Ever since I saw the commercial on TV the other night, I have been wanting a Crayola Crayon Maker. Anything involving crayons appeals to me. A box of 64 and a new coloring book - what's better than that? But this Crayon Maker thing calls to me as did those toys of my youth - Etch-a-Sketch, Spirograph, Vac-U-Form, and Give-a-Show Projector. Each was creative and high-tech (for the early 1960s), but the high-tech part was secondary to the creative for me. 
Advent, Schmadvent. 
A young soldier boarded the #6 train today at 68th Street heading, I suppose, to 23rd/Madison Square Park to take part in New York's Veterans Day Parade. He was wearing his camouflage gear with beret and boots, looking very, very young to me. As I worked my way toward the subway car door at the Grand Central stop, I caught his eye and said "Thank you." He smiled, nodding his "You're welcome," and I got off the train.
2. Ring doorbell, say "Trick or Treat!," wait patiently as treats are handed out, and ALWAYS say "Thank you."
3. Know which houses and neighborhoods to avoid.
(They're probably only giving out pencils and toothbrushes, anyway.)
Happy Halloween!
World domination is so much easier than I ever dreamed it could be.
The leaves have turned, it's dark and rainy, and bags of candy corn and bite-sized Butterfingers fill store shelves. That's right. It's time for - oooooh! - Halloween. Since I'm too old to go trick-or-treating, as is my dear child, I must be content to celebrate the season glued to my favorite horror films and Halloween specials.
4. Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964) - Check.
15. Halloween (1978) - Yup. Big check.
In the spirit(s) of the season, I hopped the N train for Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn and spent the day tromping around its rolling hills, searching out the graves of the famous and infamous, and attending a book event with the author of Death Becomes Them: Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious.The sky was blue-blue and the leaves were a blast of color.
Someone once wrote about the cemetery (founded in 1838) that "it is the ambition of the New Yorker to live upon the Fifth Avenue, to take his airings in the Park, and to sleep with his fathers in Green-Wood".The tree-filled hills and valleys are crowded with ornate mausoleums, statuary, and gravestones most suitable for all those Fifth Avenue toffs.
The reading by author Alix Strauss took place in the ornate Chapel (lousy acoustics, by the way). The author discovered that no one had ever written a book about famous suicides and jumped right on it. She had a great sense of humor and she shared lots of juicy, interesting details about a couple of the folks in her book. She even gave away little bottles of Vincent Van Gogh Vodka and Death By Chocolate bars with every book purchased! I opted for chocolate-flavored vodka, thereby covering both bases.
Cemeteries are always fascinating, whether it's Halloween or midsummer, whether the rich and famous are buried there or not, and whether a lovely incentive like a reading about well-known suicides is dangled before you. Spending a few hours with folks who have "crossed over" is time well-spent. Death does, indeed, become them.
One of my biggest grammatical pet peeves is the rampant misuse of "fewer" and "less." I am not an English teacher, but I had superior, picky junior high and high school teachers who instilled in my teenage brain basic rules of grammar. It seems that people avoid the word "fewer" at all cost. "10 Items or Less." "Less than 2,000 showed up for the show." "The team has less chances to win without the star quarterback." Yeah. I've seen/heard all of these over the past few days.
A couple of days ago, the New York Times had a story about a woman who decided to read a book a day for a year and blog about it. Think of it as a book-version of the Julie & Julia thing, where the woman cooked her way through Julia Child's cookbook for a year. Not as tasty, but a whole lot cheaper and less work.
Walking through East Harlem the other day, I happened upon a once-iconic New York scene that has mostly disappeared in recent years - clothes hanging out to dry on lines strung between apartment buildings. Thank goodness I had my camera with me and could document the clothes flapping in a cool autumn breeze.
THE BASIC RULES FOR CLOTHESLINES
Well, it's finally here. The month I longed for back in August.
October's celebrations morph into a November full of birthdays and anniversaries, culminating in a most splendiferous Thanksgiving. (Can you smell the turkey and pumpkin pie?) And no sooner will we finish giving thanks than the fun-filled wildness and holy celebration of Christmas will be upon us. Bam-bam-bam. All in a row. Wonderful!
