Well--it's the end of July. The "August People" will be arriving soon then before you know it we will have our Island back, thank god!
SUMMER RAGE
I have summer rage. I have tourist, bicycle, pedestrian, jogger, traffic jam rage. And if I see one more chest sporting a big black dog I’m going to use it for target practice.
Could someone please tell me when they turned Dock Street and Mayhew Lane into a pedestrian mall? Now I know that when you live in a resort area it’s politically incorrect to sport a bumper sticker on your car that says “If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?”, but come on--we all have some ambivalence. Even the Islanders who make all their money from our summer visitors find ‘the season’ somewhat trying. Not that we’re any different when we go away. I, too, gawk at the storefronts and wander into the street as thouogh I have an IQ of six. But I only do it for a week or two at a time, whereas here I have to live with it for at least four months every year.
Why is it when people are on vacation all the rules are suspended? Let the kids stay up until they’re so cranky you want to drown them? Sure. In fact, when they start screaming with frustration and exhaustion that’s when we’ll take them out to a restaurant to eat. They won’t mind standing in line for an hour. Bicycle helmets? Nah. We’re on vacation. Mad Martha’s for dinner? Why not. Let the kids enjoy a sugar high.
One of the things that made moving to Martha’s Vineyard so appealing was the festive atmosphere of the different towns during the summer, but after spending ten years here full time I yearn for the blessed quiet of winter, of empty streets, even if most of the stores and restaurants are closed. I don’t care. I can’t afford to eat or shop in them anyway. In summer everyone is so busy with their company I don’t get to see any of my friends. Most of us feel as if we run a B&B from June till September. And the ferry is a disaster. Off season if we find the need to go anywhere we just run up to the airport and buy a ferry ticket. During the summer, if you haven’t made long term plans, fuggedaboudit. Short of an appointment for open heart surgery, you’re not going anywhere. It’s not the Authority’s fault. It’s the unavoidable consequences of being a resort.
Look at the Gazette. In the winter it’s a nice, newsy little weekly that tells you what you need to know. In August you could get a hernia carrying it home, what with all the stuff going on. Then they have the nerve to print one on Tuesday for the overflow. This doubles my weekly newspaper budget.
And what’s with the cell phones on the beach? You’re on vacation, dammit! Oh. You’re making a reservation for dinner? You mean you didn’t do that in March when you got your ferry tickets? You’ll either have to eat before your lunch is digested or after the evening news. As for me--I don’t patronize restaurants that close in the winter, or refuse to make a reservation for fewer than six (or twelve) people. And a parking lot is a big plus.
The grocery store is another place that inspires rage. It’s not uncommon for the shelves to be bare, even if a nor’easter hasn’t been predicted. Fortunately I’m of the Yankee ‘make do’ persuasion--it’s the Stop and Shop that loses out. I used to shop at Cronig’s but what with the traffic and price of gas...don’t get me started on that.
Really, I’m thrilled and proud that Martha’s Vineyard is so beloved. I adore it when I’m off Island and someone asks me where I’m from, and I watch their eyes get wide with envy when I tell them. And I guess it takes the frenetic summer months to make us appreciate the deep, dark winter months. But in the midst of my summer rage I’m always reminded of an acquaintance who retired to the Cape. He loved it in winter but always went back to Brooklyn for the summer. Go figure.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
ANTHRO-CONS
Technology via the internet has allowed people who once thought they were the only person on earth with their own peculiar proclivity, to meet up with multitudes with the same bizarre desires.
ANTHRO-CONS
I recently read an article in the paper about a weekly gathering of ‘furries’ who, it turns out, are people who like to dress up in animal suits and the people who like to hang around with them. I can only guess that these people were taken to a Disney theme park at a very impressionable age. Being curious I Googled (v) ‘furries’ and much to my surprise there was an endless list of conventions for the active participants of this compelling hobby. This made me realize that the Internet has opened up a whole world for people who always feared they were weird. They have learned they are not alone. This can be either good or bad depending on the hobby, fetish, or god forbid, perversion.
