Filed under: Current
I never dreamed of climbing Mt. Everest whether it was there or not, hell I get winded on a ski lift. Jon Krakauer’s book, Into Thin Air, evokes wonder, tempered by visions of stark conditions and daunting sacrifice.
Krakauer writes in a way so pain-stakingly specific, yet somehow leaving room for the reader’s imagination to fill-in the scene. A rudimentary map in the prologue colored by about a dozen black and white glossies mid-way through the book were all I needed to paint an intimate picture of the 1996 Mt. Everest Disaster.
I’d never put much thought into what it would take to do something as monumental as climbing Mount Everest. Logistics aside, preparing oneself for such a quixotic adventure must include long hours staring into mirrors. I was captivated by the soul cleansing effect of pushing one’s mind and body so far beyond the boundaries of safety and sanity. Krakauer enlightens this aspect of the story only as someone writing from real experience can. The reality and tragedy of these events only begin in the text. The full force of the story gripped me far beyond words.
Shivering through pre-dawn walks to the subway in Brooklyn while reading Into Thin Air, I tried to picture myself trudging across the frozen waste of the Western Cwm with a trusty Sherpa by my side. Fifty below zero, sixty mile per hour wind gusts, hundred foot crevasses, thirty percent oxygen levels, sheesh, count me out, I’ll wait for the DVD.
Now, I don’t want to turn this blog into a book review site (how friggin’ boring would that be?), but I love this guy! Into Thin Air is recommended reading.
Peace,
Vinny 
March 7, 2008
The night was electric, two great teams poised on the brink of immortality, an entire city humming with excitement.
“Could it actually happen?” the fans of the underdog whisper, afraid to predict too boldly. I could be talking about New York City and the Giants fans this last week. But I can’t stop comparing the whole scene to Philadelphia in early February, 2005. The similarities are so obvious.
Most obvious, the opponent: The hated, cheating New England Patriots, with their golden-boy Brady smiling for the camera, posing with his super-model girlfriend, while the evil Coach Belichick hides with his video camera. Heavily favored, unanimously picked by the punditry, the veritable Team of Destiny. Eli and his Giants didn’t listen, Donny Mac did.
OK, what else? There was the has been rocker Half-Time Show, this year Tom Petty, and in ‘05 Sir Paul, both intstantly forgotten. The Go-Daddy girl bounced in, she made her first appearance in 2005 (a personal favorite).
Then there was the last drive of the 4th Quarter. It was like deja-vu all over again! It’s below the two-minute warning, the good guys must drive the length of the field to victory, to that place at the pinnacle of American sport where only the toughest, the most driven will ever gain entry.Â
This is how Eli Manning looked at the end of that legendary drive:
And this was
Donovan McNabb, legendary too:
It’s not easy being GREEN!  Â
Vinny 
February 4, 2008
It was a little rough getting here, a delay at Newark Liberty and a lot of evening traffic in Mobay, landed us at the Blue Cave Castle about 7:30-8:00PM. It wasn’t too bad, we had champagne on the plane and Red Stripes in the taxi.
Our first day included a trip via Route Taxi down to the beach for breakfast. One of the guys in to taxi said, “He had a brother with a restaurant on the beach that specializes in Jamaican Breakfast. We were a bit leary of the guy, but it worked out. We had to listen to his hustle for a while, but the breakfast was excellent. Ackee & Saltfish w/ Dumplings, banana, sweet potato and yams, server “al fresco” right on the beach squeezed in-between Bourbon Beach & Bar-b-Barn. Very good Rastaman Chef, explained everything to us. Add some fresh squeezed juice, mui excellente’.
Then we walked up the beach to about White Sands and headed to the street. We walked down and met a few higglers as we shooed away taxis and walked down to Selina’s for some Bloody Marys. We got a good driver out of Selina’s who took us to the NCB for $J, and we stopped for provisions at the HiLo.
We chilled at The Castle for a few hours, swimming off the cliffs, and exploring the caves. For Dinner we walked over to 3Dives not realizing the webcast was elsewhere, but the food was excellent as always. Dad had Curried Goat and I had 1/2 Jerk Chicken both our meals were served with well prepared rice & peas with callaloo. Of course there were multiple Red Stripes.
We got back and crashed early. We were up with the sunrise 5:30AM, so by 8:00PM we were bushed.
It’s great to be back at The Castle, the people couldn’t be nicer, our room is stunning, with an ocen view that isn’t really a view, it’s more like a presence. It’s just there, the gentle sound of waves washing on coral, the deep blue expanse out in the corners of your eyes fill every conscious moment.Â
Dad loves the Castle’s architecture, we’re looking around wondering how they did this. We learned Fuzzy, one of the security men, has been here since the beginning, and we plan to pick his brain. You just can’t get a true understanding of The Castle’s wonderful silliness until you’re here, it is truly the best kept secret in the Caribbean.
I wish you could all be here!! Well actually you can - get on a damn plane!
