For Jews Only

Borscht; an eastern European soup made with beets, cabbage, potatoes, or other vegetables and served hot or chilled, often with sour cream.  Borscht Belt; the hotels of the predominantly Jewish resort area in the Catskill Mountains, many of them offering nightclub or cabaret entertainment, so called, facetiously, from the quantities of borscht consumed there.  Dirty Dancing; a third rate film starring Patrick Swaze and Jennifer Gray inspired by events at Grossinger's Resort in Liberty, NY.   

Every Jew from a certain generation prior to the opening of Disney World in 1971 and, according to many websites, the civil rights laws of the 1960's, has spent at least one weekend at a hotel in the Borscht Belt of the Catskill Mountains.  A region in which I have purchased a retirement home and also have referred to as my ancestral New York Jewish Homeland.  Well my cabin is actually in the northern  Catskills and the Jewish resort area was predominantly in the southern Catskills around Monticello and Ellenville.  It was accessed from New York City via Route 17 with a stop at the Red Apple Rest in Tuxedo, NY.  Concord, Kutshers, The Nevele, and of course Grossinger's.  There were actually hundreds of hotels but these were the biggies.  In its hey day Grossingers went through 26,000 eggs a week!  My parents took me and my sister and brother to a few of these resorts but not to Grossinger's and I will let my mother explain why:

As you can see, the indoor pool isn't what it used to be.  Neither is the rest of the Borscht Belt......what it used to be.  The entire industry and its associated infrastructure has fallen into disrepair and decrepitude.  No longer do parents want to have time away from their kids on vacations.  No longer is sitting around playing cards amidst the mountains good enough.  There must be actors dressed in mouse costumes, roller coasters, and a hundred restaurants to choose from, to keep everyone entertained.

I recently took my parents on a brief tour of the old hotels, or what is left of them, and since words can't do justice to what we found, I will let some pictures do the talking. My father, by the way, worked as a waiter at the Fur worker's resort in South Fallsburg after World War II.  It is totally gone.  Which is just as well because the leaders of the fur workers union were not only Jewish, but they were Communist sympathizers as well. According to Stanley, it was the only resort in the Borscht Belt that gave their workers off one day a week.  And what did they do on their day off?  I will let Stanley explain:

Here then, are some pictures of what we found:

A cafe in Liberty, NY.  No, that is not Dr. Brown's Celray soda. 

The old Grossinger's gatehouse.

Grossinger's decrepit out building.

Grossinger's staff housing.

Stan and Flip remember happier times

Grossinger's facilities.

Carton of room soaps left behind.

Grossinger's indoor pool then.

Grossinger's indoor pool now.

All that's left standing at The Concord.

Now a brown fields project.

A not Jewish denizen of Monticello, NY.

Ultra Jewish denizens of Monticello NY.

An area transformed to Ultra Orthodox.

An abandoned townhouse project.  Even new money can't resurrect the old glory.

 Like my mother said, "You can't go home again."

Arsenic and Old Lace

An alarming trend in the world of wedding fashion has come to my attention.  It is not a recent revelation, but the idea to write a blog about it is..........a recent revelation.

The revelation is, ironically, about what the bridal party is revealing. Skin.  And the associated tattoos.  And I, for one, am not comfortable with the message I am receiving about the bride.  No one has ever accused me of being a prude, and I was nothing but pleased when President Obama officially dismissed the federal level stigma of same sex marriage.  So don't accuse me of being Victorian in my views of proper matrimonial attire.  But the promise of my own bride's wedding dress was the idea that I was marrying a demure virgin.  And her attendants, while all quite cute, were more "matron" than "maid".   At least that was the illusion we wished to create for our guests.  My bride to be had on so much lace, tatting. filigree, netting, and ornamentation that I would need to be Harry Houdini in the honeymoon sweet if I was ever to get her out of that dress and into my hungry arms.
 

Today's bridal parties, I must assume, don't even like to pretend they are virgins.  Their dresses might as well come with one of those "easy open" pull tabs like on an express FedEx package.   Because with all that exposed skin, the package is already screaming "Urgent, open immediately".  Here is a photo of a wedding party we saw on the beach in Atlantic City this past weekend:

The groomsmen are not thinking about getting their hands on some red velvet wedding cake.  Nor are they worrying about being paired up with a dorky cousin bridesmaid for the first dance.  They are only thinking one thing-that the bachelor party was just an appetizer.  And this has nothing to do with the fact that the wedding is in Atlantic City.  I have seen bridal parties adorned in skimpy cocktail dresses from New York to Utah.  Of course in some cultures the bride is still valued more for the number of goats she can fetch for her dowry than for how hot she can look in her dress.  Another reason, I guess, for the Taliban to hate us.  At least when a mullah gets married there is still some mystery involved.

