… AND THE CROWD GOES WILD!!

… Channel 29 coverage …

I can’t believe I missed the West Indian Day Parade last year! I don’t remember what I did instead, but if I’d gone I would have remembered what I did, since I did this, and it would have been awesome, but then I’d be comparing this year to last year which may or may not have impacted what a wonderful time I had today. But I digress…

I’ve been living in Brooklyn a little over a year now, and in that time I’ve taken two trips to Negril. Today at the West Indian Day Parade I felt like I’d taken trip number three.

All along Eastern Parkway stretching eastward from Prospect Park’s Grand Army Plaza to Utica Avenue deep in the heart of Crown Heights Brooklyn, a stronghold of Caribbean culture since the 60’s, the massive parade and street fair held sway. It was as much Carnivale as a NYC Parade, hundreds of food stalls, craft booths and t-shirt sellers lined both sides of the two-mile long route.

I hopped a #3 train from Atlantic Ave to the Franklin Ave. As soon as the train doors opened the sweet smell of food on the grill hit me, so I followed my nose. I went right for the first Jerk Chicken stand I saw, the old woman’s lilting Jamaica patois like music drew me in. I ordered a small portion of well prepared nicely spiced Jerk Chicken. I forwent the extra packaging, I knew it wasn’t going to last long, and the lid, fork and bag would just be a waste.

I began walking through the crowd eating my chicken, the spice cleared my head and I began to realize the enormity of this event. As far as I could see a sea of people, food being served and eaten, thousands of colorful flags from all the West Indian countries fluttered in the soft breeze of this perfect sunny day.

I may not be the most objective correspondent but the crowd seemed to be at least half Jamaican, or at least dressed in Jamaican flags and Jamaican colors. There was a good contingent of Haitians, and Trinis as well as Guyanans, Barbatons, and Grenadans. The food was amazing, everything you could think of. Some from organized food trucks run by the myriad local Caribbean restaurants in the area, to small family-run concerns with Grandma doing the cooking and the kids higgling for customers.

I had my main lunch, after the above mentioned Jerk Chicken, a Curry Chicken Patty, and a half frozen bottle of water, at rough looking food stand run by a group of would-be rastas. They were disorganized, a bit overwhelmed, and their spray-painted sign read Rasta-I-tal, but they had genuine smiles and seemed to be the real deal (Reshay who served me was in Portmore this time last year). I got the Curried Goat with rice and peas. It was fresh, meaty, good portion and was spot on! I gave them a card and told them I was going to write about them. I also told them to open a restaurant. They had that intangible something that turns good food into a great meal.

The heroes of the day were the usual suspects: Bob Marley, Haile Selassie, Martin Luther King and Malcolm-X, but supplanting them all was Barack Obama, it was all about Obama, you’d think he was running for President or something. Even Chucky Schumer’s entourage were sporting “Obama is the Answer” t-shirts. I didn’t wear my Obama shirt, nor did I wear my Bob Marley shirt. I don’t like being “that guy.” There were penty of “those guys” around. It’s funny how silly wannabe white-boy dreads look in such situations.

The music was loud, we were all having a good time, I didn’t see any trouble, but New York’s Finest were out in force. I walked from Franklin Ave. up to Utica Ave where the parade started and I ran into a Police created coral with no throughway, so I went into the subway and went back into the thick of things at Nostrand Ave, but on the other side of the Parkway. This time I walked back towards The Brooklun Museum and Prospect Park. Soon I was standing at Grand Arch at Grand Army Plaza looking back at the parade.

Fun Day
Vinny

I found some storm video of Dancing Mangos in Negril.

I like to watch the National Hurricane Center. They have the best and most current coverage.

There is always the Jamaica News-Gleaner, with decent coverage, though they sometimes downplay the bad stuff.

Hang in there!

Vinny

George Carlin died yesterday, it’s sad but it’s not really a shock. I’d been a fan since I first heard him in 1974. Jeff Geist and I “borrowed” the Class Clown album from his uncle and sat listening to it through shared headphones while his little brother Michael stood look-out. This was very controversial stuff for a pair of ten-year olds. Then late in 1982 my buddy Frankie Tuossolo and I saw him live at the old Club Bene in Sayerville, NJ, I don’t think I ever laughed so hard in my life.

