Monday, March 30, 2015
Sunday, March 29, 2015
The end of the world as we know it
It's not the end of the
world, but there is a change in the air, and I'm not completely sure of what it
means. A fire broke out in the east village yesterday, wiping out three
buildings, more history vanishing before our eyes.
Certain eras breed this
kind of change, where we see the face of the world we knew converted into
something new, and many times, alien.
I spent well over two
decades in Secaucus, first as a fotomac, and later as baker and finally as a
journalist. But even prior to that, I passed through that town on my way to and
from Manhattan . For the most part, the place remained unchanged
except for moderate modifications. While the acme vanished from the center of
town, the mark in its parking lot where the fotomat booth stood remains, as
does the library building where I had to go to use the toilet when working
there.
But even during that
incarnation, I saw them raze the donut place and replace it will a string of
stores.
The state, of course, made
significant changes when they altered the path of Route 3, and so steered a
course that avoided the center of town -- as was the case when I went to new york city in the late 1960s.
And the mayor at that
time, bargained to rebuild this one time home of pig farms into an outlet and
shopping mall mecca, but keeping these things on the perimeter of the town so
that deceptively, this world never seemed to change.
Fundamentally it did.
Tens of thousands of people came and went daily to and from the buildings that
were not old Secaucus, while old Secaucus went on living with the illusion of
sameness. They even installed a gate to block the only direct road from
warehouse/outlet section to the residential section so as to maintain the
fiction.
During the late 1970s and
early 1980s, I often drove down the western spur of the New Jersey Turnpike to
see my family in Toms River, and so from a distance I saw the changes that
could not be seen so easily close up, the rise of towers along the western
border, the loss of icons like the drive in movie theater and the demolition of
the Peter Pan Motel. I saw the last farm vanish as the city fathers grew
ashamed of their past and sought to remodel their town as a bedroom community
for New York – hating the distinction of two world wars when it
supplied food to the troops world wide.
But eventually, the heart
of the town would get affected, and for me, the loss of the Plaza Diner became
symbolic of the lost heart of the Secaucus I knew. When the Acme closed, I knew
Secaucus had changed so fundamentally, it wasn’t same place I had come to
admire, despite all the political rhetoric about taking it back. Some things
can’t be restored.
Recently I noticed that
the old Ideal Bar had changed hands again – the one time last testament to the
string of nightclubs and taverns that had once populated the town. The town
closed down many of them over the years, but this one held on – finally, like a
number of other even newer institutions, making its way into a history book of
people’s memories.
I guess this is the way
it is for every place.
And why people flee their
homes sometimes to avoid seeing their world change.
Remarkably, little has
actually changed where I grew up, although my family fled the old house fearing
the worst.
A sad testament to our
lives, when we do not know which is right, to stay or go, to embrace change or
to resist it.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Nothing ever lasts
We made
the trip south in the rain again, although not the deluge we faced in the fall
trip where we had to stop along the side of the Parkway in order to let the
downfall relent.
Rain
accompanied a number of trips to Asbury Park, but did not keep us away until
rain turned to snow and ice, and we hunkered down in Jersey City to wait it
out, coming south the way the geese come north, as a spring ritual.
Not all
the trips south over the last year had come with rain, but generally, the
parkway became a madhouse filled with insane drivers in a rush to get somewhere
fast. This trip was different with only one or two of the weaving idiots to
make the trip uncomfortable, and fewer still of the panicked pedestrians that
clogged middle lanes for fear of onramps. So we made good time even though we
had chosen to leave later, doing our chores before we left – and arrived
slightly over an hour after the 2 p.m.
check in at the Neptune motel.
These
roads always make me nostalgic for those days I was the backseat passenger in
my grandfather’s car and made our way to some shore community where he or my
uncles needed to work on somebody’s boat, or for our own annual summer trip to
the beach – always pausing on the way to get a basket of fruit and vegetables
from the inevitable roadside stands – those inexpensive summer icons since
replaced in the city by the ludicrously labeled farmer’s markets at five times
the price.
This
time, I thought on my last trip wandering aimlessly along Route 35 when I still
owned my silver Pinto, and I took my mother and my uncle for a ride, even then
aware of the changing landscape and how intrusive development had become, and
how we had struggled to find a still-in-business roadside stand for us to stop
at.
Routinely,
we take the same route in and out of Asbury Park – a route made into myth in a Bruce Springsteen story
from his 1978 New
York City
concert – and we park in the same place near the intersection of Kingsley,
Cookman and Asbury.
Once the
hub of amusement activity, the place has become a graveyard of memories, a
vacant lot along one side, two parking lots, and misconceived condo
development. But on this day, with a steady rain after a weekend of snow, this
world was nearly devoid of all life. Even our Christmas weekend trip had filled
the boardwalk. But as we made our way up to the casino, life did not seem to
exist even inside the bars along one side or in the abandoned cavern of the
casino itself.