The most cursory perusal of any bridal magazine will leave one wondering if there is any modesty left in the connubial world.  It may seem like I am being prissy but, really, should Modern Bride Magazine titillate me as much as Cosmopolitan?  I don't think so.

No, You Don't Have to Use It Just Because It Came With the Hat

That little lanyard thingy that hangs from some hats to cinch around your neck and chin?  It is called a stampede strap.  For good reason.  If you are chasing a herd of stampeding cattle and your horse is galloping along at 25 miles per hour, you are permitted to engage it.  If you are strolling along a 1 mile nature trail loop in 85 degree weather with nary a leaf rustling, you might want to tuck it up under the crown.  If you are on a bi-hull racing sailboat doing 35 miles per hour in an America's Cup qualifying run, you can use the stampede strap.  If you are cruising along in your Hyundai with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on, it is not okay to have the stampede strap in play.

When it is picture taking time at the summit and there is no wind, lose the stampede strap.  If there are 40 mph gusts at the summit, take the hat off for the photos.  It is never okay to have the stampede strap activated during a photo shoot.  Unless it is a publicity shot for the Pony Express and you are galloping along on your mustang on the Wyoming prairie delivering letters to the homesteaders.  Rounding Cape Horn on a windjammer?  Stampede strap okay.  Rounding the 18th hole at the public links?  Not okay.

What about the brim?  Floppy brim, bad. Those Outdoor Research Goretex rain hats?  Who cares how dry your head is if you look like a dork.  If your brim is not shaped correctly with a natty curve, don't bother stopping me on the trail to ask for directions to the summit.  I will assume you are a tenderfoot and my advice will be to return to your car before you get caught in a lightening storm on the summit.  It is a well documented fact that unless it is a yarmulke, God does not appreciate lifeless headgear.  Check out your local Hasidic neighborhood on a Saturday morning if you don't believe me:

Why should our standards be any less for the trail than for the synagogue?  I don't know.  If covering ones head in the presence of a higher authority is so important why drop the pomp in the woods?  Or at the beach?  Or on the golf course?  You spend $1000.00 for a set of titanium golf clubs and then you buy a $12.00 straw hat with a bandana hatband at Target?  Not in my foursome amigo.

And the visor without a crown?  All I can say to that is, your hair may or may not grow back after they remove the melanoma from the top of your scalp.

A few more thoughts; If you must buy a hat with the strap, make sure the holes are through the headband and sides, not the brim.  Poking holes in the brim for the stampede strap is a rookie milliner mistake.   Holes in the brim of a hat are like buttons on a Goretex jacket.  The rain will get through.  Also, don't remove nor handle a good hat by the crown.  It softens it and distorts the shape.  Always handle a hat by the brim.  And if you do find yourself at the trail head with a shapeless hat and useless stampede strap there is hope as I have illustrated below:

I will leave it for you to decide who you would rather have lead your hike.

It Was Just a Joke........Not.

If the fact that Mitt Romney tortured a kid in high school doesn't totally vindicate me for my obsession with high school, then nothing will.  Regular readers of this blog will remember that I have written several screeds on bullying, high school cliques, and the fact that adult life is but a pale extension of the high school pecking order.

I am sorry to have to inform my friends across the isle, but holding down another kid and cutting off his hair while he screams for help and cries is not a high school prank taken to the edge.  The behavior puts one well off the side of the cliff.  Even judged by the more lax understanding of bullying and high jinks that marked the era in which the baby boomers grew up, the mindset that would allow one to perpetrate this "prank" demonstrates such a massive lack of empathy for the "others" that it borders on pathological narcissistic syndrome. Of course the idea of a presidential candidate being highly narcissistic is not a revolutionary concept but one needs to at least be capable of empathy.  Until I read about this latest personality quirk of Romney's, I thought the dog on top of the car incident was nothing but a humorous anecdote about a stressed out father trying to make it all work out.  Now I am not so sure.

Being a relentless "practical joker" is nothing but a form of dominance along the bullying spectrum scale.  Exactly like the autism scale.  We might say "Oh, he's just a practical joker", much like we would say "Oh, he's just a weird kid", but we all know there is trouble lurking beneath the surface.  If you think I am being overly dramatic, think about tickling someone past the point of pleasure until they are begging for mercy.  That behavior, all psychologists agree, is bullying pure and simple.  As is relentless practical joking that demeans the victim for being "different". 

