My Name is Special Ed and I'm a Super-Duper Star

The Magnificent? 

I'm your idol the highest title numero uno

I'm not a Puerto Rican but I'm speakin so that you know

and understand I got the gift of speech

and it's a blessin so listen to the lesson I preach

The program for the 25th Anniversary Stoweflake Hot Air Balloon Festival clearly indicated that Special Ed would be performing at 5:00 PM, a couple of hours before the balloons were scheduled to launch.

I talk sense condensed into the form of a poem

full of knowledge from my toes to the top of my dome

I'm kinda young but my tongue speaks maturity

I'm not a child I don't need nothin for security

 

As a fan of Special Ed from way back--during a brief late-80's-to-early-90's Yo! MTV Raps obsession--I was quite excited about this.  I was also intrigued and slightly concerned that Special Ed was now performing at family-oriented balloon festivals in Vermont.  What happened, Special Ed?  You used to be my idol, the highest title, numero uno. 

I'm outspoken--my language is broken into a slang

but it's just a dialect that I select when I hang

I play it cool--cuz coolin is all that I'm about

just foolin wit tha girlies, yes I'm bustin it out

We arrived after 5 PM and heard music playing from inside the beer and music tent...music that was decidedly not Special Ed.  The opener perhaps? 

My name is Special Ed and I'm a super-duper star

every other week I get a brand new car

Got twenty, that's plenty yet I still want more

kinda fond of honda scooters--got seventy-four

Upon closer inspection, we realized that this was an entirely different Special Ed altogether--a local band that played lame covers.  In other words, not special at all.  

I got the riches--to fulfill my needs

got land in the sand of the West Indies

even got a little island of my very own--

I gotta frog--a dog with a solid gold bone

Well, at least the balloons lived up to their billing in the program and, in spite of the initial disappointment, LSB and I had a enjoyable evening with the M's of VT. 

Though, as evening approached and we watched the beautiful balloons rise and fall, I couldn't help thinking that they would have gone a little higher and their colors would have looked a bit brighter if the scene were set to the soundtrack of my poser, hip hop childhood...

I'm kinda spoiled

cuz everything I want I got made

I wanted gear--got everything from cotton to suede

I wanted lead--I didn't beg I just got laid

My hair was growin too long, so I got me a fade

and when my dishes got dirty, I got Cascade

when the weather was hot, I got a spot in the shade

I'm wise because I rise to the top of my grade

wanted peace on Earth, so to God I prayed

Some kids across town thought I was afraid

they couldn't harm me--

I got the army brigade

I'm not a trader

if what you got is greater I'll trade

but maybe later cuz my waiter made potato -n- alligator souflee--

I got it made

Mark Valley, On The Wrong Side of History (or War is Heck)

Anachronism

The city of Ogdensburg in Northern New York (simply referred to as "the city" in these parts, or "New York's Best Kept Secret!") sits on the banks of the St. Lawrence River.  Once a vital port in the early American (and Canadian) fur trade and the site of important battles in the French and Indian War, American Revolution, and the War of 1812--it is now a bit rough around the edges...and, as I understand it, some places in the middle.  

French reinforcements

It was home to a French fort--known as Fort de La Présentation--before the British came and destroyed it; then it was home to a British fort (Fort Oswegatchie).  A century or so later, it was the birthplace and childhood home of television star Mark Valley.  Recently, it hosted an historical reenactment of the famous battle in the French and Indian War, starring Mark Valley!  Which brings me to today's post.

Faux indians

 

I'm not a fan of war, but masses of people dressed in historical garb pretending to kill each other seemed like a perfect summer excursion in the North Country.  Also, there was quite a bit of hoopla in the NoCo leading up to the weekend, as Our Hero appeared on a national late night talk show and mistakenly referred to it as a War of 1812 reenactment.  Outrage!

The water battle

So, we headed North from Potsdam and arrived a bit late for the water battle, an impressive spectacle of replica boats firing blank rounds at each other from cannons and muskets.  After a few minutes of action we received word that the land battle was set to begin. 

 Modern day NoCo punks take pot-shots at the French

We stood with the other spectators and watched from behind the French (and Indian) troops with their floppy red hats (and mohawks and war paint), who did not yet know that they were badly outnumbered by the approaching, more sharply dressed, British.  Well, at least the reenactors were acting like they didn't know that they were overmatched, but I'm sure they were informed of the impending final outcome through their pre-reenactment rehearsals or personal research on Wikipedia. 