Of course then I started wondering what other types of conventions there are and found myself on a site called dactylmanor.org/fanboy. In 2009 alone it lists 329 conventions. Not medical or dental or literary conventions mind you. No, these conventions had one thing in common. They were basically designed to give hobbyists, fetishists and, god forbid, perverts a chance to gather together to exchange information and play.
Back to the ‘furries’. Among the many, many conventions listed (who are these people?) there was one called Feral! and it was a camping event. I don’t know about you, but I for one would not want to sleep in a tent in the woods dressed as a bear, unless of course I was looking to have a little cub of my own.
Most of the conventions have something to do with sci-fi, Japanese anime and culture, comic books, Star Trek, you get the idea. These people have a problem with reality. They become obsessed with television shows, movies and reading material that is only sold in comic book stores. Don’t get me wrong--whatever floats your boat is okay by me. But those of us who get along fine in the real world tend to find it silly.
One type of convention that amused me is in the taxidermy field. Now you could argue that that is a bona fide profession but do they really need so many conventions? In 2009 alone they had fifty one. I assumed they would be in places where the big game roam, but no, they even had one in New Jersey. I was curious to see what kind of game was hunted so I clicked on the web site. There, much to my surprise was a picture of the “Best in Show” which looked to me like a big horn sheep. I grew up in New Jersey. The only wildlife I ever saw was an occasional rat down by the shore, but I can understand why nobody would want to stuff one of those. While I was perusing this particular topic I started to think how easy it would be today for Norman Bates. He could have used the Internet to order all of the taxidermy equipment he needed to keep his mother in the pink.
Among the many conventions for tattoo artists was the one being held, appropriately, at the Harley-Davidson Museum in Milwaukee. Tattoos and motorcycles. Love and marriage. My, my. The tattoo convention billed as the “Biggest on Earth” was being held in Las Vegas and you can vote for your favorite on their web site which I didn’t access because I still have dial up and it would have taken a week.
The Queen City Kamikaze convention had a big Japanese flag on their site. I’m old enough to remember WW2, so I passed that one up not knowing if it’s about pilots or the Japanese. It was held in Canada, if that’s any help.
The one listed as ‘Fandemonium’ had no web site or description of the event. I guess they were having too much fun. I’m tempted to buy a pair of horn-rimmed glasses for my daughter and send her to Geek.Kon which advertises all things geek. Her current insignificant other is no Bill Gates.
My personal favorite--I guess it’s because I married an Irishman--is called LepreCon. I don’t know what they do there but I bet there’s beer.
ANTHRO-CONS
I recently read an article in the paper about a weekly gathering of ‘furries’ who, it turns out, are people who like to dress up in animal suits and the people who like to hang around with them. I can only guess that these people were taken to a Disney theme park at a very impressionable age. Being curious I Googled (v) ‘furries’ and much to my surprise there was an endless list of conventions for the active participants of this compelling hobby. This made me realize that the Internet has opened up a whole world for people who always feared they were weird. They have learned they are not alone. This can be either good or bad depending on the hobby, fetish, or god forbid, perversion.
Of course then I started wondering what other types of conventions there are and found myself on a site called dactylmanor.org/fanboy. In 2009 alone it lists 329 conventions. Not medical or dental or literary conventions mind you. No, these conventions had one thing in common. They were basically designed to give hobbyists, fetishists and, god forbid, perverts a chance to gather together to exchange information and play.
Back to the ‘furries’. Among the many, many conventions listed (who are these people?) there was one called Feral! and it was a camping event. I don’t know about you, but I for one would not want to sleep in a tent in the woods dressed as a bear, unless of course I was looking to have a little cub of my own.
Most of the conventions have something to do with sci-fi, Japanese anime and culture, comic books, Star Trek, you get the idea. These people have a problem with reality. They become obsessed with television shows, movies and reading material that is only sold in comic book stores. Don’t get me wrong--whatever floats your boat is okay by me. But those of us who get along fine in the real world tend to find it silly.
