts of Ban deodorant to the old pits just before leaving home.

After a quick stop for a slice of tasty New York pizza, we arrived at Roseland to find a mile long line waiting to get in. There was a leftover hippie-type guy frantically canvassing the line looking to buy a ticket from someone. Too bad I sold an extra ticket that I had a few blocks before we got there. I should have waited and made a killing off the hippie! He probably would have paid me a pretty penny and maybe even thrown in his hemp bracelet and John Lennon glasses. Later I saw him inside making his way through the boisterous crowd, unaffected by the chaos. It must have been the mushrooms helping him.

The opening act of the show isn’t worth mentioning. They did have a unique creativity going on with two cellists and a drummer comprising the band. However, the singer’s pseudo-political comments before a few songs make the band unworthy of mention by name here. Buddy O even turned his back to the stage after one of her comments. That same comment prompted the crowd to throw things at her through the whole song. I just wanted to tell her she was a big, fat, pinko Communist. But that wouldn’t have been nice.

It seemed like it took an eternity for Primus to take the stage. It always feels that way when I’m waiting for a band I really like to come on. The stage hands tuned guitars and checked mic levels and all that jazz. Then they left the stage. People cheered expecting the show to start. But the stage hands came back. This happened several times. Once when the stage hands came back, a group near us started chanting, “You’re not them! You’re not them!” Finally they left for the last time and the house lights went out. That was when the crowd surged. I got shoved from behind and thought I was going to go down when my feet got tripped up. Then we surged backwards, then sideways. As soon as Primus began kicking out the riff to the first song, “Harold of the Rocks,” the place went berserk! People were jumping up and down, slamming into each other, screaming. There was nothing you could do to resist the currents running through the crowd. I soon realized that to try to stand still and hold my ground was a seriously faulty plan, especially when I was lifted right off my feet while wedged between several people. Then I thought that if I bounced and jumped a little like everyone else I would probably fare much better. But that activity became weird as soon as I realized that by jumping I was humping some sweaty dude in front of me! I stopped. I’d rather get plowed over and trampled into the floor than give any guy the impression that I had some kind of affinity for his cheeks. Yes, there were girls mingled into the whole mess. But while that was attractive, it also made things more difficult because I didn’t want to hurt any of them. At one point I felt someone’s hands grab onto my shoulders. I turned to see a girl hanging onto me and jumping her little rock-n-roll heart out. That was nice and all. But at another point, after getting slammed into pretty hard and losing my cool, I grabbed the people in front of me and pushed them forward as hard as I could, plowing them through a few rows of bodies. Then I realized that one of the people I had a grip on was a girl. Damn! I beat it out of there and hid in case her boyfriend was nearby. I didn’t want to get hurt. Wait. To be afraid of getting hurt by a girl’s boyfriend while in the midst of a frenzied mass of Primus fans where one was bound to get hurt anyway seems to be an unnecessary anxiety.

I did get kicked in the head by a girl who was crowd surfing over us. And a guy in front of me that was pumping his fist in the air along with the music whacked me in the forehead. But I didn’t get hurt too badly. My feet got the most abuse. Remind me to wear steel-toed shoes for the next Primus concert. I came close to getting hurt a few times by some guys that were doing some pretty violent moshing. One tough looking bald guy seemed out to intentionally hurt people by running into them. That wasn’t cool. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a head. Speaking of losing a head, one ingredient that the managers of Roseland Ballroom should have left out of the Primus mix was beer. People were trying to pass through that crowd with cups of beer raised above their heads. It was just my luck to get doused with beer at least three times. My shirt was soaked and dripping. I hate beer! Please, please, please! Pour rum on me! Spare me the beer!

There were two things about the show that disappointed me. The first was that the show had to be stopped after about 20 minutes because the crowd broke the barricade in front of the stage. The stage hands interrupted the band, turned the lights on and took 15 minutes to nail the barricade back to the floor. The second disappointment was that Primus only played for 90 minutes, including the down time for the barricade replacement and one short encore. When they walked off stage and the house lights came on, it just didn’t feel right. Everyone in the crowd just stood there looking at each other with a look on their faces that asked, “Is that it? What do we do now?” It was as if the lights suddenly exposed us in our foolish aggression and we all stood there with sheepish grins wondering if we should apologize for hurting each other. Then we made our way to the coat check, fetched our belongings, and five minutes later we were calmly strolling the streets of New York.