Victory/defeat is nigh

Watching the ill-fated French reenactors brought to mind the Washington Generals, the team that is repeatedly (and, presumably, knowingly) embarrased by the Harlam Globe Trotters in every "game."  What type of person volunteers to join the pre-destined losing team?  I mean, I'm sure that they're in it for the thrill of the battle and all the historical trappings, but I wonder whether they ever consider throwing the reenactment--not falling to the ground in pretend agony at the appointed time and, instead, fighting on in an endless fake war.  A rogue reenactor--that would be something to see. 

 Mark Valley, a friend to the wounded

The land battle had a narrator--a man in historical dress who tried to explain what was happening, outlining the strategies employed by each side while making the occasional corny joke.  Through the PA system, he told us about how the British were outflanking the French (Team Valley) and that this was bad news for Les Bleus.  

How do you say "outflanked" in French?  They must have a word for it.

The battle went on for 15-30 minutes and many shots were fired by both sides before anyone fake-died.  Our narrator explained that this was due to the inaccuracy of the firearms at that point in history, but I suspect an alternative explanation related to more modern times.  If you signed up to be a reenactor, bought (or rented?) the proper historical clothing, practiced your role, traveled from Ohio, Tennesee, or Quebec; and gave up your weekend for the battle; would you want to die within the first 15 minutes?  I imagine that there must be some sort of unwritten rule of historical reenactments that states that the first 30 minutes is a safe period where the fake bullets all miraculously miss their targets.

Our hero (in bleu) readying his digital camera

Eventually, the bodies started to pile up and the French were retreating with the afternoon sun.  When the battle had ended, Mark Valley took up position in the French camp, signing autographs for a small line of fans and/or Francophiles. 

Carnage

War is hell.  Fake war is kind of fun. 

Unwinding from the battle in the British camp

Happy Funland!

Buy the ticket, take the ride

Have you ever questioned the accuracy of your childhood memories?  Were the images of youth warped by your adolescent imagination?  Did it really snow that much as a kid and were the snow forts you built as massive as you recall?  Was the Big Tree in the middle of the cornfield across the road as enormous as you thought at the time?  Was that BMX bike that you got for Christmas back in the early 80’s really that awesome? Were the jumps you made for it as huge and scary as you remember them to be?

Well, after our recent trip back into LSB’s childhood, we discovered that, yes, the waves crashing on Rehoboth Beach were actually pretty menacing looking. It wasn’t just the warped perspective of a much smaller, 1980s version of LSB. Okay, so we’re not talking tidal waves or anything, but even to an adult LSB, they were kind of scary.

Nostalgic blur

She has other memories of the place, too—many of them documented in photographs. Such as LSB on the boardwalk with a giant lollypop cotton candy (a personal favorite of mine) or LSB in a tiny boat at Funland.

Yay! Bumper Cars!

Amazingly enough, Funland is pretty much exactly as she remembered it from when she was a kid and her family would visit in the summer.  Apparently, Funland doesn’t change—and that’s a very good thing, because Funland is pretty great.

Funland may be responsible for happy childhood

memories, but it is not responsible for soiled clothing

The place is like how I imagine old Coney Island was, before it became old Coney Island and fell into disrepair. This place oozes nostalgia, even for someone like me who had never even been there before. Old timey ticket booths, classic carnival games, and precious amusement park rides like the tea cups, carousel, and the aforementioned tiny boats. There is even a haunted house that LSB remembered as being really scary (unfortunately, we never had the chance to test the validity of this memory, as the line to get in was too long). Perhaps the most incredible thing of all was that all of the rides, games, and amusements were not only fully-functional—they were shiny and clean!

Nostalgic prices, too.

So, in the end, Funland triumphed over Progress and I defeated LSB's family in the old-fashioned horse-racing game, heroically and romantically winning her a stuffed, gray horse in the process.  All is well with the world.

Resort Lizard

The iguana of my dreams

As a child, my family had a lot of pets.  We started with the traditional family cat and dog, then moved on to a slew of rabbits (that's slew, not stew)--starting with "Starsky" and continuing on through a steady stream of androgynously-named (no one wanted to check) soft, fuzzy, brown, black, white and grey bunnies.  There were a few guinea pigs and miscellaneous rodents in the mix, the last one--a small, brown, vampire of a hamster--ended badly, with a nasty bite to my index finger, immediately followed by a slow arc through the air and soft and final thud on the carpet.

