Mamma Mia!

Just a few thoughts on seeing Mamma Mia - The Broadway Musical.

I thought I wouldn't like it, but I did like it.

I've seen the movie, which was terribly, and I was familiar with the storyline that thinly holds together the songs. It was what I think is called a "jukebox musical".

Before the show we were taken to lunch at a tourist destination next door to the Winter Garden Theater - Ellies Broadway Diner or some such name. I didn't choose the place and upon entering was greeted by one of the wait staff screaming some pop tune of the past, "Come-onna-my-house". It was one of those singing waiter places. Awful.

What struck me was the feeling that the waiters and waitresses who were entertaining us while ignoring their duty to serve us and get our orders correct, while competent singers, obviously trained and just putting in their time while waiting for that big break, felt themselves to be above the material. Their perfunctory performances lacked any feeling for the soul of the songs. Sure, it's just a bunch of twenty year old kids forced to sing songs written and popularized forty years before they were born - they can be excused, can't they?

Contrast that with the opening number next door - a twenty year old kid singing a song written twenty five years before she was born, she BELIEVED it. She wanted to be on that stage, singing that old song, finding it's soul and the audience never felt her just going through the motions.

That's what separates the stars from the waiters.

An Unfriendly Mirror

I don’t like to catch sight of myself in an unfriendly mirror.

My best friend mirror lives in my bathroom. We finish each other’s sentences – we’re that close! Just yesterday I caught sight of myself in the barber shop. I usually don’t mind the mirror at the barber shop as I am extremely myopic stopping short just this side of legally blind. Anyway, glasses must come off for a haircut. A clean lens is a hair magnet. I’m usually prepared when it’s time to survey the damage – I just stick to the back of the skull and sides. But yesterday my guard was down. That’s my receding hairline all right but, wait a minute, who is that fat saggy face-like-a-constipated-bulldog attached and depending from the front of it? Me? Ugh.

I’m buying a trimmer. I’ll gladly give up the hypnotic combs swirling in blue water to see a familiar friendly face back home in the bathroom.

Blasphemy

Everybody knows somebody like this.

Have you ever had a friend who you thought was a special friend? One who, when you were together, made you feel that you were the funniest, most interesting person on earth? One with whom you ‘clicked’? They just got you and you both reciprocated a certain aliveness. It’s friend-love. Deeper than mere friendship.

Then, one day, they abruptly have moved on. Something or someone else has taken your place and you are left stranded on a grassy median in the middle of a busy highway waiting for a ride that never comes.

It’s not you.

That friend is just one of those people who hunt out new things and delight in the possibilities of new people. These folks are arch-egotists. Social vampires with an insatiable thirst for new blood. They do have some ‘old’ friends, a devoted cadre of followers who orbit around them and worship their light. But that’s a sacrifice few can consciously assent to without the requisite low self esteem.

I think that’s what shocked Adam and Eve. They didn’t realize God was like that.

They got dumped.

Adam and Eve couldn’t understand why they weren’t loved. They were told nothing. They were innocent and eager to please. And curious. Their lives were unintended consequences.

Their lives were unintended consequences. They were created to be, were meant to be reflectors, mirrors shining back God’s own light. Some Angels had become tired of God long ago. Of course He still has His cadre. The Angel’s reflective power dimmed in proportion to their share in divine knowledge. What was needed was a more polished smooth surface. Smooth and untroubled – an infant’s brow.

Satan knew well and tried to wise them up. “If you just knew a little more, you’d never put up with it”. And while the Big Cat was away, the little mice did play.

Satan was a self-proclaimed ‘expert’ on God and everyone has had the experience of taking advice from an ‘expert’. The Expert can not help from being condescending; they are never simple, even, unequivocal. As a result, we tend to hear the attitude, not the advice.

So with Adam and Eve who, ever eager to please a new friend, supped greedily from the tree of knowledge. As the lights began to glow behind their eyes, they began to fuck like heedless bunnies. This was how God found them, completely absorbed in themselves.

It is unsatisfying to be worshipped by automatons. Without some self-awareness they just bounce off the trees, quietly gesticulating their revelations to the air and each other. They’re just groupies.

From that first eye-opening day down to this they and all they've begat eternally beseech, “Why do you not love us?”. And the answer is, “Why of course I do, you sillys”. But, neither party believes it, and it serves well the worshipful purpose with no end of placating, trying this or that, loving, hating, killing, trying anything that might work because no one knows what will work, what will be the one door back into the garden.