Last week, I got to know a couple of New York families - the Gumpertzs and the Baldizzis. I visited their homes and saw where they ate, slept, lived. I looked at pictures of parents and grandparents, listened to some of their favorite music, and saw the street-view from their front room windows. Last week, I visited the Tenement Museum on Orchard Street.
I've always been curious about it. I mean, how interesting could visiting a tenement be? "And here's a really tiny room where 14 people slept. Over here's is the coal stove. Notice there's no running water or toilet." Really. Seen one poverty-stricken apartment, seen 'em all.
Several tours are available, giving a slice-of-time look at how the tenement dwellers coped with local and global events that shaped their lives. We took "Getting By," where we experienced how the Gumpertz family coped with the Panic of 1973 (um, pretty much exactly what we're going through today) and the Baldizzis made it through the Great Depression. Other tours focus on the garment industry, one Irish family's experience, the life of a Sephardic-Jewish teen, and a neighborhood walking tour. Each tour cost $20, which is kinda pricey, but you really get your money's worth.
The other thing that struck me, living in a tiny NYC apartment of my own, was "Wow! A little paint, a new hardwood floor, a private bath, and you could rent this 'tenement' for $1800-2000/month these days." The tour was a great history of apartment-living in the city and how what was required of landlords changed over time. The biggest breakthrough was when the powers-that-be determined that every New York apartment-dweller had the right to air (thanks for the air shafts, guys!), water (at least cold running water), and light (a window in every room).
When did we stop dressing like grown-ups? With every episode of Mad Men, I find myself longing for men in suits, ties, and those great hats that our daddies used to wear and women in shapely dresses, suits, and gloves.
I don't know when women stopped wearing gloves, usually white ones, whenever they went out. I love the idea of gloves year-round. I am at the mercy of public transport and hate putting my bare-naked hands on handles, poles, and stairway railings. Yes, it's true, those white gloves would be mighty dirty by the end of the day, but I would feel so much safer having a bit of fabric between me and whatever's lurking on door-railings. Plus, they look adorable. But not with dowdy pantsuits.
We seem to be living in a time of rampant rudeness. Celebrities reach new heights of publicity by digging to new lows in behavior. Politicians raise funds from their faithful by engaging in conduct that would've gotten them a stint in kindergarten "time out." Regular Joes and Janes eschew (I love the word "eschew") constructive town-hall dialogue in favor of gun-wielding scream-fests.
Problem is, I'm not sure how we'd choose the right person for this Manners Maven. It couldn't be through election or political appointment. Too much opportunity for corruption. Maybe we could all make nominations, then draw one name out - sort of a "Root Out The Rudeness" Lottery. We could toss in the names of mamas and daddies, teachers, or folks famous for their civilized deportment (Miss Manners and Julie Andrews come to mind). It'd be a tough job, but slowly - through much practice and perseverance - we might just turn ourselves around before we descend to the depths of snarling, animalistic behavior. Might be worth a try.
While flipping through an old yearbook the other evening, I was struck by a glaring difference between the high schooler of the 1960s and the high schooler of today. No, it isn't drugs, sex, or clothing. It's not the hairstyles, make-up, or locker configurations. It's the way we carry our books.
We girls also had our purses (John Romaine, natch - no shoulder bags) clasped firmly in our book-carrying hand. And sometimes there was a lunch sack (brown paper, once we outgrew our Howdy Doody lunchboxes). I don't remember it being a big deal. We managed.
Contrast that with today's Bag People. Poor kids. It seems reasonable to believe that this new bag-method is more efficient that the hippy-method, but I don't think it is. Enormous backpacks stuffed beyond all reason (what is in there?), hoisted upon young backs, causing them to lean forward just to get enough traction to move. Plus, backpacks leave both hands free to, well, get into all kinds of trouble that could be avoided if left to the devices of only one-handed-chaos-causing. Think about it. My career advice to today's students: chiropractor.