The bullying incident happened almost 50 years ago, so the details are obviously questionable. But Romney did not specifically deny the circumstances.  He proffered a lame apology and his supporters chalked it up to his "jokey" nature.  Apparently the poor kid was singled out because young Mitt didn't feel any one should be walking around with that hair.  Many boys, myself included, who grew up in the 60's and 70's would have to admit to the liberal use of such barbs as fag, douchebag, gay blade, and other assorted verbal grenades that would not be considered PC in today's high school hallways.  And perhaps a wedgie, or a rat tail towel fight was perpetrated against the less athletic of us in the boys locker room.  But holding down a classmate and cutting off his hair crosses the line, in my view, to assault and battery.

Perhaps I am less likely to forgive Mitt Romney because he is a Republican who is pandering to the Tea Party.  I would have to agree with that assessment. It has always been my feeling that the Tea Party should more accurately be called the Me Party.  I can't help but feel that Libertarians and extreme Tea Partyers lack a certain sense of empathy for the "others".  Sam Harris, in his book  Free Will describes a similar sentiment toward conservatives.  They don't seem to have an understanding that not every one is capable of being like them.  Some of us are different and some of us will need help that only a compassionate society can provide.

A person's behavior may evolve and mature over time but rarely do basic personality types shift.  A bully may change his behavior from physical attacks to strong arm tactics in the boardroom, but both behaviors are bullying none the less.

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination"

In order to become a dentist I had to prove that I could look at a schematic drawing of a flattened box and then decide what it would look like if folded into its 3 dimensional shape.  Like what you see the guy at the pizza shop doing to put together the pizza boxes.  Only I had to do it in my mind and the resultant boxes could be very irregular with a different graphic on each side.  And I had to get those sides correct as well.  So I don't understand how I could be so terribly confused by the layout in those parking garages with ramps that make me feel like I am in an M.C. Escher sketch.  (Pun intended).

The other week, I accompanied Tammy to Atlantic City for a two day NJ Hospital Association Meeting.  The room was free (for me) and, I don't know if you are aware of this, but A.C. has some great outlet shopping.  Given the choice between doubling down on a $100.00 bet at the black jack table or scoring a $200.00 down parka at the Eddie Bauer outlet for that same Benjamin, I'll take the goose down every time.  Besides, the warm feeling I'll get from a new jacket will far outlast any warm vibes I get from a pert cocktail waitress serving me free drinks while I watch my money disappear.  But when I was pulling into my parking spot on level 4 red, row 8 at the Caesar's Palace Colosseum South parking garage my full attention was on remembering this data and then locating the elevator in closest proximity to the walkway bridge over Atlantic Avenue.  Because if you have ever been in one of these garages and you wish to exit at the southeast corner of 3rd and Atlantic, you invariably end up on the northwest corner of 4th and Pacific instead.  So as we were heading toward the elevator trying to avoid being killed by the Nascar idiots doing 35 mph around the parking garage ramps, Tammy prophetically called out to me, "remember we are walking downhill".  As will become clear later on, she neglected to take into account the fact that we had first walked uphill to find an elevator and then walked downhill along another ramp to finally locate the proper elevator.  And, I will swear to this on a stack of Charles Darwin's The Origin of Species, we entered the elevator on level 4 red.  You may be starting to get the picture at this point.  Of course, all of this was dutifully recorded on a scrap of paper-uploaded here for your close examination-which I carefully stashed in a pocket away from my wallet.  Because even if my wallet was stolen and I lost all my cash, credit cards and photo ID, at least I would remember where my car was parked.

  
So the next day, while Tammy was finishing up at her meetings, I was charged with checking out of the hotel and loading up the car with our two suit cases, laptop case, SLR camera, and my fourteen shopping bags.  I'm exaggerating of course, there were only three;  Eddie Bauer, Under Armor, and Clark's Shoes. I only mention this to satisfy your creepy voyeuristic interest in my sartorial tastes.  Lugging all this, I made my way through the entire casino floor, across the walk bridge, past the Temple North garage, into the elevator for Colosseum South  level 4 red and trudged up the ramp all along row 8.  To the very top and back down again......three times.  And even around the bend to level 5 row 1 just in case.   No car.  So I hold the remote door lock over my head and start pressing buttons straining to hear the comforting sound of my Subaru beeping to me.  Nothing.  Except the smug laughs and judgmental stares of other hotel guests because I have obviously forgotten where I parked my car.