As
routine, we made our way to the other end of the boardwalk to the still
occupied Convention Hall, where we hoped to get coffee, and found the place as
vacant as the boardwalk had been with a few employees of the pub preparing for
some wedding, and an occasional jogger or dog walker passing through. The
coffee was closed tight for lack of interest. Apparently, people had not yet
gotten over the impact of the snow and so did not believe the world would thaw
as quickly as it had.
We made
our way back towards the Casino, seeing a few more brave souls appear as
darkness came. Wesley Lake glowed with the warmed reflections remaining
buildings as we walked up the Ocean Grove side and crossed one of the bridges
to access the eateries near Cookman. The beer garden had opened, but we avoided
it in favor of the small pizzeria we had eaten at previously, and then made our
way back down Cookman to the boardwalk again to wait out the hour or so before
we could go to the Stone Pony.
A few
more people moved along near Madam Maries. The wedding party we had seen earlier
posing for pictures in the convention center was gone, and only a few regulars
occupied the pub. We sat at the tables near the closed coffee shop and took
warmth under the ceiling level heaters we alone appreciated at that moment.
Outside,
darkness grew more intense with the gray rain, and before long, we were out
again, moving towards the Stone Pony in the rain.
Later, after the music was over, we made our way back to the motel.
Later, after the music was over, we made our way back to the motel.
By
morning, it was cold, but clear, demonstrating that winter still clung even if
the snow did not.
As with
previous weekends, we packed up, put our stuff in the car, and then walked to
nearby Perkins for breakfast, before checking out, and making our way back to Asbury Park .
Since
our purpose this trip was to see the Bruce Springsteen tribute band we did not
linger long in the cold, but took a brief stroll along the boardwalk from
convention center to the pier in Ocean Grove. Someone had replaced the little
sailor doll at the end of the pier and so all seemed well with the world again,
although when we got to Main Street in Ocean Grove, we discovered a pile of
sticks where three stores had been gutted by fire in January – one more injury
to a memory, although not as horrible as the one that leveled Sea Side Park.
Memories
are meant to fade, not go up in smoke, or get bulldozed by greedy developers.
But then, the important lesson in all this is that nothing ever lasts, nor
should it, a memory is precious partly because it holds on to the residue of
something important long after the reality.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Lovefest at the Stone Pony
I hadn’t
expected to walk into a lovefest for white men, young and old, when I booked
the tickets for Tramps Like Us at The Stone Pony.
We had
heard the Springsteen tribute band sound check last fall just after finding
Clarence Clemons’s memorial bench on the boardwalk, and took it as a sign that
we ought to catch the act the next time it came to Asbury Park .
We
missed Springsteen himself due to a severe ice storm that kept us prisoners in Jersey City while he did a 90 minute set with some old friends at
the Paramount Theater a month ago.
So a
tribute band was the best we could accomplish with the first warm day after the
frost had passed.
“How
come every time we play here it rains?” said founding member and
Springsteen-tribute-artist Mark Salore from the stage that night.
The rain
casts Asbury Park into a gray haze. This was no deluge like one visit
we made here, but a heavy mist to light rain that helped sweep the last of the
previous snow storm out to sea.
By
lovefest, I don’t mean “gay,” like you would find up the street at the Empress
Motel.
This was
a lovefest of mostly white men of every age, weight, fully-haired or balding,
macho or not, gathered on the dance floor before the stage with wives,
girlfriends, or in packs of friends, mostly working class, many wearing
t-shirts and baseball hats, work boots, or thin leather jackets trying to look
cool.
Yet for
all the gathered testosterone, these men were infinitely polite (unlike the
unruly packs that had gathered in the same space like fall for the Grateful
Dead tribute band). These men moved with the grace of alter boys, and for good
reason, because the Stone Pony for them had become a church, and their was a
not-so-quiet reverence we felt the moment we came through the door, but which
become all too evident the moment the music started, and these men began to
sway – some raising fists in the air in tribute to the some unseen god evoked
in this place by this band, some even casting “the finger” to one of the many
oppressors that they face in their lives – here finding a hero (I’m no hero
that’s understood) of a working class, New Jersey life that they could find in
no other performer, songs filling the room with tales of their own lives and
struggles, their voices chanting out words they knew as well as the singer did,
having lived with them for decades – especially those icon tunes from the early
albums such as “Born to Run” or “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”
This
band and the singer their paid tribute to sang songs about what it is like to
live and die as ordinary people in a place as ordinary as New Jersey – songs
filled with angst of growing up in a place that other placed mocked, songs
filled with every day issues that seemed unworthy of other singers, but had
been made into myth by a man who had started his career out, not just in New
Jersey, but in here, in Asbury Park, and had played on this stage for people
just like these people.
