Mind the Gap

schmaltz

Sat, 30 Aug 2008 18:06:34 -0400

Last weekend, I found myself walking towards the Fenway area in time for Neil Diamond to open his set with "Sweet Caroline." I could hear the delirious crowd singing along, loud and clear, and it nearly made up for my failed attempt to get tickets to the show.
My father was surprised to learn I'd even considered it. I asked him why. "Because I thought you'd think he was too --"
"Schmaltzy?" I said.
Perhaps, but my father wanted to set me straight. "Do you know what 'schmaltz' even means?"
I hadn't a clue, and was bracing myself for a lesson in anatomy (see "schmuck", noun). Fortunately, my father's childhood was characterized more by trips to the Bronx, when his grandmother would hand his mother a greasy bag containing a jar of chicken fat. "That," my father said, "was schmaltz."
Schmaltz was actually in the news this week, as part of the Obama/Biden campaign's first post-convention stop. I wonder what my great grandmother and grandmother would think of that.

skimming off the surface

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 17:05:00 -0400

Early media reports from the DNC in Denver say that disparate protesters are uniting against the Iraq war and Fox News, apparently.

Found

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 22:04:38 -0400

The local synagogue in Bath, Maine was having a book sale over July 4 weekend. With time to kill before an afternoon wedding, I wandered in. All books were 50 cents. I was surprised to find a paperback version of a title I've been meaning to read, so I tossed the cashier a dollar, said "keep the change," (she was nonplussed), and stashed my new-to-me copy of The Tender Bar in my tote bag.
I'd forgotten about the book until this weekend when I started to read it. Thumbing the pages, I discovered a green index card, onto which someone had written in penciled script:

Staples
Talbots
Sams
Curtain Shop

Summer vacation, Day 1

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 21:45:38 -0400

Our adrenaline was high as we approached our destination aboard a tiny commuter jet. We may have been too engrossed with peering out the window at the passing mountains to notice our perky flight attendant's brusque instructions to securely store our belongings for landing. She seemed particularly concerned about items in the seat pockets. "She's strict," remarked LBC, minutes before the plane began a seemingly endless and sharp corkscrew dive.
We held onto our armrests and managed some nervous smiles. I said aloud, "this must be what it's like to fly into Baghdad." Yet, the face of our flight attendant remained beatific. Did the mountains necessitate such a dramatic approach? We landed with a jaunt -- business as usual, I guess -- and taxied to a tiny terminal. Welcome to Medford, OR, 270 miles south of Portland.

view from bus window while departing New York City

Tue, 5 Aug 2008 22:26:15 -0400

The 4:30 p.m. bus is 45 minutes late, and we gaze apathetically at the passengers piling up for the 5:00 and the 5:30, each with varying miffed expressions as giant raindrops fall intermittently. The bus eases out into traffic, and although we are settling in for a long, muted ride, the city carries on. A man with an in-turned foot moves against sidewalk traffic; his awkward gait clearing a wide swath around him. Tourist schlep backpacks, girls in oversized sunglasses talk on cell phones. Under mostly cloudy skies, the neon glows. We pick up speed and I catch a glimpse of an oversized banner on the side of MSG, advertising Tropic Thunder.

Windsock? Check.

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 23:20:14 -0400

Uncle Fred

Originally uploaded by Mind_TheGap.

From the moment we arrived, it was clear that The Uncle was prepared for this year's water rocket festival. What had been in past years empty hyperbole (gaining clearance from the FAA, notifying ground stations in Mecox Bay) had turned into solid planning, complete with a PA system and a playlist.

When the discussion on the eve of the festival (Erev Launch, if you will) turned to the need for a windsock, The Uncle was ready, at dawn, fashioning his lightbulb changing rod and strips of a plastic tablecloth into a workable solution. Although we still lost many a rocket into the bushes, trees, and (gasp) the neighbor's yard, we barely cared; we were having too much fun.

mechanical companion

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 23:38:34 -0400

Recently I, um, interviewed a virtual robot, and toyed around with an AIBO. I decided I wanted an AIBO of my own, with its impressionable, artificial intelligence that I could re-boot if the dog started to develop a personality I didn't like. However, maybe I should just make one of these:

Trainspotting, restoration edition

Wed, 9 Jul 2008 21:14:34 -0400

Restoration shed, Trolley Museum

Originally uploaded by Mind_TheGap.

From its grassy knoll along a Kennebunkport, Maine back road, an MBTA bus seemingly transplanted from yesterday's commute beckons visitors into the Seashore Trolley Museum. On past drivebys, it might have been a Red Line train or ancient open-air car, but the effect was the same. Finally, on a sunny drive up to Bath, I was answering its call.

We glimpsed the museum's vast collection of subway cars from all over the world as we rode a functional 1930s New York trolley along a portion of the abandoned railway line to Biddeford. Volunteers maintain the track and contribute to the painstaking restoration of these relics, and the finished products sit like shiny ghosts in dusty sheds scattered throughout the train yard.

From its inception, the museum has been a place for train lovers to preserve the things they love, and each passing of the seasons ages the cars scattered outside around the grounds -- each awaiting its turn in the restoration shed.

dept. of misleading headlines

Wed, 2 Jul 2008 10:15:44 -0400

Dead veterans happy to rock again for Obama

"How can they rock if they're d-- oh."

face fashion in the news

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 14:47:51 -0400

Last night, as I watched news clips of Robert Mugabe vowing to uphold Zimbabwe's scheduled election runoff, despite political violence that allegedly includes the deaths of some of his opponent's supporters, it suddenly dawned on me: the man has a toothbrush mustache.

Holy crap.