One type of convention that amused me is in the taxidermy field. Now you could argue that that is a bona fide profession but do they really need so many conventions? In 2009 alone they had fifty one. I assumed they would be in places where the big game roam, but no, they even had one in New Jersey. I was curious to see what kind of game was hunted so I clicked on the web site. There, much to my surprise was a picture of the “Best in Show” which looked to me like a big horn sheep. I grew up in New Jersey. The only wildlife I ever saw was an occasional rat down by the shore, but I can understand why nobody would want to stuff one of those. While I was perusing this particular topic I started to think how easy it would be today for Norman Bates. He could have used the Internet to order all of the taxidermy equipment he needed to keep his mother in the pink.
Among the many conventions for tattoo artists was the one being held, appropriately, at the Harley-Davidson Museum in Milwaukee. Tattoos and motorcycles. Love and marriage. My, my. The tattoo convention billed as the “Biggest on Earth” was being held in Las Vegas and you can vote for your favorite on their web site which I didn’t access because I still have dial up and it would have taken a week.
The Queen City Kamikaze convention had a big Japanese flag on their site. I’m old enough to remember WW2, so I passed that one up not knowing if it’s about pilots or the Japanese. It was held in Canada, if that’s any help.
The one listed as ‘Fandemonium’ had no web site or description of the event. I guess they were having too much fun. I’m tempted to buy a pair of horn-rimmed glasses for my daughter and send her to Geek.Kon which advertises all things geek. Her current insignificant other is no Bill Gates.
My personal favorite--I guess it’s because I married an Irishman--is called LepreCon. I don’t know what they do there but I bet there’s beer.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
VINEYARD CELEBRITIES
'Tis the season when celebrity sightings are abundant. They try to avoid us, we try to avoid them. Went to the Flea Market last summer and was talking to Linda Ferrini about her oil cloth floor covers. The chat was going nicely until Amy Brenneman showed up and suddenly I was invisible. Not that I blame her--I wasn't going to buy a $3000 item!
VINEYARD CELEBRITIES
One day while waiting for a bus at Mayhew Lane, I observed a scene that made me think about the meaning of celebrity. John Kerry and a friend of his strolled up from the wharf, went into the Town Provision store and ambled back towards the water, heads bent in ernest conversation, carrying a bag of ice. Interesting, I thought, he’s not as tall as he looks on TV. I overheard several surprised comments from others sitting on the bench. I then experienced news traveling fast because within seconds a young waitress came running out of Among The Flowers yelling, “Where is he??”
“Where is who?” asked one of the bystanders. “Jim Carrey, Jim Carrey!” she crooned. When informed it had been the former democratic candidate for president not the rubbery faced comic she pulled a disappointed look and returned to work.
It reminded me of a sultry midsummer day I was walking past what was then The Stand By Diner. Spike Lee came out of the diner, jumped into a jeep and was driven away by his wife. Two adolescent African American boys (I apologize if this is not the politically correct term; I can't keep up) spied him and started jumping and hooting. “Spike Lee, Spike Lee!” they shrieked. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been Alan Dershowitz exiting the diner, getting into a Mercedes SUV and a couple of pre-law students were passing, would the response have been equally effervescent. Young people seem to be more impressed with Hollywood type celebrities. I suppose the idea of being ‘discovered’ is still a reality to them.
Vineyarders have a live and let live attitude about the local rich and famous. Once they become neighbors or friends we tend to treat them like neighbors or friends, which is to say, in the summer we are pretty much too busy for anything more than a nod or quick hello. And in the winter they’re like a lot of our other neighbors...gone. Although when my friend Janice ran into Tony Shaloub at the Farmer’s Market she had to tell him how much she liked his show, “Monk”. But I figure that would be like telling Frank Perdue that you like his chicken. Certainly not star struck behavior, just polite chat.