Vinny
October 20, 2007
What a blog avoiding jerk I’ve been these past few weeks! My impending Negril trip looms near, and like always I attempt squeezing four weeks of work into the two weeks before a two week vacation. I should know better, but it seems to happen to some degree or another every trip.
Hmmm, so what have we missed? The Eagles won last Sunday, but they still suck! The Little Fower Field Hockey Team could beat the Jets! But of course they don’t listen to me, and the Philadelphia media are fawning like lovesick lemmings staggering ever so close to the precipice of a six win season.Â
 All that said, I did enjoy the game. My brother Mike scrounged up tickets from some disaffected Jetster, and kindly thought of his big brother the Eagles Fan. Our tailgating left much to be deisred, after finally squeezing into a parking space we ate Tastee SuperSubs and Dr. Pepper on the trunk of Goldy, while people all around us feasted on various parts of large hooved creatures. Pennington may throw like a girl, but Jets Fans can tailgate with the best of them.
Ahhh Negril is so close I can shut my eyes and feel it everywhere. We leave in just about forty hours, I’m packed and relaxed. The normally jittery ravages of PNS (Pre-Negril Syndrome) have calmed into a simple to-do list. My roomate Chris is watching Rosie for me, so the cat guilt is chilled. My packing is down to such a science, and I keep most of the essentials in my duffel year-round.
A two-something flight from Newark, at The Castle by early evening, Friday morning Caribbean sunrise…
Soon Come…
Vinny
October 16, 2007
My first 9/11 as a New Yorker was thankfully uneventful, though it seemed to me there was a lot more security around on 9/10. All day people were looking up, and pointing south, “Where were you?” conversations overheard everywhere.
In some ways, it was just another 9/11 which is pretty sad. The news covered the anniversary with little enthusiasm; speeches, reading the names of the victims, politicians making uninspired speeches.
I did have one moment though. Kristine sent me a PowerPoint presentation featuring dramatic photos of the destruction, pain and terror of that day. I was sitting in a little restaurant on Carmine Street in Greenwich Village looking at the presentation, and at that moment the radio was playing My City Of Ruins by Bruce Springsteen. I was moved by the pictures, I was moved by the music, I was moved by the gut wrenching emotion I was experiencing. I’m the guy who says, “People forget what happened on that day…” But I’d forgotten. I remebered the details, the ten thousand worthless facts and figures, but I’d forgotten that feeling, that fear, anger and dread.
In the evening of September 11, 2007, I had the opportunity to attended a seminar dealing with 9/11 and life in New York City; ”Moving Beyond Anger.” First there was a screening of a Bill Moyers documentary from the 90’s called Beyond Hate, followed by a discussion of how anger and hate manifest themselves in our daily lives.
The film was hard to watch. It painted a grim picture of our world from a pre-9/11 context, and things haven’t improved. Our discussion dealt with anger and hate from a Buddhist perspective, and though we never got in to much about 9/11 specifically, it was interesting to discuss current events in the light of a 2500 year old tradition.
Where were you?
Vinny
September 11, 2007
For years I’ve been a proponent of Eastern Philosophy. I read “The Wisdom of Insecurity” by Alan Watts in the late nineties, which set me on a course of discovery. Since then I’ve read boxes of books on subjects ranging from Vedanta to Voodoo, Tao to Toltec, and nearly every flavor of the New Age (though I did draw the line at Shirley MacLaine). But from the “I Ching” to “The Alchemist” I kept returning to simple straightforward books on Zen.
The clarity and simplicity of Zen Buddhism attracted me. Books by Natalie Goldberg, “Writing Down the Bones” and others have been the backbone of my writing practice (daily journal writing in the spirit of Zen, but not Zen). I’ve burned a lot of incense, and I’ve spent many hours meditating, but without any real structure. I was playing at Zen, curious about the idea of Zen, more correctly, my idea of Zen.
In my effort to learn more about Zen, I discovered the Zen Mountain Monastery in Upstate New York, though I was intimidated by the idea of just showing up for a weekend retreat. I thought a visit to the New York City branch in downtown Brooklyn would be more accessible, more my style. Well, now I find myself living in Brooklyn, and only an express subway stop from the New York City Zen Center, so I decided to dive in to see what it’s really all about.
Last Sunday morning I left the house at eight-twenty, and immediately I began to stress about time, “What if I’m late?” “What if the train is late?” “Did the website say nine or nine-fifteen?” I let myself relax long enough to have breakfast at the Sunset Park Diner, and by eight forty-four I was in the subway. The D train came, after what seemed an eternity, the empty-car air conditioning was a blessing after five minutes in the steamy station at 36th & 4th. At eight fifty-nine I disembarked at Pacific Street and climbed the two flights to street level. I made my way down Atlantic, across 3rd, on to State, not breaking pace till I stood in front of Fire Lotus Temple.
Standing at the huge wooden doors I felt a cool breeze, there were cars and people passing, but there wasn’t the bustle of pre-church hob-knobbing. So often the art of being seen at church is as important as the arts practiced within. There was guy in a t-shirt and jeans sweeping some dead leaves. He didn’t seem to notice me as I took in the moment. I figured he was in some deep Zen trance, and a thrill shot through me as I took my first steps into Zen.
