Brooklyn Soul

Like my pops said years ago during a family visit up north, "Queens has no flavor" in comparison to Brooklyn, and he was right about that. Brooklyn was an incorporated city apart from the other boroughs for many years (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooklyn), and the seventh largest one in this nation. We didn't/don't need a lot of outside influence to hold our own as an area. As a result, its become a haven for many native New Yorkers, for being way off the beaten path of the much more saturated borough of Manhattan during the summertime, teeming with angry, tired, sweaty, and scared European tourists who just want a decent bite to eat, some cold water, a clean restroom, and a nice place to sit in the shade, which midtown does not do well.

What Manhattan does do really well is gouge the living daylights out of each and every tourist who steps foot on the island, just as it is designed to do as a business district and trade center for the world, and we do humbly thank you for your business (http://www.opentable.com/bryant-park-grill?cmpid=poi_page_referral#). Brooklyn was (and I imagine, will always be) my safe haven from the madness of Wall Street and the suburban nut-jobs working there desperate for cash and blow, in that order most of the time (until payday, at least), the crazy expensive and openly gay theater district (both of my parents are just as histrionic as any really expensive theater ticket so, thanks, but I'll pass on your tourist fare), and the out-of-towners who say they want "the real New York experience" but have no idea what that actually means, unless it involves a tour guide and a shopping trip. Uh huh...well, you ain't livin' it then.

Brooklyn was, for me, blessedly free of douchebags during my years there (from 1993-1998 and 2003-2013), and the insane foot traffic of so many people from around the world, each looking to make it and cash out before moving back to the 'burbs. But, to me, Brooklyn was the starting and finishing point that existed outside of the money-grubbing madness of the average Manhattanite seeking to put us down as "B&T" (Bridge-and-Tunnel: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridge_and_tunnel), which, for an island city, is one of the most asshole things you can say to a proud maritime people. Well, yeah, bitch, I do take bridges and tunnels to get the fuck away from insane assholes like you. Kudos! It spoke to the striving bourgeois mentality of Manhattan and their fucked up values, but not of my hometown.

In the Slope, I could grab a bite to eat and sit on a bench in peace by one of the worlds great city parks, unmolested by clusters of Asian tourists with too-big cameras, or the young Hasidic couple lost and looking for a subway to take them out it all (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borough_Park,_Brooklyn). Almost every day that I commuted from home to work and back, someone would ask me for help or directions, and I always knew why: I was the safest and sanest person they would meet that day (if not the year or their lifetime), in a too-crowded metropolis designed more for commerce than living. I looked both completely at home and totally on top of all the exit points around me, which I always tried to adhere to, like my group's motto of "Get in, get out, and nobody gets hurt."  

Word. It takes a lot of soul to do that right, and the people around me in so many office environments who were/are freaked out by the size, scale, and scope of my town(s) knew that, too. I played the game for all it was worth, and I didn't lose my soul in the process. That's "Brooklyn Soul" y'all, and it ain't fo' sale, ya dig? Yeah, you do. Sure you do. So, take a listen for yourself, kids. We're not goin' anywhere for quite some time. Get used to it. We did. All soul, baby!

http://sharonjonesandthedapkings.com/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharon_Jones_%26_The_Dap-Kings

https://daptonerecords.com/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daptone_Records

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bradley_%28singer%29
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funk

Seagrass

Kimberly is a sixth-generation weaver. And Lynette's granddaughter, Allisse -- they hope -- will be a seventh.

We've seen it countless times in the media: why all the fuss over this white rapper, or that jazz violinist from Harvard who paid for the privilege of playing at Carnegie Hall? What gives? This is equality! Or is it? 

I think you know it isn't, but if you want to feign ignorance, you'll know for sure after I finish this piece, because we all know cultural misappropriation* when we see it, hear it, or sell it. That cultural artifact IS NOT yours to have by birthright, and you know it isn't. 

When you borrow from someone's past without asking them for permission, or give them written consent, or at least do them the courtesy of paying what is often a small fee for their people's story, 
you rip them off again, which is why almost every ethnic minority on the planet still suffers from the ravages of poverty....because that's exactly the intended effect. Played the white man's game to win? Cool! 

Just don't look back, or lift up those who came first through recognition of their collective gifts, because that would make you honest in a very sneaky, nasty, dishonest, loathsome game. White girl from South Africa (and other empire-building African-Americans), you know who the fuck I mean. Kid, you keep rockin' to it, because that's all you, your background, and your life. You can't quit legit, can you? No, you can't. We have more than seven generations of strength. 

Welcome to today's assignment, class:

http://cbsn.ws/1CG7PSl

http://bit.ly/1TFnt4r

 

 

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cultural_appropriation

Monumental

Saving history from destruction, one piece of work at a time.