After that, I shifted my attention to cold-blooded critters.  I had an aquarium full of tropical fish for some time, but I never was very good at cleaning the algae off the glass walls and plastic plants.  Eventually, after they all died--it could have been way after they all died since the visibility was obscured by all of that algae--I drained the aquarium.  Don't worry, the fish died of natural causes that did not involve an eyes-wide-open porcelin slide into oblivion. 

Iguana tracks

This led me to my reptile phase (doesn't everyone have a reptile phase?).  I really wanted an iguana, but the idea of a giant lizard roaming freely around the house eating her plants did not immediately appeal to my mom.  So, I settled for a smaller version--a normal-sized lizard that could easily be contained in an aquarium and subsist on crickets and mealworms.  My miniature iguana-substitute led a brief, boring life before joining the others in critter heaven (a.k.a. a small plot in the backyard or the suburban septic tank version of burial-at-sea) and I left for college. 

Happiness is a palm tree and a large lizard

I guess I've never fully gotten over my iguana-thing, as I was a bit fixated on them, to LSB's amusement (or was that unease?), while on our recent vacation in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Loads of these guys roamed the hotel grounds in St. John--climbing trees, grazing on flowers, and doing other cool lizardlike things.  I watched them with with interest, took way too many photos, and followed their tracks on the beach, but I did not take one home to our apartment.  I think the customs people frown on that sort of thing. 

Walmart Ate My Sand Pit

"W" stands for evil, again.

My hometown of Victor, NY has been rapidly engulfed by "progress." It started with the McMansion housing developments with their requisite private golf courses, and continued with the expanding Eastview Mall, which has grown like some non-lethal, invasive bacteria over the past 10-15 years. The Thruway got wider and the natural habitat got smaller. Now there are churches and retirement communities where there used to be fields and forests.

We observed the latest encroachment on our post-Christmas walk to the Sand Pit. This has become somewhat of a holiday tradition to get some fresh air; burn off some calories from all of the food, beer, wine, and cookies; and escape the chaos of Inside. We walk down our (much busier) street, past the historic marker indicating a famous battle between the French and the local Seneca tribe in 1687 (which is placed in someone's front yard), continue past the Old Trailer Park--just an overgrown, swampy lot when I was a kid, the trailers gone soon after I was born, now the site of a new house with another on the way. From there we leave the road and wander up a dirt path through trees and brush. The path takes you up a hill and over a ridge where you can see the NYS Thruway (I-90) on your left and an occasional house on your right, partially obscured by trees and thorn bushes.

The path used to end at a sand pit; a childhood wonderland. It was full of enormous dirt piles that we used to ride our bikes up, down, and sometimes over. It was a parents worst nightmare--a secluded spot with ample opportunities for someone to wreck their bike or break a leg. It was so cool.

In spite of an epic battle familiar to other small towns fighting the good fight, the end of the trail looks a bit different today. Now, there's a giant parking lot, a Kohls, and a Walmart Supercenter (Opening Soon!).

Sigh. I wonder where the children of Victor, NY practice their daring bike stunts these days. And what did Walmart do with all of that sand? Maybe Progress eats dirt.

Cider Donut Nostalgia

Much easier to pick than the fast ones

Soon after this post, autumn took a bit of a downturn. Now, it is December, the temperature is 31 degrees, the wind is starting to blow, I'm fighting a cold, the Christmas tree is decorated, and The Handel and Haydn Society has taken over our stereo. Before I fully embrace the holiday season, it seems like a good time to look back at one fine day in October, when fried clams and cider donuts--specifically, these cider donuts--were on my mind.

Who doesn't love an old red truck full of pumpkins?
Don't even think about touching it, though.

If I recall correctly, we were looking to get out of town and pick-our-own apples (or at least buy already picked apples from a pick-your-own apples orchard). There are a ton of PYO places around these parts and everyone has their own opinion about the best place to go. Do they have hayrides? Pumpkin patches? Corn mazes? We really didn't care about any of that--we just wanted apples, cider donuts, and the beauty of rural New England. We chose this place, mainly for the delicious cider donuts and the proximity to the ocean.