I climbed the steps and entered the vestibule. I use the term vestibule from my catholic altar boy experience. This is all new to me, I’m sure they have their own name for the entrance alcove. As I entered a student wearing a grey robe welcomed me.
“Hi, is this your first time to the temple?” she asked, I guess my yak in the headlights look clued her in. “My name is Heather, welcome.” Her easy smile helped lessen my edge.
“Hi I’m Vince, um I mean Vinny,” I stammered like a jackass. I was nervous, she was cute, and my “monkey mind” was on full display. She directed me upstairs to where I could put my shoes, and then she invited me to join the others in the training room for coffee or tea. She said someone named Karen would be there clue us in on the morning’s schedule.
I walked up the loudly squeaking staircase to the second floor, found the coat room, took off my shoes, but left my socks on. I wasn’t sure if naked feet were cool. What about athlete’s foot? In socks, sweat pants, and an oversized golf shirt, I entered to meet my fellow sangha members.
I don’t know why I was expecting middle aged bald men, maybe it had more to do with how I see my self, but this group was an eclectic mix of Brooklynites. All ages, sexes, and sizes were represented. They were all barefoot. Everyone seemed nice, smiling and nodding. Quiet chit-chat murmured in the rear third of the space. There as a refreshment table, some chairs and couches. The front two thirds of the room was a mini zendo complete with a small Buddhist altar and a dozen or so Zabuton (32″ X 28″ meditation mats), with corresponding Zafus (14″ round cushions used for sitting meditation). Otherwise the room looked like any second story living room in a Brooklyn brownstone, hardwood floors, baseboard heating, and walls painted too many times bearing the scars of age.
Karen, also a gray robed student in her mid-twenties, took the four or five of us newcomers and explained what we should expect during the service. There was still about ten minutes before we were to go downstairs, so I grabbed a cup of coffee, signed up for the newsletter, put my five dollar “suggested donation” into the blue box, and then I snuck into the coat room to loose the socks.
At nine twenty-five Karen directed us downstairs to find our space in the zendo. My heart was pounding as I creaked down the noisy steps ahead of the others, and I entered a Buddhist Zendo for the first time; barefoot with butterflies. At that moment I realized, after all my reading and study, just how green I truly was. I found a zabuton/zafu/seat on the left side of the room three rows from the back, and I tried to get comfortable looking around to see how others propped themselves up on the little cushions. I put my hands together and tried to be solemn, but trying to be solemn is like trying not to think about a green elephant.
There was a faint incense smell mixed with wood cleaner, the room was dim but not dark with ceiling fans at full blast. Heavy wooden columns and thick paneled walls gave the room character. In the front of the room there stood a small altar, small by catholic standards, with a lovely Buddha carved from some kind of colored stone that gave it an antique look. To the left was a tall thin vase of flowers, two puffy white and mum-like, a hyacinth, and a few twiggy things; very elegant. On the right a heavy beeswax candle like the ones I lit by the hundreds as an altar boy. In the center fore is an incense holder, and in the rear a small vessel of water. Earth, Air, Fire and Water. The basic four elements.
A bell, no, more a chime brought me and the group, the community, the sangha, to focus. With another chime the liturgy began. I felt excitement muted by circumstance as Shugen Sensei began his chants. I had little idea what was going on, but followed along as best I could, bowing, and chanting with the group.
The full bows were unexpected. I’d read about them, but these were my first, and graceful they were not. The full bow begins standing, hands in gassho (a Namaste or traditional prayer gesture) with feet together. Then it’s a bow from the hips, down to the knees, and down further, till the forehead touches the mat with hands to the side of the head, palms up. Then it’s back up. I think we did three such bows. It was then I realized why people were stretching before the service.
Sutra books were handed out to those who needed them, and within moments the group began chanting the Heart Sutra. I was caught off-guard and it took me well into the second verse to catch-up with the group. I’d prayed aloud before, I’d sang in church, but I never felt such group cohesion as we all chanted in rhythmic unity.
By the time we were through chanting in both English, and what I assumed was Japanese, though it could have been Sanskrit, the words had somehow penetrated. I still had no idea what was going on, but my feet sank deeper into my zabuton.
At the end of the liturgy part of the program, the newcomers were asked to gather at the back of the hall, and to accompany one of the lay students upstairs for beginning instruction in zazen. Once upstairs we all took a seat on a zafu and zabuton, and were told a senior monastic would soon be in to talk with us. I looked around at this group of newcomers. A woman in her fifties, who I came in with, was beaming in expectation. A young couple looked terrified, like potheads at Jesus Camp, and a pretty twenty-something girl looked like a little Buddha in full lotus. My knees hurt just sitting next to her.
Me? I was sitting Indian-style; I don’t think that’s any kind of lotus, but still I tried to straighten up when a man in the black robes of the monastic entered our space. He was an ominous figure, and we were spellbound as he sat before us spending several minutes rolling, folding and configuring his robes so that, when done, he looked symmetric. He addressed us in a gentle voice, and with kind humor.