At what point do I retreat back to the front desk and suggest to the concierge that my car has been stolen?  Will they drive me around the 15 levels and 2 garages in hopes that perhaps I just wrote down the wrong coordinates? Before I succumbed to these thoughts, however, I decided to text Tammy in her meeting and solicit suggestions for a more reasoned approach.  Because at this point I am totally freaked out.  I have that feeling you get when you wake up in a strange bed while on vacation and you are totally confused as to where you are for a few seconds.  Only this time it has been a half hour.  And I am sitting on my suit case, next to the elevator, trying to act nonchalant as the other guests walk confidently past me to their cars.  Tammy suggests walking up the first ramp past the elevator and then walking down the next ramp.  I have no idea how this will be any different from what I have done, but there in row 8, level 4 red is my blue Subaru.  Only this is a different row 8 level 4 red than from where I had looked.  And when I got back on the elevator, after packing up the car, to go meet Tammy, I was on level 3 yellow!  If I heard Rod Serling's voice coming over the elevator speaker at this point and announcing, "next floor, The Twilight Zone", I would not have even twitched an eyelash.

So if you are wondering how I could have been so confused, here is what we eventually figured out.  The ramp design at The Caesar's Palace Colosseum South parking garage in Atlantic City looks something like this:

MC Escher inspired parking garage ramp design.
With the nightmare enhanced by poor signage design.

And, I am not making this up, there are two level 4 red, row 8's in this one garage.  Because of the interlocking zigzags, each level 4 intersects in the middle as you can see.  At least I think that is what is occurring.  I still am not totally clear on it.  But I eventually did see signs on different ramps of the same garage that specified level 4 red, section 8.  And where you end up depends on how you got there.  Think about it.  I still am.

I Love New York

We had two choices for Saturday night festivities this past weekend in Phoenicia.  An art opening at the Cabane Gallery in town, or the Penny Social at the Parish Hall to raise money for local Boy Scout Troop 60.  There are only about ten scouts in the troop and they are trying to raise enough money for a trip to Yellowstone National Park this summer.  An adventure that should not be missed.  Since this could be a large expenditure for many families we felt this event to be a very worthwhile cause.  Though I have not been active in the Scouts since high school,  I credit my years with them for instilling in me a love of the outdoors that has informed my entire adult life. 

Phoenicia, like any small town situated within driving distance of a big city yet idyllically located amidst nature's inspirational vistas, attracts a wide variety of people.  And there are in fact, two distinct populations in Phoenicia.  The liberal artsy types, including part timers from New York City and the more conservative rural full timers.  This is a gross over simplification of course, but I think you get my drift.  If you have ever spent any time in a rural tourist town you know there is the bar where the working locals go and then there is the bar where the so called literati go.  Rarely do the two mix.  Phoenicia is in some ways similar, yet in many ways very different.  That is why we love it so much. The hamlet is a microcosm of any large urban area due to the very diverse population but because it is a small town it is not so easy to remain anonymous.  If you spend enough time there you will eventually get to know, at least casually, a lot of the inhabitants and they will get to know you, especially if you have opinions, or write a public blog.

The crowd at the Boy Scout Penny Social was, as one would imagine, mostly local families and full time residents.  I don't know for sure, but I believe Tammy and I may have been the only, or two of a handful, of attendees who are second homeowners.  Yet we were embraced as if we have as much vested in the town as anyone else.  This may have to do with the fact that we have become friends with our full time neighbors across the street and they made all our introductions.  My neighbor was born in Phoenicia and he has lived there all his life.  Through my friendship with him, and other locals (shout out to our WV community association president, and our realtor), I have been lucky enough to become acquainted with a large diversity of residents. Though we stay here only a few days per month this has helped me to feel very welcome in the community.  Our politics and interests may not always line up but since we all share a love of the Catskills we get along great.  And the fact that we all have New York sensibilities doesn't hurt either.  That, I believe, is one of the main reasons Phoenicia works so well as a small town.  New Yorkers are nothing if not openly opinionated.  We may argue as Republicans and Democrats, hunters and tree huggers,  artists and farmers, but you are never in the dark about what your neighbor thinks.  The same tensions exist in small towns throughout rural America but here in New York, we don't sweep anything under the carpet.

I once read that, as John Adams was making his way from Boston to Philadelphia for a meeting of the Continental Congress, he stayed over in New York City for a few nights.  Here is what he had to say about New Yorkers; "They talk very loud, very fast, and all together.  If they ask you a question, before you can utter three words of your answer, they will break out upon you again-and talk away".  That was in 1775!  Those sentiments could have been uttered yesterday.  So if one of the main economic drivers of your community are tourists and part time homeowners from The Big Apple, you had better damn well be tolerant.  And thick skinned.  I have found New Yorkers to be some of the most friendly and open people in the country but if you offer up an opinion, be prepared to defend it.