After several fresh, hot donuts and mulled cider, we selected our pre-picked apples (a mixed bag of big/small, green/red, sweet/tart) and left in search of clam shacks. We drove around Ipswitch and Essex before settling on a small shack sitting on the edge of a marsh.

On the Great Salt Marsh

We ordered waaaay too many clams (my fault) and a couple of Fisherman's Brews, paid by check (they didn't take credit cards and we had about $7.12 between us--not nearly enough for the quantity of clams we intended to order), and sat at the counter. A bit sluggish from overindulging on crispy fried bivalves, we stepped outside and lingered by the a picnic table, gazing out at the Great Salt Marsh.

Now back to December. The RealFeel temperature is 19 degrees....

October

(Go Sox)

Autumn at Fenway

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg. It was built in 1912 and rebuilt in 1934, and offers, as do most Boston artifacts, a compromise between Man's Euclidean determinations and Nature's beguiling irregularities. Its right field is one of the deepest in the American League, while its left field is the shortest; the high left-field wall, three hundred and fifteen feet from home plate along the foul line, virtually thrusts its surface at right-handed hitters.

Exerpt from: "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," by John Updike

Nostalgia by the Sea

Our regional meanderings during our first summer with the Hatchblack took us to Newburyport. After lunch at a cool-looking place on the water with terrible service, we stopped by Oldies Marketplace, which is exactly what it looks like: a big red barn full of the sort of stuff that would make a nostalgia junky O.D.

I think LSB is secretly terrified of these types of places, for fear of what I might try to buy: used books, antique furniture, old records, assorted glassware, art, and old posters and maps. All stuff that I would love to find a place for in our basement storage cubby (some guys have a man cave, I have a basement storage cubby).

The Subterranean Author's Club

R.I.P., H.D.T

Henry David Thoreau once quipped: "A man's interest in a single bluebird is worth more than a complete but dry list of the fauna and flora of a town." This quote has absolutely nothing to do with today's post--in fact, I'm not even sure I know what it means--I just like to use "quipped" whenever I have the chance (It also appears I'm stuck in a literary theme after the previous Shakespeare post).

View from The Cheese Shop

Nevertheless, LSB and I recently spent a pleasant summer afternoon in Concord, MA, which is only a few miles from Boston and home and final resting place of Thoreau, as well as, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Louisa May Alcott. They're all buried on "Author's Ridge" in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery a short walk from the center of town, where we shared an enormous sandwich in front of The Cheese Shop.

The Alcott's School of Philosophy

For some reason that I am unable to explain, I've always been oddly fascinated by cemeteries--especially really old, spooky ones. I've wandered through the haunted Greyfriar's Cemetery in Edinburgh; passed time in the "cities of the dead" in New Orleans; unexpectedly happened across Yeat's grave, under a huge, dark tree laden with hundreds of crows, in a small, rural churchyard in County Sligo; paid my respects to Jim Morrison (and Oscar Wilde) in Pere Lachaise, and spent many summer evenings drinking wine, listening to friends play guitars, and watching the stars outside the wall of a tiny cemetery near a small French village in the Pyrenees mountains.

One of several cool cemeteries in Concord

And now, I can add Sleepy Hollow to the list. Upon reflection, I guess it is kind of creepy that I have a list at all--in fact, I didn't even realize that I had a list until I started on this post. At any rate, there is no shortage of dead pilgrims, patriots, authors, artists, poets, and statesmen in subterranean New England, so I've found the cemeteries in the Boston area particularly interesting.

In spite of the fact that many of America's most famous writers (the Transcendentalists, no less) are buried on a hill a few steps from one another in a town that played a significant role in the history of our country (Lexington is next door and you heard about the shot, right?), the cemetery was mostly deserted and we were left pretty much alone to spend a few quiet moments with Henry, Ralph, Nate, Louisa, and others.

Goodnight, wee apt.

Moving sucks.

Not only the actually physical part of packing everything in boxes, loading it all in a truck, carrying it all up the stairs to the new place, and unpacking all of it, but the emotional and psychological aspects involved--the act of leaving a familiar place full of a lot of great memories, for an unfamiliar place of full of nothing but your stuff, in boxes.

As all near-future posts will originate from the New Apartment, I thought I would take a moment to wallow in our bittersweet departure from 89 Trowbridge Street and reflect on our 3 great years in #21...

old 89