He spoke of Zen, its history, and its general philosophy. He told us a bit about the Fire Lotus Temple, and of the Mountains and Rivers Order it is a part of. Then he taught us several different sitting positions. I picked a kneeling/sitting posture called seiza, using the zafu to carry my weight with my feet hanging off the edge of the zabuton.
He taught us how to sit: back straight, head forward, eyes in a “gentle gaze” at a forty-five degree down angle, hands together in the cosmic mudra. Our next step was to go down to the Zendo, find a space, and commit to sitting still for the second thirty five minute period of zazen. Zazen for beginners consists of watching the breath. When distractions arise, let them go, and go back to your breath. He explained how Zazen or sitting meditation is very easy to describe but extremely difficult to do.
“Bring it on!”
I found a space on the far right of the zendo. I situated myself in my seiza position, and it felt good, I even remembered to bow to my seat before sitting. A succession of chimes and clappers began my first real zazen session. There I was, counting my breath and dismissing my thoughts. I was in the zone! “I can do this for hours,” I thought.
Then came the distractions; the mosquito bite on my foot, a truck in the street, motion here, a creak there, I dismissed them and went back to counting my breath. I became aware of every itch, ache and pain, and I began to feel stress, like when you’re on an exercise bike, exhausted, and the timer says you’re only halfway through.
“This is intense,” my mind rebelled, going off in a thousand directions. I fought to stay with my breath, but I wasn’t winning. I sank deeper into my cushion and stuck it out. This was the longest thirty five minutes ever. I began to think of all the other ways I’ve lasted thirty five minute in other situations, but then I’d catch myself and go back to my breath.
A chime toned signaling the end of zazen. I unfolded my lifeless legs, and awkwardly began to stand, my bones creaking like the temple stairs. I followed along as we began kinhin (walking meditation). During our instruction the monk said to “just walk,” continue in meditation, counting your breath and just walk. The cool marble floor felt good as I walked and stretched. I was in the moment, and as I sat, less formally now, on my cushion I was ready for the next part of the service, the Dharma Talk.
Shugen Sensei gave a talk dissecting a Zen Koan from the ninth century. A Koan is a story or statement, or even a question that defies rational understanding, but can be accessible through intuition. I enjoyed the teaching. Shugen Sensei brought the meanings in to present day life and familiar situations, even speaking of life in New York City.
When the talk was finished there was more chanting and bowing. I tried to chant along, but was just moaning in tune with the group. “I’ll pick this up eventually,” I thought, and for the first time I knew I’d be back.
At the end of the service, everyone dusted off their zabutons, and fluffed their zafus. Some people left, but most went upstairs to the training/refreshment room for more coffee, refreshments and conversation. I spoke to a few of my newbie classmates. The older woman and the little Buddha were jazzed, while the young couple looked less scared, but still a little freaked-out.
I felt great. I felt at peace. I had a sense of accomplishment, and I knew I was at the beginning of something that I really didn’t understand. And that was ok.
Vinny
August 1, 2007
Cub reporter Buzz Bogan here on the scene in Midtown Manhattan where something happened at or near Grand Central Station around 6-6:15 today.
The police closed 42nd Street, only allowing westbound foot traffic, heading away from the scene. It was quite a sight! Thousands of New Yorkers walking calmly but quickly eastward on 42nd Street. This reporter saw several dozen people who looked like they were sprayed with a fine rusty dust or maybe dirty water.
All subways in or around Grand Central are closed as hundreds of first responders rush to the scene. Police, Fire, EMS, you name it, if it had an NYC Logo; it rolled to the area around Grand Central.
Of course we were all thinking, but no one was saying, BOMB! The word on the street was that a transformer blew up under Grand Central Station, but as you can see from my photos, the smoke is coming from the south side of 42nd, while Grand Central is mainly on the North side.
I was in Grand Central about 5:30 when and a harried call from my boss had me scurrying to find a Starbucks so I could grab some internet access, and to avert a minor crisis at an Upper West Side overpriced eatery.
After Starbucks, I ended up at 45th and 6th, eating falafel from a great sidewalk vendor, when I noticed people rushing and pointing to what looked like a cloud hovering over the Chrysler building. On closer inspection I realized it was billowing smoke or steam, so I braved bodily harm and went to see what was up.
Faces became serious, talking on cell phones, and heading away from 42nd Street with a purpose. When I reached 42nd and 6th, the police were stopping anyone from getting closer to the “incident”, an after some pushing and shoving I made my way to the center of the cross street looking up at a sea of humanity completely filling the street from 5th Ave to 6th.
By 6:45 things calmed down, people walked south to other subway stations, and aside from news helicopters and some official siren-laden motorcades, whatever happened was over. I headed back to Brooklyn to see what the news has to say on the subject.
Byline: Vinny Â
July 18, 2007
I haven’t completed my first week in Brooklyn, but I’m enjoying the culture shock. Wow! Brooklyn is a lot different than Philly, but since I lived in Abington, a comparatively bucolic backwater, not actually in Philly, my head is spinning.