You only see the Hollywood type during the summer. When they move here full time they are in danger of a change in status. Walking to South Beach on Christmas day I passed David Letterman jogging in yellow shorts and a Ball State tee shirt. He greeted me with a smile and boomed out, “Hello, Merry Christmas,” At that precise moment he went from celebrity to neighbor.
Most Islanders are much more entranced by local ‘characters’. People who are so friendly or notable for one reason or another that every one either knows them or knows of them. Urban, I mean Island, legends abound about such people. For instance, who brought the first skunk to the Island? A reputation could be broken, or made, depending on your point of view, if your name became linked with such a nefarious deed. On the other hand the whole Island shared in the shame of being unable to save the last of the Heath Hens. That one of God’s creatures became extinct in our neighborhood is nothing to be proud of. This explains why we do such a song and dance for the piping plovers each year. Atoning for past sins I suppose.
If a transplanted celebrity lives on the Island long enough they might become elevated to ‘character’ status. Which is to say, they don’t run shrieking if they are approached by someone with a camera or asked to be involved in a fund raiser. Art Buchwald, Patricia Neal, Walter Cronkite, Carly Simon Mike Wallace, and the Taylors come readily to mind. Not necessarily part of Island ‘lore’ but close enough.
Vineyard celebrities, writers, artists and Nobel Prize winners, tend to be more approachable and three dimensional than the actors, actresses and politicians that cause an uproar when seen in public. If you had stopped Phil Craig on the street you were more likely to hear about where the Blues were running rather than his last book. Cynthia Riggs will rant about the good ole boy network in West Tisbury politics. Rumor has it that between Chappy and Chilmark there are more Nobel Prize winners per capita than anywhere else on earth. For my money, these are the real celebrities.
Flash forward a couple of weeks after my John Kerry sighting. Sitting on the bench waiting for a bus again. A transplanted celebrity walks up the street, dressed all in black, long sleeved shirt, slacks and shoes. (Shoes! You can take the boy out of Hollywood...) I nudge the woman sitting next to me and whisper, “That’s Marty Nadler.” “Who?” she says, looking completely baffled.
Everyone has their own version of fame.
VINEYARD CELEBRITIES
One day while waiting for a bus at Mayhew Lane, I observed a scene that made me think about the meaning of celebrity. John Kerry and a friend of his strolled up from the wharf, went into the Town Provision store and ambled back towards the water, heads bent in ernest conversation, carrying a bag of ice. Interesting, I thought, he’s not as tall as he looks on TV. I overheard several surprised comments from others sitting on the bench. I then experienced news traveling fast because within seconds a young waitress came running out of Among The Flowers yelling, “Where is he??”
“Where is who?” asked one of the bystanders. “Jim Carrey, Jim Carrey!” she crooned. When informed it had been the former democratic candidate for president not the rubbery faced comic she pulled a disappointed look and returned to work.
It reminded me of a sultry midsummer day I was walking past what was then The Stand By Diner. Spike Lee came out of the diner, jumped into a jeep and was driven away by his wife. Two adolescent African American boys (I apologize if this is not the politically correct term; I can't keep up) spied him and started jumping and hooting. “Spike Lee, Spike Lee!” they shrieked. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been Alan Dershowitz exiting the diner, getting into a Mercedes SUV and a couple of pre-law students were passing, would the response have been equally effervescent. Young people seem to be more impressed with Hollywood type celebrities. I suppose the idea of being ‘discovered’ is still a reality to them.
Vineyarders have a live and let live attitude about the local rich and famous. Once they become neighbors or friends we tend to treat them like neighbors or friends, which is to say, in the summer we are pretty much too busy for anything more than a nod or quick hello. And in the winter they’re like a lot of our other neighbors...gone. Although when my friend Janice ran into Tony Shaloub at the Farmer’s Market she had to tell him how much she liked his show, “Monk”. But I figure that would be like telling Frank Perdue that you like his chicken. Certainly not star struck behavior, just polite chat.