Pathetic guilty love is better than no love at all.

It’s hard for a parent, that day when the kids stop paying attention, when they realize that the philosophical glue you’re slathering on to hold the family together dissolves under the least scrutiny.

It’s a crock.

Bud F.X. Landry

Where I Live

Madison Heights – A Proud Community.

That’s what it says on the sign as you enter town.

Below that, “sponsored by Cedar Hill Tree Service. Visit us online at www.cedarhilltree.com”, but as the speed limit is 40 mph at that particular curve in the road and the font size significantly smaller, most visitors never log on. It’s a minor point but a telling one as Cedar Hill Tree is one of those local tradesmen who, for a modest fee, keep the community pride high.

Madison Height’s pride is not haughty, like say, across the Shmelkin Brook in Dunphey, Shmelkin Brook bordering the old Shmelkin landfill at our eastern perimeter. Shmelkin Brook and the new Shmelkin’s Corner Condominium Village are simply two of a large number of reasons to find pride in our town.

Shmelkin Brook, known prior to the mid-17th Century by it’s Indian name Loantaka Brook, was forded by settler Liam Shmelkin, a Londonderry Jewish tinker seeking the sweet air of Freedom unavailable to him in Dunphey. Shmelkin, a canny man by all historic accounts, had the foresight to see the new-world’s need for waste disposal which he supplied to the burghers of Dunphey for a modest fee thus becoming the first tradesman in the area to offer services at a modest fee thereby inaugurating a long-established tradition of services to the community at a modest fee which you can read more about at www.cedarhilltree.com/history/shmelkin.

Liam Shmelkin’s bold steps across the virgin Loantaka into what, centuries later is today’s Madison Heights may have been the first European incursion into the swampy uplands of north-central New Jersey but Shmelkin was hardly the first human seeking Freedom’s sweet air hard by New Jersey’s largest pestilent swamp. Native Americans had made that bold step before him as local lore tells of the original inhabitants, the Leni Lenape Indian’s who were shamed into moving from Dunphey when another tribe – the Loantaka, moved in and started building larger wigwams sparking a building boom which has continued unabated from that day till this. Although they were not Jewish, Shmelkin was welcomed by the remnants of this lost tribe as one of their own, even taking a native woman as his wife. But that’s all ancient history.

Past being prologue, the past of Madison Heights is a tradition of make-do, pioneer spirit, catch-as-catch-can, all-hands-on-deck and swamp dumping. These tangles in our civic skein warped and woofed their threads together in response to a local crisis whose antecedents reached back to the legacy of Shmelkin himself or, as locals at the Loantaka Café aka “Swampy’s” refer to it – Shmelkin’s legacy.

Shmelkin, as has been told, was an Irish Jew and, evident from his getting mixed up with an Indian woman, a non-observant one. And although Madison Heights is an open minded community worship-wise with Pentecostal’s rubbing shoulders with Papists at Swampy’s, no Synagogue has ever taken root here however, our Jews do get together of a Saturday, renting out the local Quaker Society of Friends meeting hall (Saturday’s being the only day available as our Koreans have it on Fridays). The Quaker hall is located on the “Shunpike” – ironically enough the alternate highway to the King’s “Pike” which, with the help of his wilderness wife, Shmelkin cut through the trackless waste to avoid the King’s levy on co-mingled trash hauling.

The Abrahamists are a quiet folk who come and go without a whole lot of fanfare and by any estimate did not call down upon themselves what happened that one Saturday in the Quaker’s parking lot. Somebody, nobody knows who and the locals at Swampy’s point no fingers, somebody stole into the Quaker lot on Sabbath and placed photographs of Adolf Hitler under the windshield wiper blades of the congregant’s cars. Everybody agrees that was a bad thing to do. Hitler caused a lot of trouble, but that’s all ancient history. Insult to injury, the creep also placed nails and broken glass under the auto tires. If Hitler didn’t get their attention, a flat tire sure would send a message.

Madison Heights got the message.

We’re a proud community and, rumors to the contrary, not unwelcoming to outsiders having long ago let in some Catholics and should not be unfairly judged as a result of a necessary local referendum declaring Madison Heights a Guido-Free Zone. A particular point of pride is that Madison Heights has one of the largest Hispanic communities in the whole state of New Jersey. During the summer, between the hours of 7A.M and 3P.M.