We entered the subway station at 49th St. at 11:30 to begin our journey home. We waited for the R train for over 20 minutes. Two N trains stopped and left during that time. Being the Jersey bumpkins we were, we didn’t know that the R doesn’t run downtown late at night. You need to take the N instead! Buddy O finally clarified that with a subway worker and we were able to get on the next N train. At 34th St. we had a little trouble finding the entrance to the Path station. So we took a break and bought hot dogs and beef shishkabobs from a street vendor. If one sees a street vendor after midnight, in a not so busy area such as we were in, one should question the wisdom of purchasing and consuming meat products from such vendor. Learn your lesson from me. Wait to get home to eat. After a wait that seemed longer than the wait for Primus to appear, the Path train to New Jersey arrived at the station. That was a long, sleepy trip to Newark. Buddy O was kind enough to give up his seat next to me to allow a tired but very pretty girl to sit down. I made sure to thank him for that later. But I bet this dark haired beauty wished she was standing on the opposite end of the train once she sat by me. I was reeking! I was covered with beer, smoked like a country ham by all the cigarette and marijuana smoke that surrounded me at Roseland and the residue of my own sweat and the sweat of a multitude was only beginning to dry on my skin. I was one sweet smelling bouquet. Let me tell you! I gave the girl a smile anyway. What the hell. Whatever she did in response wouldn’t be as bad as what I’d already been through that night. But damn! Don’t just ignore me, baby! Ouch! I’m tough. But not like that.

We got home at 2:30 in the morning after the 40 minute drive from Newark. Being the lazy bastard I am, I merely changed my shirt and jumped into bed when I got home. I know, “gross.” I wasn’t really lazy, just exhausted. Sometimes there’s a difference. To tell you the truth, 90 minutes of Primus was enough. I could use a good massage today. It’s not so bad when a band only leaves your ears ringing the next day. But Primus seems to be a full body experience. I can’t wait to see them on their next tour! I should be able to recuperate in a year or two! Mosh on!

TOMMY

14468320_10209331589319060_179748171029821559_o-copy

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

Once upon a time, in a lifetime faraway, my grandfather owned a diner. From the days of my earliest memories, Pop ran the diner. He rose at 4:30 every morning, without an alarm clock. He started the grills, warmed up the dishwasher, and welcomed the first customers at 6 AM. This was who he was. He made up for it with a daily nap in his downstairs office most afternoons.

I remember the office. It consisted of two small rooms and a smaller bath, or rather a “shower”. One room housed a desk with tumbling piles of receipts. The other, dimly lit, surrounded a double-sized foam mattress. Noxzema shaving cream and Close-Up toothpaste vied for predominance of the shower. It was only in dire cases that we dared tap on the office door to wake Pop in the middle of an afternoon.

My grandfather was a good man. He gave many people their first chance at a job. In addition to almost all of his grandchildren, Pop gave first jobs to many high school students in our town, one of whom was an old girlfriend of mine… story for another time. Beyond these many first starts, Pop was the helper of many a down and out fellow. From my farthest memories, Pop consistently hired men from a restaurant staffing agency out of Philadelphia. Most of these short-order cooks are now nameless faces, greasy-haired individuals apparently without house or family, soulless men of my childhood, smokers and drinkers all.

In addition to Freddie Schneider, flat-nosed out-of-towner who by miraculous length of days and despite steady streams of imbibed alcohol and cigarettes became a long-recognized pilgrim between the St. Cloud Hotel and the diner, there was five-foot-tall Tommy. Tommy was short but his heart stood tall. Tommy loved the bottled spirits. But he also loved our family. There were days when the bottle got the best of him. He would disappear for short seasons. Then I would come to the diner after school and Tommy would be back. Pop never condemned him. Tommy always returned loyalty and respect.

Tommy was the head evening cook during most of my high school days. I was the cashier and night “manager”, sixteen-year-old ruler of my female classmates who were fortunate enough to be hired by my grandfather… more stories for another time. When Tommy would vanish on one of his binges, I was the head cook, happy to exchange the handling of currency for the flipping of burgers.

Tommy had a woman. She was the widowed mother of one of the girls in my class. For easily deduced reasons, we mercilessly teased that girl with horrid renditions of “Hello Dolly”. She never saw the humor in it. Her mom was oblivious to her daughter’s hardships. Tommy loved her mom. Though I thought it was corny to see that short short-order cook nearly stand on his tippy-toes in order to put his arm around his girl, I now remember it as the act of a big man, and I realize that that’s as tall as a man gets. I still look up to Tommy in this respect.

As once-upon-a-time stories go, villains entered the plot, placid characters were disrupted and reality entered the scene. So it went with the story of Pop’s diner. One month after my high school graduation in June of 1981, Pop announced his retirement. The man was 81-years-old. He had served family and employees well. By the end of that summer, new owners had taken control of the diner, trampling freshly-painted stairs and unprepared hearts alike underfoot. I remember the non-English speaking chef plunging his nicotine-stained hands into bowls of macaroni salad. I remember the feelings of violation as Pop’s ways of procedure were carelessly neglected. I remember quitting my job at “my grandfather’s diner” and not being paid overtime by the new owner. I remember saying good-bye to Tommy.