You only see the Hollywood type during the summer. When they move here full time they are in danger of a change in status. Walking to South Beach on Christmas day I passed David Letterman jogging in yellow shorts and a Ball State tee shirt. He greeted me with a smile and boomed out, “Hello, Merry Christmas,” At that precise moment he went from celebrity to neighbor.
Most Islanders are much more entranced by local ‘characters’. People who are so friendly or notable for one reason or another that every one either knows them or knows of them. Urban, I mean Island, legends abound about such people. For instance, who brought the first skunk to the Island? A reputation could be broken, or made, depending on your point of view, if your name became linked with such a nefarious deed. On the other hand the whole Island shared in the shame of being unable to save the last of the Heath Hens. That one of God’s creatures became extinct in our neighborhood is nothing to be proud of. This explains why we do such a song and dance for the piping plovers each year. Atoning for past sins I suppose.
If a transplanted celebrity lives on the Island long enough they might become elevated to ‘character’ status. Which is to say, they don’t run shrieking if they are approached by someone with a camera or asked to be involved in a fund raiser. Art Buchwald, Patricia Neal, Walter Cronkite, Carly Simon Mike Wallace, and the Taylors come readily to mind. Not necessarily part of Island ‘lore’ but close enough.
Vineyard celebrities, writers, artists and Nobel Prize winners, tend to be more approachable and three dimensional than the actors, actresses and politicians that cause an uproar when seen in public. If you had stopped Phil Craig on the street you were more likely to hear about where the Blues were running rather than his last book. Cynthia Riggs will rant about the good ole boy network in West Tisbury politics. Rumor has it that between Chappy and Chilmark there are more Nobel Prize winners per capita than anywhere else on earth. For my money, these are the real celebrities.
Flash forward a couple of weeks after my John Kerry sighting. Sitting on the bench waiting for a bus again. A transplanted celebrity walks up the street, dressed all in black, long sleeved shirt, slacks and shoes. (Shoes! You can take the boy out of Hollywood...) I nudge the woman sitting next to me and whisper, “That’s Marty Nadler.” “Who?” she says, looking completely baffled.
Everyone has their own version of fame.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
FOGGY FOURTH
I don't know why they call them the dog days. The dogs look even more miserable than I feel. This essay is in honor of our nations birthday.
Foggy Fourth
Every year I suggest to Jules that we spend the Fourth of July on our boat in Edgartown Harbor. For one reason or another we always found ourselves with something more attractive to do. A party on the parade route, a neighbor’s BBQ, there was always something that made the boat second choice. Besides, getting to the boat on the Fourth could be an ordeal. We usually park at the Deep Woods lot and take the free shuttle into town. But a few years ago they put up a sign that prohibited overnight parking. Unfortunately the closest twenty-four hour parking is in Oak Bluffs. That doesn’t help us. So it was either beg a ride from a friend or take a taxi. If we were feeling really energetic we could shlep our stuff a half mile out to Herring Creek Road and catch the South Beach bus into town. This leaves a bit of a hike to the harbor launch (the harbormaster had talked us out of our own dingy-no place to leave it, they get stolen, etc.), and since we never travel light this would certainly be a last ditch choice.
A couple of years ago, after a stretch of lousy weather and no other offers, we finally did our overnight. We got a ride downtown from my friend Janice, early, before the streets were closed, had lunch in town and, carrying enough baggage for a week, took the launch out to our boat. Normally I refuse to go anywhere that doesn’t have room service but our boat is relatively comfortable. It’s supposed to sleep six but, as Jules always says, you’d have to be very good friends.
The day was simply gorgeous, one of those ‘perfect Vineyard days’ that had been few and far between. The wind was favorable and we sailed farther than we ever had for a day sail. Back at the mooring, tired and gratified, we enjoyed a nice dinner while listening to the Edgartown parade. The harbor is always packed for the weekend of the Fourth and that year was no exception. Most of the moorings had two or three boats rafted together. The mooring anchors must be the size of refrigerators to keep them from drifting.