We got the message. The Town Council got it. Civic Leaders got it. The Chamber of Commerce got it; the Country Club set got it. The folks at the Yacht Club (note: another point of civic pride, Madison Heights is the only land-locked community to boast of a Yacht Club) got it. Even the locals at Swampy’s got it but then, nothing gets by them.

But what to do?

How does a community respond to a vile act of hate perpetrated on families simply seeking, centuries on, Shmelkin’s sweet air of Freedom? It only took a short five months, but Madison Heights mobilized and responded.

They planted a Garden of Diversity.

It died, but that was only because money to tend it ran out (it was funded by donations after all). While gardening may strike some as an odd response to anti-Semitism, that measured response was born from the self-knowledge of what Madison Heights does best. How best we marshal our best intentions and for a modest fee (or donation), provide that which keeps us a Proud Community, our Civic pride. Pride in trimmed lawns, fine homes, tree lined streets. We work hard to maintain the values of home, family and security. It’s not unlike the mini construction boom that occurred after 9-11. If we can fight terrorism by building swimming pools and gazebos, why not racism with gardening? But that’s all ancient history.

Bud F.X. Landry

A Proud Asswipe!

I don’t go out much. I prefer to stay in and I only venture out when absolutely necessary. Like, to get food. Or gas for the Cutlass, or to the library, or the video store, or for food for the dogs, or for clothes but then, only when the need is great.

I’m avoiding human contact. I admit it. I don’t like people, not in general. There are particular people I like even less than the general populace but, that’s all ancient history and I won’t go into it.

I needed to be out yesterday and so I went making my way carefully to the Post Office (I forgot that one up top). After my business was transacted I got back in the Cutlass, backed out of my spot and I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going and was roundly blasted by a truck I didn’t see. A big luxury truck. The skinny blonde trophy wife screamed at me “Watch it, Ass-Wipe!”. Then she turned to check that her toddlers were all still strapped in – there was no harm done – and sped off through the parking lot.

Ass-Wipe. I guess she thought she told me! I wasn’t offended, just confused. If she called me a blind, brainless old coot with shit-for-brains I might have to agree given that I did pull out without first looking both ways. But Ass-Wipe? What’s it called when you make a verb-action into a noun? A gerund. Maybe it’s not a gerund proper as there’s no –ing involved, but she was trying to make me feel bad by tagging me as one who engages in ass wiping.

As a matter of personal hygiene, wiping of the ass is probably one of most basic markers of living in a civilized society. I doubt few are against the practice. Although I’m sure somewhere there’s somebody sitting on the bowl thinking, “Damn it, someone ought to invent a pill…”, but they’ve surely got to be in the minority. Maybe he's bitter because his bowel movement is like trying to push play-doh through a pin hole. They can help that condition now. This is a behavior we should laud, not lament. If you’ve ever ridden a packed subway in High Summer and had a seat and been surrounded by those who have questionable hygiene habits you will know what I am talking about. That’s another reason I don’t go out much.

It’s like calling someone a Fuck. As far as I remember, fucking was a pretty nice thing.

But that’s all ancient history and I’m not going to get into it.

Bud F.X. Landry

Dr. Fatty, Mama's Boy and Old Santa Claus

Those are the neighbors who live across the street from Mrs. Landry and me. They don’t live all together but in three houses that are in our little orbit.

Those are not their real names, just what we call them over here on the hill-side. Dr. Fatty, Mama’s Boy and Old Santa Claus live on the swamp–side of the street. They’ve got a lot more property than us, but it’s mostly in the swamp so I don’t know where they think they get their bragging rights from.

Our street is Madison Heights Boulevard and it runs along the edge of the Grand Swamp, our local nature preserve and bird sanctuary. The Boulevard divides this end of town into the hill people – us over here on our side, and the swamp people – them over there. Madison Heights Boulevard is a very busy County Road and even though it’s the last country road in town with a real blueberry-picking farm down a ways, the big construction rigs and grass cutting Latins speed up and down all day long. That makes it hard to have a real conversation with the swamp people. They look alright, when you can get a peek at them. They’re kind of furtive.