I decided to continue building on yesterday's themes about service and stewardship by writing to you today about a real-life situation from the past, and it is this: saving our greatest artworks from oppression and evil. Hitler and his regime didn't have one sole purpose in war, that of killing an entire religious ethnicity to create some wacky "master race". No, they wanted to wipe out any traces of our cultural past by stealing and secretly destroying the best of art, design, and statuary. 

It's a powerful story that's been largely untold until now. A handful of priests, nuns, clergy, and other lay people united with a small group of self-appointed warriors (who were also artists, writers, scholars, professors, and curators), and the few military men they could requisition, to rescue some of the greatest works of art that we have as a species; works that were to be burned forever (as so many were, or gifted to the German elite who stole them), so as to wipe out our past as a people, on NO BUDGET, with almost no support, and no additional resources granted to them of any kind from any ruling government, relying instead on their own ingenuity, bravery, and heroics, on the worst killing fields of Europe during the close of WWII.

Chew on that the next time you feel like you can't do something in life. I often live with less to get through tough economic times, so I know firsthand that you can do it, too. What are you waiting for? Permission? OK. Permission granted! Do it now!  I think she was worth it. What do you think?

http://www.monumentsmen.com/

Roman Bath

In the bath (March 2015).

Being multi-ethnic (and -racial as well as -lingual, but those are stories for another day) has its' distinct advantages. When in Rome, I was mistaken for a homegrown paisana taking her new "Americano" boyfriend for a ride in a pricey tourist joint by the Romano waiter, when in actuality I was on vacation with my soon-to-be annulled husband who was really just an old friend of mine from college. More on that some other time, too. True story! See it here! Click on link below! (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/10/boneyard.html)

Roman bath (March, 2015).

 
So when I see myself in pictures, I see different aspects of my ancient histories co-mingling in sometimes the most delightful ways. Angles, lighting, seasons: they all change the way I see myself and it what comes through in the photos.

On one particular morning this week, I caught sight of myself in some large mirrors mounted opposite to me on the bathroom wall while I dried off. I didn't know what I had yet, but afterwards I saw on this day in March that the "Italiana" in me came shining through, perfectly intact throughout the ages, as if I was still cloaked in a toga that was a la moda way back when. 

"Ala Mercadante", still intact (March 2015).

What do you see when you look in the mirror? 
Be honest with yourself, and you may be surprised (like I was) with what you see, particularly about what has come down through the ages intact within your genetic material that's still very much a part of who you are today. I can't think of a more solid case for genetics than the art I see around me that's also a part of who I am, too.

http://www.compassrose.com/static/PompeiiFresco.jpg

Classic Movie type

The Quiet Man.***

Since my introduction to the entrepreneurial world (which involves some hunger, a lot of anxiety, and much freedom), I've been cutting costs like a store having a fire sale the day after Christmas. All items must be sold! Bargain prices! SELL SELL SELL! 

I solved my "watching t.v. on a budget" dilemma through the acquisition of a cheap digital antenna and converter hooked into the back of my flat screen and...voila! There it was; the moving images we've come to know as modern t.v. The baddest part was the first channel it tuned in: a bitchin' classic movie channel aptly named "Movies!" with a capital "M" for a logo (which suits me just fine), airing a "Sinbad" movie with original Ray Harryhausen* stop-motion animation. WOW!

It's given me access to a host of golden oldies I wouldn't have found before, enhancing my education through the knowledge that humans really haven't changed all that much since the invention of modern cinema, because we really haven't. Families still struggle with dysfunction, powerful addictions, cycles of poverty, illness, and other dastardly things, albeit played by handsomer folk than that girl next door, but that's not very different than any other type of storytelling. 
If you're going to see a show, why not look at some pretty people? 
It'll make the time go faster.

The artist in me especially loves the opening credits, like a beautifully illustrated book with a gorgeously set title page. I've always preferred trailers over a full-length feature (for obvious reasons, like my time), and classics are no different. Check out some typesetting from back in the day, and bask in the knowledge that artists have always lead the way, whether you've realized it or not. You're welcome!

From the original 1943 version of "Heaven Can Wait".**

*     http://www.rayharryhausen.com/
**   http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0523932/bio?ref_=nm_ov_bio_sm
*** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Quiet_Man

Mrs. Reilly's Soda Bread

Katie Reilly is in the house!

You know me; I'm always looking for really good food, and traditional Irish fare is no different. I look for excellent, fresh ingredients that are written in a language that's easily understood. You know, "real food" 
as my Mom would say. So a recent grocery store trip was no different than other day except for one special person: Mrs. Katie Reilly, and her infamous Irish Soda Bread. 

The label on the back was my first tip off that I had indeed found something very special. There are no artificial ingredients added. 
Like, none. Don't believe me? OK. See here for yourself:

Real ingredients, with no crap added into the mix. Wow!