As a tribute to the master curmudgeon of our time I did a web search for some Carlin-isms, I hope you enjoy…

When cheese gets it’s picture taken, what does it say?

Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.

I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self-help section?” She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.

When someone asks you, A penny for your thoughts, and you put your two cents in, what happens to the other penny?

If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn’t it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted?

When someone is impatient and says, “I haven’t got all day,” I always wonder, How can that be? How can you not have all day?

I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks so I wondered, what do Chinese mothers use? Toothpicks?

If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

Is a vegetarian permitted to eat animal crackers?

What if there were no hypothetical questions?

Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.

Some national parks have long waiting lists for camping reservations. When you have to wait a year to sleep next to a tree, something is wrong.

Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.

Before they invented drawing boards, what did they go back to?

Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.

Why do croutons come in airtight packages? It’s just stale bread to begin with.

I have as much authority as the Pope, I just don’t have as many people who believe it.

Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?

If the #2 pencil is the most popular, why is it still #2?

Electricity is really just organized lightning.

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.

“I am” is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that “I do” is the longest sentence?

If all the world is a stage, where is the audience sitting?

Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?

Honesty may be the best policy, but it’s important to remember that apparently, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy.

I recently went to a new doctor and noticed he was located in something called the Professional Building. I felt better right away.

If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.

I’m completely in favor of the separation of Church and State. My idea is that these two institutions screw us up enough on their own, so both of them together is certain death.

There’s no present. There’s only the immediate future and the recent past.

At a formal dinner party, the person nearest death should always be seated closest to the bathroom.

As a matter of principle, I never attend the first annual anything.

The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done.

Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.

Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.

I think it’s the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.

The only good thing ever to come out of religion was the music.

Religion convinced the world that there’s an invisible man in the sky who watches everything you do. And there’s 10 things he doesn’t want you to do or else you’ll go to a burning place with a lake of fire until the end of eternity. But he loves you! …And he needs money! He’s all powerful, but he can’t handle money!

Peace,
Vinny

On past trips I’d be packed by now, my over-stuffed rolling duffel bag sitting expectantly by the door, but this time around the bag is yet to be zipped. I did some stuff, but I still need to hit Target for some necessities. I’m having a tough time finding heavy-duty bug repellant in New York City.

I’ve also gotten into the habit of posting my packing list a few weeks out, but I think the idea has gotten stale. I don’t think I added anything since the last trip, and some stuff was never unpacked.

So this trip will be completely unscheduled. I rarely follow my damned schedule anyway, but for some reason I feel the need to pencil something in.

I will be posting, my room at the Blue Cave Castle is very close to the WIFI, so there shouldn’t be a problem.

See you in Negril!

Vinny

Maybe I should explain:

Friday night I went over to my friend Dee’s place in Crown Heights. She had somehow come into possession of a wild bird, and she wanted me to help her set it free in Prospect Park. It’s a whole other story. Our original plan for the day was to meet up in Manhattan, have a few drinks, and then go to see the new Indiana Jones movie. So after the bird was free and happy in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, we hopped on a 3 train heading into Lower Manhattan.

Street level somewhere near City Hall I pulled out my trusty Blackberry and hit the Google Maps Button. Within seconds it told me where we were and where we needed to go. I love my Blackberry. I’m almost obsessed with it. It holds everything, numbers, emails, to do lists, music, and lectures on mp3. And of course I have it all tricked out just the way I like it, in the picture you can see I even created a Negril Notes theme for it. Okay, I could be a little obsessed.

The map on my Blackberry said we were too far away to meet up with our friends before the movie started so I hailed a cab and we hopped in. And that’s when it must have happened! My Blackberry fell out of the pocket of my jacket. I always wear that jacket and I hop in and out of cabs, subways, busses, you name it, and that Blackberry has stayed with me every time.