In a
year in which “black lives matter” became something of a theme, this moment in
The Stone Pony took on ironic proportions since in some ways Springsteen’s
songs are about how much white lives also matter, and how unheralded most lives
are, white or black, man or woman.
But it
is true that most of the men in that room – except for the staff – were white,
but that’s where the similarities stopped, old and young chanting the same
religious theme of their own lives as the musicians landed on touch stones of
songs they knew would evoke the most reaction.
This was
the 25th anniversary of the band, and some of the older members got up to play
a few songs, too. And since this year was also our 25th anniversary – recalling
a wedding filled with white men and women, and a rock band filled with friends
who had accompanied me through this long perilous journey of being white,
working class and from New Jersey
– I felt the pang of this performance, too.
Plenty
of women accompanied the men in his room, but they seemed just a little baffled
by the mood, as these men gathered in this primitive ritual, thrusting fists,
fingers even beer bottles in the air in their defiance of the hard life they
have lived – especially during songs like “Bad Lands,” while the women seemed
equally confused as men rocked them during the ballads, men singing to their
women words that were not their own, but seemed to sum up their lives better
than words they could come up with on their own,. And few moments in my life
made me understand what the attraction was, how Springsteen had captured more
than just a moment in time, or a place, or even a feeling, he had captured a
way of life that was rapidly evaporating. New Jersey would never be the same. These working class men were
of an era that was vanishing before our eyes, and the men in that room, old or
young, fat or muscular, rich or poor, all connected to that last string of
words that kept the memory of theirs lives alive, giving them immortality that
they knew they could not achieve for themselves.
Friday, March 13, 2015
My fate
Friday,
March 13, 2015
No
black cats have crossed my path; so I feel lucky.
Except
the black cat I keep at home and who likes to listen to me when I play guitar
and sing; he doesn’t count. He obviously doesn’t have any taste.
I’m
not really superstitious; I just like the idea that we live in a world of
uncertainty and wish that luck played as big a part in determining where we go
and what we do as we pretend it does.
This
was a rough week though, filled with the yearly ritual of a progress report –
that extra bit of madness that we engage in for advertising purposes.
I
was so far behind on my regular copy all week that I could not walk into
Hoboken from the heights like I have done most of the winter, even through
spring has finally sprung and the weather is the kind of weather perfect for
such a trek.
Having
two Friday the Thirteenths in a row – last month and this – of course, doubles
the paranoia.
But
even without the so-called bad luck days, change is in the air, and it is more
than spring.
It
is more than the change that I see ongoing when I look out the second floor
window from my desk in Hoboken.
I’ve
been through this enough to feel it in my bones months before it happens.
This
is not good or bad, it just is.
Once
done with work today – while waiting to make corrections on the copy – I took a
walk through the streets of Hoboken, a place that alters with the change of
day, night being so starkly different than day that to stroll through one is to
miss the other.
This
is not the same Hoboken I moved into in 1992, and won’t be the same Hoboken
when I finally leave this job two years from now.
And
yet through its streets, old ghosts still wander.
I
passed the stoop where my mother used to sit, and felt her presence, even
though she is more than a decade deceased. I walked down Sinatra Drive aware of
the fact that his ghost will always be here, even though his family doesn’t
want to acknowledge us anymore. I walked down the alley way where On the
Waterfront was filmed and felt not just the ghosts of the actors, but of a
whole way of life that has vanished and will never return.
I
know I will miss this place for all of its memories when I move on. But I also
know it will not miss me.
We
are but spirits passing through a place that is more significant than we are,
and history is not meant to record the small people of the world, those of us
who work or play, but rather to record the actions – good or bad – of those
whose lives rise above the ordinary.
I
will always be ordinary, even if and when I do something extraordinary. It is
my fate.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
The release of spring
The weather
turns.
The way
we turned ahead the clocks, a leap of faith, imposing ourselves into this new
warm, moist season, our hands still frigid from being so long exposed.
I can
barely move my fingers or feel the softness that this new season brings, my
soul aching for the touch of leaf again after so many months of stark icicles,
this stiff embrace painful with each bend of finger.
I learn
to walk again, needing not to fear falling from some slip on ice, solid ground
that my footsteps can follow with more certainty as I stride back into the
wider world.
I am
renewed on the inside and out, though I still stir with the need of release,
the desperate struggle to unsheathe what winter had forced me to hide.
The
breeze is not yet warm enough for me to run unclothed through woods or fields,
though that ache rises up with the promise of release, of free air, and the
kiss of something tender on my upturned lips.