And so I put it in my basket, and went on my way...or so I thought. 
At home, I found another surprise underneath the store's adhesive label that I carefully pulled off, so as to not tear the bag. It was the real story of an actual woman named Katie, her clan, and how much her food and her kitchen meant to them as a group.

Buried treasure! "Arrrhh!"

It was an unbelievably good find, what with the plethora of fake brand names that flood store shelves nowadays; the openly desperate manifestation of many a rich corporation, in an industry that seeks legitimacy and the money that goes along with having the real thing. 

But if living in an actual Irish/American town like Pearl River that also has strong Dutch, Huguenot, and Native American roots has reaffirmed anything for me, it's that you can't steal someone else's history for very long. You either have it or you don't, just like Mrs. Reilly.

Behold: the best soda bread I've ever had.

If you still doubt the power of authenticity in a world chock full of posers, let me close it down for you, finally. It was so good that I bought one for my exceptionally finicky Mom. She ate three pieces of it in a row, and she usually has a cup of yogurt for her afternoon tea. That's right, my dear readers, it passed "The Mom Test". Put that in your pipe and smoke it, "Irishers". Enjoy!

Happy St. Patrick's Day 2015, to you and yours.

http://www.myveronanj.com/tag/atie-reillys-original-irish-soda-bread/ 

http://www.celticpassions.com/about_katie_reilly.html 

Cast Iron

Reflection in oil.

As my mom ages, so does her Multiple Sclerosis, which necessitates changes and adaptations in her tool usage. What was once an old stand-by becomes old, as it crosses over into unusable territory, given the advances of time upon her. And so it came to pass that she finally let go of a kitchen stable in our household, her old cast iron pan. Cool! Can I have it?, was the question I asked a few days later, when I realized it was now up for grabs. With severe handicaps, you learn to roll with the punches. It's given me a laisse-faire attitude that's whittled away the more hysteric components of my character, something I forget until an outsider comes into the picture, which often happens, sometimes with explosive effects, as it did one afternoon when a friend of mine who cleans off the cars in my mom's elderly development found out on a snowy day. He found her on the floor, talking to a LifeAlert operator over the phone line, and he, well, readers, lost his shit over it. I got a real shaky emotional VoiceMail, which I had to laugh at. 

Hand-etched Makers Mark that reads: "Ware, Sidney, -0-"

My mom delivered a great shock to his far more delicate nervous system, dragging him backwards into heady emotional waters, like his mother's death, the condition of his own elderly ailing dad, and that of his mortality, late in the game as it is in our 40s. Potent fare for a sunny snowy afternoon, and not the $25 worth or car cleaning he was expecting. I had to text him through the dangerous shoals of his own emotional ineptitude, and at the end of our brief exchange, he understood far better who I am as a person, and just how well I handle extremes. It's why he cleans my mother's car along with his ten other odd jobs, and picked her up off the floor one snowy afternoon, while I sit here typing to you, dear readers. Now he absolutely knows this and that knowledge cannot be undone. It is forever, as is his understanding of the kinds of conditions I operate under. I do all this, and that, and I do it far far better than him.

Cured with oil in the oven, just like my mom and grandpa taught me to.

Which lead me back to another part of our conversation, that of an old cast iron pan. My Uncle Paul had given it to her, but she didn't exactly remember when, though to me, it represents her leaving the family household for that of her marriage, like the type of gift a young newlywed wife gets. I always remember having it around the house, and so I know it came before my arrival in 1969. We took a turn down memory lane, as she reminisced about him. He was the youngest of three boys: my grandfather in the middle, and my great uncle the oldest, a wild kind of raconteur who took a fabulous Colombian bride for his second marriage, and then took of to Bogota for several years with her and his young sons. I remember his passing, but not that of my Uncle Paul, though my family spoke of it infrequently.

A perfect tear-shaped handle.

 
You see, he died under tragic circumstances one rainy night on the George Washington Bridge, the victim of an accidental collision, as he struggled to change a tire on the shoulder-less side of the bridge in the evening, a father trying to help his family. He was in his 40s, and he was a fireman, and his wife and children watched him die as he was hit by oncoming traffic. Even though he died before I was born, I can tell just by these scant details, along with one extraordinary hand-crafted and wise bridal gift, that he was the kind of guy I would like; the kind of hero who picks up helpless handicapped women lying on the floor, any time of day or night, because that's exactly the type of person I am.

An ancient family legacy, in the guise of one humble cast iron pan.

Amen to you of the Corvus Clan on this day in winter,

to those of us who wear the twin symbols of the wolf 

and the raven, that which endures, survives, and thrives.

Welcome to this, that is our legacy.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normans

In blessed memoriam of Paul Corbett. Long may he rest in peace.

The Grasshopper

Grasshopper at dawn.