So while the crowd at the Boy Scout Fundraiser may have been very different than the one that we might have found at the Gallery opening, we could have felt comfortable at either because we all have a few things in common.  An abiding love for the hamlet of Phoenicia and the Catskill Mountains, an open understanding, if not tolerance, of diversity, which is found in few rural areas outside of New York, and the willingness to say so.  And a "Cantina" that attracts both old timers and newcomers, Republicans and Democrats, doesn't hurt either.

Your Loss is My Gain....Or Not

Six months ago I left my beloved Droid phone on an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia from Washington D.C.  I had placed it down on the seat while I grabbed my luggage from the overhead bin.  And in the rush to detrain, I forgot all about it.  Normal age related forgetfulness, of which there have been far too many instances in my life after fifty.

Then the other day I got these two voice mails on my new Droid, which cost me the $100.00 deductible.  Which wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't dropped my original, original Droid in the toilet 12 months before this most recent incident.  The first claim had cost only a $50.00 deductible.  And that wouldn't have been so bad either if I had not traded in my original, original, original "Droid 1" phone in for a "Droid 2" phone, two weeks after I purchased it for $199.00.  The key pad on the original Droids were awful, so I paid $35.00 to trade it for the redesigned "Droid 2".  So to summarize, my current $199.00 Droid, which is Droid number four in under 2 years, has actually cost me $390.00.  Plus the approximately $7.99 monthly insurance premium.  And if anyone comments that I am an idiot for paying that much for insurance because you found this website where you get cell phone insurance for $0.99 I say, "big whoop".  Nothing is more tiresome than someone bragging about all the great deals they find online.  While they are surfing the web in search of saving $3.00 on an SD card, I am out riding my bicycle or hiking in the woods, or climbing a mountain, or saving teeth.

But I digress.  Here then are the voice mails, click the play arrow:

My first impression was that this guy is actually a good dude.  He realized I am a doctor because the message on my cell phone is informational for patients who are calling with a dental emergency.  He addressed me as "Doctor" and that's special to me since we often times get mail from people who know I am a dentist yet the letter is addressed to Mr. and Mrs.  And that annoys me.  It's not that I am a snob ( I am), but I paid a lot of money and expended a good potion of my youth to earn the title so it means something to me. So of course I immediately warmed up to the brigand who has possession of my lost phone rather than be mad that it wasn't immediately turned in.  Mr. Perry, after all, is not the person who appropriated the ill-gotten phone, he was just the one gullible enough to pay $100.00 for it.  Which I learned, by the way, because I called him. "Hello", I stated by way of introduction, "I understand you have my phone".  My strategy was that of trying to delicately coax a feral cat out of the bushes without spooking him into mistrusting me.  My tone was conversational and nonchalant, as opposed to confrontational and accusatory.

After politely explaining to me that he had purchased this phone from a "friend" for $100.00, he was merely contacting me, the original and rightful owner, to inquire if I would call Verizon to unlock the phone so he could use it.  It never even occurred to this well mannered young man that perhaps it should simply be returned to me.  Even after expounding on my side of the story such as the $100.00 it cost me for a new phone, the potential loss of personal data contained in a smartphone, and the hassles of having to reprogram a new phone to my specifications, he persisted in his negotiation for me to unlock the purloined phone.  He even offered me $50.00 to call Verizon and turn over possession.  "But it cost me $100.00" I stated as a counter offer. I persisted in the conversation because I was fascinated by the mentality that would allow a person to not have any empathy that perhaps I had suffered a loss as well.  Yes, he had been duped by his friend into buying an unusable phone, but how could he have the chutzpah to call me and not even express a "You lost your phone and that sucks, but why should we both suffer?" sentiment.

But, as I stated earlier, he had this endearing quality that I couldn't get mad at so I offered to call Verizon to research the implications of losing a smartphone and transferring ownership-if he would send me a check for $100.00.  "Get the money back from your friend and send it to me", I suggested as a logical strategy.
So we both agreed to pursue the matter more fully and that was that.   I called Verizon and was shocked to learn that locked and stolen phones are auctioned on e-bay all the time to gullible bidders.  I further learned that unless I called the police, Verizon has no obligation to do anything about it..  They lock the phone from being used to make calls and web browsing but if you took some compromising pictures with it, you are out of luck.  Fortunately for me, there were no passwords nor embarrassing pictures on the phone.
But I am still waiting for my $100.00 check from Mr. Perry.

Post Script: I believe there is a new regulation making its way through congress that would require all cell phone carriers to maintain a national data base of stolen phones so that there will no longer be a market for them.