As the world has a tendency to rotate and life has the impulse to move on, I worked at successive factories and then for the town road department after Pop laid the diner to rest. It was all new to me. I had only ever worked at our family business since I was 14. My early twenties was a time of blending into the background of our town’s economy. Once I was known as the grandson of the town’s best diner. Then I was just another blue-uniformed town road worker.

However, if the world has a tendency to rotate, it also has a tendency to come full circle. A moment of definition came one afternoon while I was standing outside the town garages. That day, under the hot summer sun, a small figure staggered across the parking lot through the heat waves. Stopping unexpectedly before me, there swayed Tommy. Most likely by the assistance of angels, the man was able to focus his eyes enough to recognize me. He stepped closer, managing to stop himself from tripping headlong into my chest. Gathering his intrinsic respect and sincerity, Tommy reached up and placed his hand on my shoulder. In that moment I was again Pop’s grandson. Tommy, setting the influence of alcohol aside, said, “Sammy, it’s me, Tommy. Remember me? It’s Tommy. Sammy, you’re grandfather was a good man. You are a good man, Sammy. I love you, Sammy.” Then the little man collapsed in my arms and I wish that I was still holding him these twenty years long. Tommy died suddenly from a brain tumor a few months later.

So, I ask myself, “Is this the way life goes?” Does a man live, despite his weaknesses of habit, to eventually make another man big by falling into his arms? Was the purpose of Tommy’s life to give stability to mine? Did he stagger into my arms to set my life in the right direction?

All I can say is, “Tommy, too early taken at the age of 50, I miss you. I love you too. My life was enlarged because of you. Thank you.”

Monmouth County 9/11 Memorial – April 9, 2006 (Photos)

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

The 9/11 memorial at Mt. Mitchill is striking. Significant times from the morning of September 11, 2001 are inlayed in the walkway leading up to the monument. Each of these is included in this gallery. These times are reflected in brief explanations to the side. They are also proportionally spread out, giving one a sense of the time span between them.

The monument is a beautiful, white, flying eagle that is clutching a twisted iron beam in its claws, part of the wreckage from the Twin Towers. The eagle is atop a black marble pedestal in which the names of Monmouth County citizens who died that day are carved beneath the names of their towns. In the distance below the eagle’s wings, New York City can be seen.

It is a moving scene which demands a certain amount of reverence and reflection. It was especially so the day we were there as the weather was very similar to that of September 11, 2001.

20060409mtmitchill001

20060409mtmitchill002

20060409mtmitchill003

20060409mtmitchill004

20060409mtmitchill005

20060409mtmitchill006

20060409mtmitchill007

20060409mtmitchill008

20060409mtmitchill009

20060409mtmitchill010

20060409mtmitchill011

20060409mtmitchill012

20060409mtmitchill013

20060409mtmitchill014

20060409mtmitchill015

20060409mtmitchill016

20060409mtmitchill017

20060409mtmitchill018

20060409mtmitchill019

20060409mtmitchill020

20060409mtmitchill021

20060409mtmitchill022

20060409mtmitchill023

THE LADYBUG, THE DADDY, AND URANUS

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

My 10 and 12-year-old daughters are visiting for the week. They are on spring break. Boy, those schools in Georgia! Spring barely starts and “WHAM!” they are on spring break! It’s not like New Jersey. Time drags on and on when you are in school here. Then, when Easter break finally arrives, they tell you the break is shortened because you have to make up for using a snow day or two. Well, that’s the way it used to be. With global warming and all, we are beginning to forget what snow is in New Jersey. I mean, we were on the beach, where children walked on the jetties in bare feet, on January 30, for crying out loud! Pretty soon we’ll have to close our schools to take a break in the beginning of April because it’s going to be as hot as August!

As I was saying, my girls are here. In the car, after leaving the airport, after a three hour flight delay, one of the girls had the idea of starting a story in which the four of us in the car contributed by adding a word in turn. The story got weird and crude. Yes, the childhood amusement that comes from bodily functions!

Alright… so it still amuses me too! Here is our weird little story. I’m sure I will be inundated with emails from publishers eager to print this in hardbound!

THE LADYBUG, THE DADDY, AND URANUS

Once upon a time, a ladybug crawled and peed yellow pee. So, as we wiped his urine, Daddy laughed, and cried, and pooped. Uranus was shining overhead. BM slipped, smelled, plopped, and squished on Daddy’s toes. The ladybug flew into Daddy’s body because his butt was very exposed.

Uranus visited the Earth.

THE END

I know, it’s weird. It’s gross. I’m sure someone will send me an email telling me what a bad Daddy I am, how I need to grow up and teach my kids some manners. Well… you send ’em. I’ll print ’em. And we’ll all wipe with ’em!