A New York Moment

We spent the weekend in New York and it was filled with the sensations you would want in such a visit: lots of bagels and lox, a smashing performance by Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig in “A Steady Rain,” French food, Cuban food, Italian food, and wonderfully visual (and tasty) jaunts through Soho and Chelsea. Through it all, you could not help but be so impressed by the diversity, energy, and sheer numbers of persons out on the streets soaking up all things New York. It truly is an amazing place. And, sharing it with our friends Maggie, Vernon, Leslie, Tom and Ellen only enhanced the pleasure.

While all of this sensory stimulation was exactly what we were looking for, I was not prepared for what appeared to be an inconsequential turn on Sunday. We had just parted company with our friends, Vernon and Leslie, and were headed over to Maggie’s office near Bryant Park. As we headed up Broadway, I mentioned how a thousand years ago, my father’s business was located at 1412 Broadway, on the corner of 39th Street. We decided to do a “drive-by” so I could peek into the lobby of the place that had once in my life been a very familiar haunt since it was not only my father’s place of business, but a place where I had worked a few summers as a messenger boy in my early teens.

We tried the front doors of the building but they were all locked….except one. We entered the lobby. Some of those old memories started reeling through my mind. At the elevator bank was the guard, a young fellow named Muhammad. I introduced myself and, when I told him how I worked there a half century ago, he leaned back, eyes widened, and looked at me as though he was talking to a living Civil War hero. I told him how way back then the elevators had human operators -- old guys who would spit on the floor if they could get away with it, and grumpy. When I asked Muhammad if we could take a peek at the old place -- up in the rooftop offices on the 25th floor -- he said that would not be permitted. But, a few moments later, he relented -- perhaps caught up in the moment. He locked the sole open door to the building and took us up the one elevator that went to the roof.

We emerged and there it was -- the old site of Victory Studios, Inc., the business that had paid for our family home, our college educations and the food on our table. Of course, the old business was long gone, now replaced by a beauty supply house. But, interestingly, a peek inside the door revealed essentially the same layout as the one I had known so many years ago. And, even better, there was actually someone working in there who spotted us and generously let us in to look around.

How weird. Now, all the old memories came flooding back. I noted the reception area where Helen, my father’s old secretary, sat. To the right and rear was the space where the designers worked, punching out their designs for sale to the garment district’s fabric firms. Then, the showroom where Oscar, Vic, and Paul would ply their skills in selling those designs. And, in the rear left, my father’s office. I walked in there and was thrilled and moved. It had all been so very long ago.

What I didn’t tell Muhammad was that so many years ago, I used to go out on the roof and look down on what was then the old site of the Metropolitan Opera House. Every now and then, they would host a posh roof top event at the Met -- an afternoon cocktail party for the cognoscenti of the city. My adolescent urges led me to make hundreds of paper airplanes with droll messages inscribed on them, like “I see what you’re doing” or, “what are you drinking anyway?” I would toss these airborne missives off in droves hoping that just one would sail amid the swirling air currents above Broadway and land across the street on the rooftop garden many stories below. And, in rare but wonderful moments, a plane would land among the partyers who would cast semi-frantic glances skyward, aghast that they were being spied upon.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

All Politics is Local, Right?

Health care reform wasn’t on the table. Neither were troop levels in Afghanistan. Ditto for global warming. Other, more weighty, matters were in the forefront. Like, where to put the next cross walk. And, whether speed limits on local streets should be uniform. And, whether rental property signs announcing to renters rules on maximum occupancy should be conspicuously posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, most importantly to me, the issue of whether dogs might be allowed more off-leash time on the beach during the off-season. Such were the issues du jour for the intrepid members of the Isle of Palms City Council last night. For me, my first glimpse into the local political arena, and judging from the healthy crowd in the hearing room, I knew I was not alone in my intense interest in something that would be of absolutely no consequence anywhere else on planet earth.

The councilmen, mostly white men with a smattering of women, plodded on trying to muster as much dignity as they could to offset the impossibly trivial matters they believed ruled their personal universes. Mostly, they wore suits -- a brave gesture in the overheated hearing room. Their body language was worth noting as well. Like the frustrated guy who never opened his mouth while all around him others were flapping theirs. Finally, in what I sensed was a spontaneous outburst to show he was a player to be reckoned with, his remarks were greeted by vacant stares from the semi-circular panel as if they were thinking, “Did he really say that?”

The measure on speed limits was tabled for want of more research on the matter. Why am I thinking the Brookings Institution will not be invited to opine on this one? The measure on posting maximum occupancy signs in rental properties was met with thinly veiled sarcasm by one Council guy who wondered whether the police ought to be fitted with new belts that would accommodate a tape measure so they could get into the business of measuring whether the signs were, in fact, posted within 15 feet of the front door. And, oh yes, the Council decided unanimously to approve a sole source contract to a guy who does the fireworks show for the July 4th celebration. What? Why? I’m thinking there may be an extra firecracker in these guys’ stocking this Christmas, if you get my drift.

And, the dog measure? Passed in a breeze. “Island friendly, “ they called it.

As for my future at local political events, I’m sensing a possible write-in campaign for me: "Golland for City Council. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but a guy who's likely to amuse us."

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Yes, Mojo, They Call This Rain

I slept in today. This can mean only one thing: it’s raining. This is eventful on the Isle of Palms where rain seems to come as seldom as snow no matter how hard it may be raining inland. Something about the prevailing winds and ocean currents -- don’t ask. For only the second time in about four months I did not pop out of bed at 7 a.m. so that Mojo and I could get to the beach for our early morning romp. How strange to turn over. Mojo, to his undying credit, was similarly hypnotized by the rain as he slept in his usual fashion - on his back, legs wide and spread in the air in a pose that suggests nothing short of complete surrender to Morpheus. Getting up at 8:30, which normally almost feels like lunch time to me, I felt not only the moist air, but the chill too. This is not good news. I know it’s October, but in these parts there’s plenty of “summer” left and I am not done with that season just yet. When I had completed drying off all the rain that had come through the windows, I found myself reaching for long pants and socks -- each for the first time in five months. And, a fleece! So depressing.

Soon, however, I would learn that these new climatic conditions could teach me new skills. Like how to balance an umbrella, a leash with a diabolically energetic dog at the far end, a cup of coffee, and a bag of dog poop -- all in a driving rain. This will take some practice if this morning’s performance is any indicator. Mojo’s penchant for diving between my legs as we walk caused me a couple of drops of both umbrella and poop bag. Not a pretty picture. There was no one in the streets, though. No witnesses. There aren’t that many folks here at this stage of the season, and the rain certainly provided no incentive to venture outdoors. Wimps.

The downside of all this? As we returned, and Mojo inhaled his breakfast, he wasted not one moment in finding one of his favorite toys inviting me to chase him to wrest it away from him. It was the least I could do since the little guy was deprived of his normally exhausting expenditure of energy at the beach. And, so we spent our morning. Mojo, head cocked in a playful attempt at gamesmanship, ran laps through the house as I gamely (and futilely) chased him. Maybe I should wear my running shoes when I do this.

We’re going to the beach tomorrow no matter what.