Rosie “The Cat” is adjusting well, thought she was really pissed the first few days. She was like, “Excuse me, what’s up with all these weird smells and sounds, they’re freaking my kitty ass out!” But in her own way she is coming to terms with this pre-war three story walk-up. She’s sniffed and rubbed against everything in the place, formulating her take over plan, I think she’s already turned the corner, and it’s only a matter of time before she feels at home.
I’m loving the neighborhood, working class Spanish, great restaurants, and lots of families. Sunset Park itself is great. I went for a walk through it earlier this evening, my second in as many days. The place comes alive with the cool of the evening. About a dozen pick-up soccer games, though they call it football, volley ball, basketball and maybe fifty kids playing in a huge sprinkler.
Then there’s the view! Sunset Park sits on a big hill rising up from about Third Avenue giving a panoramic view of New York Harbor. From the tip of Staten Island, across the bay the giant cargo ships take on the look of cruise ships in the gloaming haze of the sticky summer evening. Center view is the green harbor goddess Miss Liberty looking majestically bored as Manhattan bustles over her shoulder. To me she’s always looked kind of man-ish, probably a French practical joke. On the north side of the park there’s a full view of the Empire State Building standing sentry over the city that never sleeps.
I keep thinking, “I’m really here.” It’ll take a while for it to sink in. It’s new, and old, and different, and the same, all I can do is dive in.
I took my camera with me to the park to snap a few pics for my blog, but the batteries were dead. Dammit!
Vinny
July 12, 2007
The Jamaican Cowboy was a friend of mine, though I did not know him well. Like a piper calling us home to Negril, his music and his charm filled our living rooms every Sunday morning.
Our first meeting was on my first trip to Negril way back in February 1994. I didn’t know who he was when I met him, and thankfully he didn’t remember me because I was naked at the time. Let me explain…
Cowboy was the entertainment for Hedonism’s Island Picnic in those days. A girl I’d met on the Road to Negril bus ride asked if I wanted to go to the “Island Picnic†the next day. It’s been my experience, when a girl asks you to go to a naked picnic; you go! Flab be damned.
We ate, drank and jiggled to the syncopated, rockabilly-reggae beat all coming out of one man, and one guitar. All I can remember is thinking, “Man, dude makes that thing talk!â€
I found Negril.com in late 2003, the message board, the Real Negril Sunday Webcast from Selina’s, and of course The Jamaican Cowboy. I remember scrambling to my memory box (a big plastic bin filled with my keepsakes) looking for my Hedo trip stuff, and right there on my Island Picnic Agenda, “Entertainment provided by The Jamaican Cowboy.†“Yeah, I remember that guy!â€
By the time I got to Negril in April ’04 I was an official Boardie. I was consistently amazed with the quality and the sincerity the answers my newbie questions received.
I didn’t know how to act on my first live Sunday Morning Webcast. I wore my Philadelphia Eagles cap, ordered Jamaican Breakfast, and tried to figure out who was who. About halfway through my breakfast Meg (Tom & Meg from Wilmington) came over and asked “Are you Vinny from Philly?†I said yes, and she yelled to everyone in the joint, “Hey everyone, Vinny from Philly is here!â€
At first I was kind of embarrassed, but within five minutes I was part of the crowd, part of the wonderful boardie family. I met Rob. Selina hugged me. Several people whose names I can’t remember bought me Bloody Marys, and Selina introduced me to Alex, The Jamaican Cowboy. I tried to tell him I was a big fan, but he would have none of it, I was moved by his modesty. He just smiled with those warm piercing eyes and began to play. He was much better in person.
When a person on the periphery of your life passes on, at least for me, it gives the most room for pause. Forcing you to look within yourself, to come to grips with the big questions. To take a look at life, at the life lost, or at least your impressions of that life, as a mirror or even a magnifying glass to your own. Like a distant relation, one you don’t see very often, but feel an attachment to. Standing at the back of the room during the wake, a partner to the family’s grief, yet somehow disconnected from it.
My eyes welled up reading Selina’s stoic report on the message board, the overtones of her sadness, her loss, and her tears bleed through the words catching me in the throat.
Cowboy’s passing also brings to light the true hardships our friends in Jamaica face every day. We see them in town, we trade with them, have a few Red Stripes, but it’s rare that we get a glimpse into their total life.
We take for granted the ease of life in the States, and in the Land of Maple Leafs. If I get a sniffle; I hit CVS for some medicine; if it holds on; I go to an excellent doctor right down the street, and then I only pay a ten-dollar co-pay.
My downstairs neighbor had a heart attack in 2005, he was ok, but it’s two years later he’s still bitching about the interminable thirteen minute EMS response time. There is a lot said about healthcare in the states, but with even the most basic emergency room care, Cowboy would have had more than a fighting chance.
Happy Trails Cowboy…
Thanks to Dreadneck & Lizzardbeth for the photos
June 24, 2007
 Yes, Yes, Negril Notes has won the prestigious “Bloggy Award.”