Dr. Fatty, and Old Santa Claus moved in after we did. Mama’s Boy and his mother have been here since I don’t know because, well, they were here first. I don’t know if he is an actual mama’s boy, tied to the apron strings. He’s not actually a boy, more a middle aged man. Our neighbor next door, a hill person, named him. He waved at us once when we moved in but our neighbor said, “Oh, don’t wave at him, he’s a Mama’s Boy”. She said it with this certain tone so we just let it alone.

Dr. Fatty moved in a few years back. He bought the old Murder House. The woman who lived there with her elderly parents suffocated them with pillows then sat on the edge of the bed looking out the window. Mama’s Boy’s mama discovered them. She, the murderess, was a middle aged woman living with her elderly parents. And, oddly enough, she was also a doctor, an ophthalmologist. I guess she had a blind spot when it came to those elderly parents. At least she didn’t give Mama’s Boy any ideas.

The new Doctor leveled Murder House and built his own palace. We never saw much of him – he’d leave early and get home late – doctor’s hours – and always used the electric garage door opener to let himself in and out. A private man. Our neighbor next door told us he was “Dr. Fatty” using that tone again. He is obese, which is strange for someone in the health game. He seems to be pretty tight with the Mama’s Boy. He has a few classic cars and he and Mama’s Boy go road tripping in the good weather. They go riding with the top down, the arms of their cable knit sweaters wrapped around their necks against the chill. Sometimes they spend the night. Friends.

Old Santa Claus’s elderly parents moved in across the street a few years back. They were nice folks. In the evenings, when the truck traffic thinned out, we’d exchange pleasantries across the boulevard. The old man died and the son, Old Santa Claus and his wife, Mrs. Claus I guess, moved in to take care of mamma. Old Santa Claus isn’t popular. Big bear of a guy with the full, white whiskers. First thing he did was put up an ugly chain-link fence around his whole property – even in the swamp! We’re split-rail people. Chain-link? – that’s not class. Then he put up those motion controlled flood lights all around the property. If old mamma tries to make a break for it she won’t get very far. His next improvement was a three story addition, two stories of which are underground. Probably keeps mamma down in the dungeon.

The neighbor next door really disapproves of Old Santa Claus. “Steer clear of him”, she says with the tone. I will. Him and the pedophile cop who lives three houses down.

On the swamp side of course.

Bud F.X. Landry

An American Original

One more small town institution has made way for ‘progress’.

There is a hole now where Lanny Casterwalder’s house once stood and also, I must admit, a little hole in my heart at it’s passing.

Lanny was what I like to call an American Original. He owned the last unofficial salvage yard in Madison Heights. His neighbors called Lanny’s place an eyesore, like a black tooth in a supermodel’s smile. Folks wondered whether it was a salvage business or just a hobby grown out of hand; like people who collect too many stray cats. Passing by you’d always see Lanny out hip deep in his collection, but as his was the sole human life I ever detected, any other bodies possibly being interpreted as customers (or health inspectors), locals were confident in labeling him a ‘collector’, and not an entrepreneur.

If you’ve ever known a collector you will know how loathe they are to part with their treasures. My father was a collector, a Depression-era collector. Mother called him a pack rat. He was loathe to part with anything – bits of string, old rubber bands, broken wristwatches. His argument was, “you never know when these things’ll come in handy”. Dad’s ‘junk drawer’ included his night-stand drawer, his desk, our garage, the shed and three kitchen cabinets. After he died we got rid of most of his treasure hoard. Those things never did come in handy but I’m pretty sure somewhere in the attic there’s a box filled with bits of string, old rubber bands and a busted watch or two just waiting for their moment.

Lanny’s front yard was just Dad’s junk drawer on a grand scale. I like to think of it as Madison Height’s own Watts Towers. In one sense it’s demise closes out a chapter in our local history. A Summit man, on learning I was a Madison Heights resident remarked, “Madison Heights? We used to dump our garbage there”. I think there are even a few Super Fund sites in the Grand Swamp awaiting clean up. Digging in my own backyard I’ve unearthed a variety of antique crap – old plumbing fixtures, bits of wire, asbestos shingles. Just makes my tomatoes tangy.

Never be ashamed of your heritage.

Why am I sad? It’s another piece of Americana disappearing into history – the rugged individual with some small stake making a go of it off the grid. There’s a sign streetside at the hole reassuring the neighborhood that a shiny new home will be Coming Soon!

The supermodel’s smile is getting a new cap.

Bud F.X. Landry