Even the
rain, as cold as it is, renews me, and I choose to walk without hood or hat to
allow it to wash down over my face, this grace of changing, this rebirth out of
which I find hope of release, this change of season that brings me back to
life, and makes me ache in better way, in a way that promises some greater
reward.
Ah,
life.
Monday, March 9, 2015
A walk through the past
This is
always the time of year that hits me
hardest – this time when the world melts and reemerges as something new, when
warmth finally gets its grip and strips off the chill so that we might run
naked again like children (or at least underdressed).
Everything
drips from the just over freezing temperatures even at night.
Lately,
I’ve gone back to doing my laundry on Sunday’s in Secaucus – not so much out of
need but out of nostalgia for that more innocent time when my eyes remained
closed to the worst abuses of the world, and I could still pretend to be
unstained by the vulgar realities that make up our existence.
Perhaps
in some ways, I still haven’t come to grips with all that, even through like a
tour guide I wandered around the edges of the dark world, watching but largely
untouched with its reality.
Drying
the drying cycle I took the ten block walk from the Plaza section of Secaucus
to Trolley Park and back, snow melting into oozing pools with each
footstep. For the most part, the heart of Secaucus remained unchanged from the
day I first stepped foot into it during the early 1980s when I came to work in
the Fotomat booth in the parking lot
across from what was then the town library.
Along
this route, you have to look hard for the changes – although the most obvious
is the new library constructed slightly over a decade ago. The rest is like a
stroll through memory lane – with even some of the same faces in cars familiar.
Thomas
Wolfe was right when he said you can’t go home. Someone else pointed out that
time shifts things so that even a river that looks exactly as it once did is
not the same, and when you step onto it, you are sailing on different water.
The only things that remain the same are those which you carry with you, and
even that is an illusion.
I always
think of people and places in time like photographs. If you keep in touch with
them, you barely notice the changes. But if you are away for a while, the
vision you have is only a mental photograph that doesn’t match up later when
you get back.
So that
even this stretch of landscape doesn’t quite fit with the place I have kept
inside my head. Trolley Park is loaded with playground equipment. Huber Street School has a new face. Even in the heart of the town I
remember, the library isn’t the library any more, the Acme is a CVS, the Plaza
Diner is a bank, the New Jersey Bank and other banks that previously occupied
this town square have different names if not different looks.
But as I walked I searched out for those elements that had not changed, things that cling to our reality, and beckon back to a past we remember, but cannot replicate.
But as I walked I searched out for those elements that had not changed, things that cling to our reality, and beckon back to a past we remember, but cannot replicate.
Even the
bar across the street from the laundry has changed, losing its rooftop icons
such as the full sized fishing boat, for a more modern look – so that I know I
will feel less comfortable inside if I chose to pull up to the bar for a beer.
And yet,
coming back, walking this route, looking at these things feels right. For some
reason, this part of the world will change less quickly than other places such
as Jersey City – destined to become for some ungodly reason – the
most populated city in the state, filled with phallic towers and smelling of
too much testosterone.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
This tiny bit of warmth
The ice
drips off my front porch awning; but with no real relief
Spring
hasn’t arrived and seems at times it never will.
This is
less a complaint than an observation, and a need to renew, as if age makes healing
from old wounds more difficult; this season projecting on the outside world,
how I feel inside.
This
dripping a lot like dripping tears as we embrace new storms that seem to
stretch out ahead of us for the rest of our lives, this winter like few other
winters clinging to our heals like a rabid dog, snarling and biting, but never
so deeply as to inflict a fatal wound.
Forecasters
looking back claim this has been one of the coldest winters in recorded
history, and refer back to the winters of 1985 and 1979 as examples, those
years when I still lived in a cold water flat in Passaic and watched the river
there fill with chunks of ice – just as I watched the Hudson fill with ice this
year, emotional-filled years of change that I still recall with the vivid sting
that winter’s kiss brings.
This
inside/outside weather forecast never predictable except in hindsight when we
look back and see how these chunks of ice clogged our arteries and created
havoc with the slow thaw of approaching spring.
Winters
like this make us ache all the more for spring, even though such wishful
thinking also eats up time we otherwise wish would tarry, as we rush ahead to
the worst of all winters when there will be no thaw.
All this
morbid thinking comes at a time when we get a temporary thaw ahead of yet
another predicted snow storm, and we try to cling to that small vestige of
warmth the thaw has given us until we can bask in the real thaw, if and when it
arrives.
I used
to stand on a bus stop in the early 1970s clinging to a cup of coffee as I
waited for my ride to work, this small bit of heat allowing me to thaw inside
while winter raged outside. Sometimes, this is all we have, this cup of coffee,
this tiny bit of warmth that keeps our veins from turning to ice, this idea
that we shall soon see spring, and renewed hope.
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