I’d like to thank the “little people” who have made this all possible: My family; my friends; my beloved readers; and, of course, the phalanx of midgets I employ who do the actual typing, spell checking, etc. (they prefer the term “little people,” they’re very sensitive).
On a more serious note, I’d like to thank the BA folks for actually spending some time reading the posts and giving NN a fair shake (although they could have been a bit more synchophantic).
Vinny
May 4, 2007
It annoys me that they don’t say, “… and the Winner is …” Does it really make the fellow nominees feel any less like looooooosers? 
I think not.
I bought Little Miss Sunshine this weekend, and it was just amazing. I laughed, I cried. I felt good because, in contrast, my family is normal, though we were a Volkswagen Bus bound family on many a road trip back in the 70’s. The characters were at once unique and archetypical, watching the film I wondered who I identified with the most. Was I the angry teen? The eccentric uncle? The over-zealous dad? Hmmm, at least I wasn’t the crazy dope smoking grandfather, not yet anyway.
I also picked up The Departed, it was excellent, but it was no Goodfellas, hell, it wasn’t even My Cousin Vinny. I think Marty went to the gangster well one too many times; at least it was the Irish mob this time. It just makes me laugh to portray Patriots fans as tough guys, talk about suspension of disbelief. My nephew Thomas could kick Leo’s ass.
OK here are my picks:
Best Picture - Little Miss Sunshine (it won’t win but it should)
Best Actor - Forrest Whittaker should win, but Will Smith will win.
Best Actress - The Queen chick should win I guess, but I didn’t see any of those movies. Penelope Cruz could win on general hotness.
Supporting Actor - Eddie Murphy - as long as it stops him from making those annoying fat suit movies.
Supporting Actress - That girl from American Idol.
Best Director - Paul Greengrass for United 93 but that suck-up Scorsese will win.
Best Screen Writing - Michael Arndt and Sacha Cohen
Animated Film - Cars - Aidan helped me with this one.
Best Documentary - Better known as the Americans Suck Category - Big Al is gonna win, and he will probably be so obviously trying to look un-tree-like, it will be fun to watch.
Best Foreign Film - Who cares you can’t figure out what the hell they’re talking about anyway.
Best Song - I think its unfair that Dreamgirls has three of the five nominations.
Vinny
February 24, 2007
Negril.com is Negril’s Official website, and they will be publishing some of my articles and reviews. The first one is featured on today’s home page, and is a review of The Appleton Estates Rum Tour.
You can find the article here: Negril.com - http://www.negril.com
You can read the full article here: Appleton Estates Rum Tour
Thanks Negril.com!
Vinny
January 26, 2007
This past weekend I updated the “Reviews Page” on this site. I’d been trying to come up with a format, a ratings system, a color scheme, yada, yada, yada… But it was just not getting done, so I decided to read over my notes, and to write the damn things once and for all.
From the early days of this blog, way back in 2004, people have been asking me to put my opinions on record. As I wrote them I posted them on the Negril.com Message Board. I was happy with people’s reactions. My opinions caused quite a stir, and engendered a lively, even rowdy conversation, with thousands of page views and hundreds of responses.
I like to be positive, and I’m pretty easy to please, so you may notice most of these reviews are raves. I just found it easier to start with the places I’ve stayed, and with some of my favorite restaurants. Moving forward I will expand the field, I promise honest opinions, and I will pull no punches.
So, click the Reviews button on the top of this page, any feedback is welcomed and appreciated.
Peace
Vinny
January 15, 2007
Oh boy! It’s getting close. I’m reviewing my last minute checklist, and the rolling duffel is packed, but not yet zipped.
Today I start overfeeding Rosie The Cat. For the next few days she gets a can of Fancy Feast in the morning and another one at night. It’s all about feline abandonment guilt. She knows when I’m leaving for vacation, she gives me “that look”, and then she acts pissed for a few days after I return. It seems I have complicated relationships with every female in my life.
Then there’s housekeeping. I hate to go away and leave my place a mess (which is its default state). Thursday I did eight loads of laundry, wash dry and fold in two and a half hours. Impressive, huh. Friday and Saturday was spring cleaning, belated not proactive, so that when my neighbor come up to “look-in” on Rosie, she won’t be horrified.Â
Finally there’s Chrismas shopping. I never went on vacation this time of year before, and since I’m returning Christmas eve, there’s a pretty good chance everyone on my list is getting a t-shirt and a bottle of Pickapeppa. Well that’s not exactly true, I’ve done some shopping, and maybe I’ll do some this week, but I can’t go into any details.
I’m rambling aren’t i? Sorry. Go Eagles!!
Peace
Vinny
December 10, 2006
I know I’m supposed to be Vinny from Philly, but my job often causes me to worm my way into the Big Apple. Today is supposed to be the hottest day in NYC in 100 years, and somehow I ended up in the middle of the swelter-y-ing-ness-ism.