There were three modest (for Edgartown) power boats moored nearby. They were the most patriotic group I’ve ever seen. Balloons, streamers, every imaginable type of red, white, and blue decoration was draped over these boats. It was obvious the families loved this holiday and equally obvious the children were waiting for the fire works with baited breath. Their excitement level and voices were rising like a siren. While I finished cleaning up after dinner my first inkling that the night was not going to go as planned was a low moan above decks and a soft “Uh oh,” from Jules. “What’s the matter?” I asked, popping my head up through the hatch. He didn’t have to answer. I could see for myself. The fog was rolling in from Katama, not on little cat feet, more like a tidal wave.
Unaware of the fog’s potential our neighbors continued their gleeful celebration. The show was to begin at nine. Shortly after eight thirty, hoping to salvage the night, the loud booms began, but by then it had become so murky we could no longer see the other boats in the harbor much less the fireworks. After each concussion the sky would be tinged with pink or green. Used to the fog--we live in Katama after all--I took it in stride and went below out of the damp.
Boaters, however, don’t let adversity spoil their fun. After each boom and tinge of sky I could hear our fellow sailors ooh and aah. After all, it was the Fourth of July!
Foggy Fourth
Every year I suggest to Jules that we spend the Fourth of July on our boat in Edgartown Harbor. For one reason or another we always found ourselves with something more attractive to do. A party on the parade route, a neighbor’s BBQ, there was always something that made the boat second choice. Besides, getting to the boat on the Fourth could be an ordeal. We usually park at the Deep Woods lot and take the free shuttle into town. But a few years ago they put up a sign that prohibited overnight parking. Unfortunately the closest twenty-four hour parking is in Oak Bluffs. That doesn’t help us. So it was either beg a ride from a friend or take a taxi. If we were feeling really energetic we could shlep our stuff a half mile out to Herring Creek Road and catch the South Beach bus into town. This leaves a bit of a hike to the harbor launch (the harbormaster had talked us out of our own dingy-no place to leave it, they get stolen, etc.), and since we never travel light this would certainly be a last ditch choice.
A couple of years ago, after a stretch of lousy weather and no other offers, we finally did our overnight. We got a ride downtown from my friend Janice, early, before the streets were closed, had lunch in town and, carrying enough baggage for a week, took the launch out to our boat. Normally I refuse to go anywhere that doesn’t have room service but our boat is relatively comfortable. It’s supposed to sleep six but, as Jules always says, you’d have to be very good friends.
The day was simply gorgeous, one of those ‘perfect Vineyard days’ that had been few and far between. The wind was favorable and we sailed farther than we ever had for a day sail. Back at the mooring, tired and gratified, we enjoyed a nice dinner while listening to the Edgartown parade. The harbor is always packed for the weekend of the Fourth and that year was no exception. Most of the moorings had two or three boats rafted together. The mooring anchors must be the size of refrigerators to keep them from drifting.
There were three modest (for Edgartown) power boats moored nearby. They were the most patriotic group I’ve ever seen. Balloons, streamers, every imaginable type of red, white, and blue decoration was draped over these boats. It was obvious the families loved this holiday and equally obvious the children were waiting for the fire works with baited breath. Their excitement level and voices were rising like a siren. While I finished cleaning up after dinner my first inkling that the night was not going to go as planned was a low moan above decks and a soft “Uh oh,” from Jules. “What’s the matter?” I asked, popping my head up through the hatch. He didn’t have to answer. I could see for myself. The fog was rolling in from Katama, not on little cat feet, more like a tidal wave.
Unaware of the fog’s potential our neighbors continued their gleeful celebration. The show was to begin at nine. Shortly after eight thirty, hoping to salvage the night, the loud booms began, but by then it had become so murky we could no longer see the other boats in the harbor much less the fireworks. After each concussion the sky would be tinged with pink or green. Used to the fog--we live in Katama after all--I took it in stride and went below out of the damp.
Boaters, however, don’t let adversity spoil their fun. After each boom and tinge of sky I could hear our fellow sailors ooh and aah. After all, it was the Fourth of July!
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