When I was growing up, my parents repeated a handful of fables to us as moral lessons routinely, but my father more than most. He loves slogans, sayings, homilies, quotes, and clichés, so much so, he puts his favorite ones on mugs, plaques, t-shirts, whatever.

But no matter how many times he repeated the story of the grasshopper and the ant, the moral of the story was always the same: be like the ant, not the grasshopper. It became so well-worn with time, that now all he has to do is repeat the shorthand version of it, as we say it back to him with our eyes rolling: "Be the ant, not the grasshopper." That's training for you!

And, of course, I took to children's literature like a future publisher takes to books, which means I absorbed it like it was my second skin, so tightly woven with my own personal history, that it has become intertwined with the fabric of who I am through the daily practice of it.

Grasshopper in morning light.

Now, as it grows colder and darker, the fruits of our labor take on even greater importance. Those of us from northern climates know that particularly, down to our very DNA: work hard, because winter is coming. Our animals fatten up every August and September, because that's exactly what every snow dog I've ever had does instinctively.

It was just one of the many things I thought about this morning when I first saw this lingering grasshopper in the dark light of dawn, because I was already up at 6:30 a.m., (before the alarm I set the night prior goes off, because I've trained myself to do that, so as not to disturb the rest of the household), placing our county receptacles by the curb for recycling pick up. Work, work, work, and then work some more, and always give back. That's what real communities do to make it through the tough times. À bientôt!
   

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ant_and_the_Grasshopper

 

Electricity

When I was growing up, I had no sense of scope about the history attached to New York City (or state), nor did I realize how old and famous it really is around the world, because why would I? Sesame Street was a kid's show about a city block that had large animals in garbage pails (like the nightly raccoon raids at our house), narrated by a girl named "Maria", of the same name in the musical West Side Story. Bugs Bunny had a whip smart comeback to every quip that was delivered in a cool cartoon version of our accent, King Kong regularly climbed our tallest buildings, Batman fought for our fair Gotham's streets to be safe, Spiderman spun webs everywhere, and The Ramones just wanted to go to the beach badly on a musician's dime. 

It was either a t.v. show, or a movie, or a play, or your favorite song. Was there anything else? Who cares? We had everything you could think of named after or devoted to our culture. So when I saw this old shit nailed to a post nearby, I knew it was some crusty, rusty relic from our past, but what it actually was? That I had no idea. 

I went in for closer look, at first to take a picture of a funny bumper sticker on a truck parked in the mechanic's garage that operates next door, and there it was; a bright orange spot in the sun. Ever wonder what a switch box from the first electric poles that delivered early currents to old farmhouses converting over to the new power grid looked like, back when it was new? Now you do.

Bart Discovers MMA

Forgotten at school, again.

"Where's your brother?"

Uh oh. Police Mom Marge is here.

Bart's caught fighting in the playground...

...with Homer's support. Ooops.

So Marge takes on the head of a fight league in order to protest violence, and its effect on kids...

...and kicks his ass. Margie likey!

But, what effect does it have on little Lisa and her brother Bart?

A new generation of fighters! Tune in to the very end to see who wins.

Dedicated to me and my bro Bernie, fighting since we were babies in the late 60s, now celebrating a great sport that finally matches the dreams (and scuffles) of our youth. Special "shout out" to all you "crazy" kids and silly, little dreamers. Here. We. Go.

Religious Signs, and Other $ Matters

Jesus and Mary, Co-Pilots in Suburbia.

Oh. This Acadian will keep her money, then.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acadians

My Mega Foes

The Evil Borg Kitty "Mecha-Anchovy", my first real foe.

Enemies are hardly new to humankind. It pretty much happens whenever there are more than three people in a room, and because of a basic principle called "factioning", the producers of the day stage morality plays in the guise of "reality" t.v. shows, catering to the interests of the drunk and/or mentally ill among us. Me, I prefer the classics in those old school renditions by Shakespeare, but as a publisher, I respect all revisions, updates, and new editions of this ever appealing and exciting classic tale of Good vs. Evil. Who will win?!

Harbinger of Gloom, the evil "Doom Shroom"!

It's all so falsely cliffhanging that students since time immemorial have created drinking games about spot societal clichés to pass the time; time that would be excruciating without a serious crutch to numb and dull the senses, which puts us on pretty much the same level as the morality tales' participants. And just like my college days, I still prefer cartoon enemies over the real, dull, and repetitive kind. After all, new foes are so fun to create, aren't they? Witness my ascent on the game Bejeweled Blitz, as I climb the ladder up, up, and away! The evil Tiki Gods get angrier and more powerful as I rise, and also, strangely, boringly, achingly repetitive. Thanks for watching with me.

I had a post-Apocalytpic dream about an Alien Yeti invasion=I won!

Small Town: Carnival