I’m in a Starbucks at 8th Ave betwixt 43rd and 44th Streets, it’s cool tempature wise, realtively uncool as NYC coffee shops go. A pedesrian coffee shop one might say, not one I would normally get the urge to blog from, but any port in the proverbial storm.
I usually walk the 0.7 miles from my office to the Hoboken Train Station, it’s usually a nice walk, Hoboken is some kind of magnet for beautiful women, most of whom take the PATH train into NYC, but today I flagged down a cab, it was just too damned hot.
Once at the World Trade Center, I hopped on the wonderfully air-conditioned E Train which took me up to mid-town. The air in the NYC underground is stifling. Jeez! Luckily the place I was going to was about ten steps from the Subway entrance. I dropped off some parts to a colleague and walked half a block to perch here for a while.
My next move is to hop back on the E Train to 34th Street, (No–I’m not walking) and then hop a Yellow Train to Prince Street (Soho). I will then walk several steamy blocks to the Aroma Cafe to fix thier fingerprint software. I have fingerprint software fixing skills.
Part 2Â
I survived; barely. It is still really freakin’ hot! The “Real Feel” tempature at 3:30PM was 116 degrees.
I took a different track to my appointment. I saw signs for the Yellow Line right at 44th Street, which is all a part of the 42nd Street Concourse. I didn’t realize how far I had to walk to get to the Yellow Line. From 44th and 8th to about 41st and 7th, but it was better than walking in the sun. Still I was in full body free sweat by the time I got on my train.
I took the Yellow R Train to Prince Street, and the train’s A/C was working well. I was still soaked when I got to Aroma Cafe at Greene and Houston (pronounced HOW-stun). They were busy so I locked my stinky sweaty self in the well cooled office for a couple hours. By the time I hit the street again, I felt pretty cool. I dropped down into the Subway at Broadway & Lafayette, another cool train to Penn Station, and right onto a departing PATH train back to Hoboken. I wasn’t too bad after all, but now I’m heading back to Philly!
Keep Cool Â
Vinny
August 2, 2006
Well, it’s official. The much vaunted Christmas to New Year Negril trip is defunct 
I blame myself for getting everyone so excited, but I had no idea airline rates for that week would more than double. I knew it was primo traveling season, but I’ve done Negril in peak winter funtime, and it was only a little more expensive, air farily speaking. Â
It kinda sucks, I was hoping to see the ball drop from Times Square. Time Square Negril that is. I wonder if they do that? If not; they should, and if they do so on my suggestion, I want 10%!
Me, Kris, my Mom and Dad talked about it over the weekend, but the it really hit home when I sent my neice Tina the bad news, though I think she figured it out before we did.
Don’t fret Negril, I’ll be back, sooner than later. I’m thinking about a post Thanksgiving, pre-Hanukkah trip. Somwhere late November till just before Christmas. I have some friends thinking of going in that timeframe and there’s the Negril Reggae Marathon to think about. No, it’s not a bunch of Rastas with a rhumba box on speed, it’s a by-god official sporting event. They’ve got a kick-ass website anyway.
More on the trip as it takes shape…
Vinny Â
July 6, 2006
Ok, the kid was obnoxious and his unshaven, white-trash, obviously non-custodial dad lacked any semblance of parenting skills. I laughed to myself as they argued over the breakfast menu. A classic parent-child confrontation, and the kid was winning hands down. Cranberry juice seemed to be an important first course, there was an immediacy to the kid getting it. He did.
“Ok, now take your pill,†dad slurs thru broken, rotting and/or missing teeth. The kid pops the tiny white orb. Dad sighed with relief. I lost my appetite.
Does this kid even have a chance? Hopefully mom married better the second time around, this was a pretty nice neighborhood, mine.
 I thought back, how did I learn to sit still in a restaurant? Oh yeah, my dad would grab hold of the short hairs on the back of my head, it would only hurt if I moved, and I’d snap to attention fast. Sure, “catholic discipline†left a few tracks on my psyche, but at least I avoided the cradle-to-grave drug dependence obviously the master plan of the evil meglo-pharmacrat pulling the societal strings. Worse yet, all the so-called experts agree.
These so-called experts say, “without them [kiddy drugs], little Jimmy can’t sit still long enough to learn.†Shut up! You loosing piece of crap! What have the leading experts, guilty parents, and unionized teachers given us: illiteracy, ever rising drop-out rates, oh yeah, don’t forget the occasional school massacre conveniently blamed on violent video games and gangsta-rap.
I don’t say I’m a great parent, but thankfully I married one once. When my daughter was in third grade, the teacher called my ex-wife in and said, “We think Kristine is A.D.D. and should be medicated.†Lucky for Kristine my occasionally evil ex-wife went nuts, she told the teacher maybe she should challenge the kids so they’re not so damned bored. The next year, in a new school, Kristine was put in accelerated classes and has thrived ever since: drug free. Well, except maybe a likkle ganja when she visits Negril, she is my daughter after all. Â
Headache: Take Tylenol. Muscle-tension: Aleve. Stress: Prozac. Insomnia: Ambien. Hemorrhoids: Anusol. Heartburn: Well, you can’t have heartburn anymore. Since our friends at AstroZeneca invented Nexuim, the purple pill, you have Acid Reflux Disease, which is exactly the same as heartburn, but much, much worse.
Shouldn’t the answer be, cut out the daily pizza, drink some water, stop abusing yourself? Save the money you spend on drugs and take a vacation. Oh, that’s right, drugs are free, or at lease included in your benefits package, and when the country is sufficiently addicted we’ll get the government to pay for them, yeah that’s the ticket! Look how happy the Canadians are! They’re so drugged out all their comedians have to come here to get a rise out of someone. Pamela Anderson? Let’s not even go there!
It’s a big issue, who has the answer? I do! Deal with it! It’s really that simple, do these drugs really make our life better? The same people foisting pharmaceuticals on the lemming populous keep telling our kids to Say No To Drugs.
Kids need to know right and wrong, absolutes are ok, they’re tough, they can handle it. They can learn all about moral relativism in college, assuming they didn’t spend their childhood drugged into submission.
Rantingly Yours,
Vinny
July 2, 2006
I spent the last few days working in Philly. Center City, as we call it, is known for it’s historical edifi, it’s public sculptures, The Art Museum, and the new National Constitution Center. But I love it for it for the street food!
You’d expect the “City of Neighborhoods” to have great restaurants, but the street vendors are amazing. In New York City you can get the famous “dirty water hot dog,” but in Philly you can get a meal.
 Â
Wednesday morning I got off the R2 Warminster at Suburban Station. I walked past the dozen or so shops in the station concourse, and up to street level to visit Tom’s Lunch Cart. It was about 9AM and I hadn’t had breakfast. I waited patiently as a woman gave Tom strict orders on exactly how he was to prepare her, whatever it was. The gray haired Tom smiled and joked with her as he happily went about his work.
I’d only been there a few times, but Tom, and his wife, who was filling the beverage bin preparing for the lunch rush, both greeted me like an old friend. I ordered two eggs with scrapple and cheese on a roll with salt, pepper and hot sauce. My mouth watering as he efficiently prepared my food, I was shocked when my bill was only $2.75.
I paid him, said goodbye, and scurried across the street like a squirrel with an especially good acorn. I sat in the beautiful Love Park, and opened my “Heaven in a Bag.” Words just can’t describe the crispy, yet gooey scrappley yumminess mixing gently with egg and hot sauce on the world famous Amoroso Roll. A true culinary orgasm!
I went into an adjacent building, and did my work thing for half the day. At about 3PM I was walking back through the park thinking about lunch. Right there on 16th Street, between Market & JFK, there are several great food carts with fantastic cheesesteaks, South Philly sausage, and even fruit salad if you’re feeling guilty.
 I walked past them all to hit “The King of Falafel.” I don’t think he’s really a king, it’s the best falafel in Philly.
This time I got a falafel sandwich with baba ganouj. Insead of a pita they put it in a wrap-like thingy, much like the Jamiacan roti, some hot sauce; Woo Hoo, another great meal!
Check out the “Roach Coaches” next time you’re in Philly!
Peace
Vinny
June 16, 2006
My daughter Kristine was born twenty years ago today! WOW!Â
I remember like it was yesterday! Meeting Kris for the first time, I knew right away she was cool! Her mom was there too, making a lot of noise if I remember correctly, but I did most of the work. It’s stressful in them delivery rooms!
I have to admit to getting a bit misty looking through her photos, I think I feel an ode coming on!
Kristine’s Twentieth Birthday Ode
O’ Kristine, O’ Kristine
O’ How I love thee
You looked like this when you were about three
Once such a cutie
You’ve grown into a beauty!
You play, You sing, You dance
OK, and occasionally you prance
Your look has changed year by year
But there were no facial piercings for Dad to fear
You work so hard, and you play the same
It amazes me how you win your game!
Although below you’re looking a tad bit lame, but I don’t mean to flame
So take today and try to chill,
I send you my love, my heart it does fill
Just think, in six months we’ll be back in Negril!!
Happy Birthday Kris!
Love,
Dad
May 14, 2006
When I’m not in Negril, my company designs, sells and services point of sale computer systems for restaurants, bars and the like. One of my latest projects is with a new fast food chain called JerkQ’zine, it’s Jamaican fast food!
I got back from Jamaica a few weeks ago just when they were to open thier first store outside Atlanta. My head was still spinning from a week in paradise and I found myself immersed in Jamaican culture once again! I had Curried Goat for lunch last Thursday! How cool is that?!
Of course my system ran perfectly so I got to spend four days, eating patties, and talking to the Jamaican community of Atlanta. Getting paid to eat and talk about Jamaica, sometimes I love my job!
Then today, I’m in a hotel in Cape May, NJ and I hear tell-tale Jamaican patios. Two brothers from Falmouth run the kitchen. We chatted awhile, it was a lot of fun.
Not back to Negril till Boxing Day Seems sooo long
Vinny
May 10, 2006
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