When we met up with our movie companion we found out the nine-thirty showing was sold out and that we were on for ten o’clock. We walked to Chevy’s around the corner to kill some time, ordered Margaritas, and made chit-chat. Dee’s friend was very nice though she was obviously crazy for me, Dee pretended not to notice. Sometimes it’s not easy being me. Anyway, After only one round we walked over to the Regal Battery Park, found decent seats, and settled in to watch Harrison Ford do what he does so well.

I reached for my phone to make sure it was on vibrate, and it wasn’t there! I checked my other pockets; nothing. I stood up and looked around my seat; nada. I raised me arms and screamed “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!” Okay I didn’t really do that, but I was pretty upset. I headed back to Chevy’s to see if maybe I took it out and laid it on the bar for some reason.

Indiana Jones was playing in five of the theater’s eleven screens, and we were in theater number eleven on the top floor. Some other showing had just gotten out and the down escalator was jammed. My stress began to build, the escalator moved glacially, and I felt like a trapped animal. I checked my pockets for duct tape to wrap around my head to keep it from exploding, but I had none! Instead I took a deep breath and tried to relax. When I was calm and still several floors from street level I realized all the people around me were talking about the movie, discussing in detail things like the plot, and the ending!

Finally back at the bar the pretty yet vacant doe-eyed bartender, who made us the shitty margaritas, disappeared for several minutes finding a manager. Meanwhile I found the bus boys and asked them in Spanish if they found a phone, I didn’t know how to say Blackberry in their native tongue. “Si Si,” the taller one said and my stress just deflated, I hadn’t realized how hard my heart was beating. ”Thanks Guys,” I said as I started counting out twenties as a reward for their honesty, but I nearly broke into tears when they handed me a scuffed up Motorola Razor.

Walking back into the theater I began to think philosophically. “It’s not like I lost a kidney.” “I have almost everything backed-up.” “I’m just going to look like an ass at work on Tuesday.” “I don’t mind looking like an ass.” “Who cares what those bastard think!” “Who needs that f*****ng job anyway!!” Now back on the escalator I asked the big football player type ahead of me if he had any duct tape. He just looked confused, and began walking more quickly up the moving steel stairs.

I plopped into my seat in failure and disgust. My companions were sweet and consoling, which made me feel better, and by the time the myriad previews were over I was able to let go and really enjoy the film. Indy Rocked!

The rest of the night I kept calling the phone hoping the evil bastard who had it would pick it up. I was planning to threaten that I could track them on the GPS, though I never actually loaded the friggin’ program.

Saturday morning I had my spare cell phone charged up and working, and I sent the number to all the people who might need to get a hold of me over the weekend. I kept calling the Blackberry which I keep on vibrate. I pictured it buzzing under the seat of some cab never to be found. But life goes on.

I took the 63 bus through Park Slope to the Food Co-Op, and as I sat there I rang the Blackberry again.

“Hello” Holy shit! Someone answered, and she didn’t sound evil at all! She’d found the Blackberry in a taxi the previous night and was waiting for me to call and claim it. I must have sounded like an idiot on the phone, I was so excited, and happy, and exuberant, and relieved that I almost didn’t write down her address.

She was like a Blackberry finding angel, she seemed as happy that I found my phone as I was. Whoever stereotypes New Yorkers as uncaring troglodytes are just as wrong as they can be. I’ve only been living here a year and the people have been great. Rebecca the Blackberry Angel is just another example.

I blew off food shopping for the time being and took the 63 all the way to the Atlantic Avenue Train Station. In minutes I was on a 4 Express train to the Upper East Side. From Eighty-Sixth and Lexington, I all but ran to the address Rebecca had given me, and that I’d written on the palm of my hand. The doorman seemed a bit suspicious as I trundled through the revolving door almost out of breath.

But, as I yanked out my wallet to show him my identification, he handed me the grey envelope that held my beloved Blackberry. I think I actually caressed it as I gently pulled it from the envelope and removed the bubble wrap. Yeah, she actually used bubble wrap! This is a woman of substance!

Before leaving I asked the doorman, that if I sent flowers or a gift basket to the building with her first name on the card, would she get it. He assured me it would.

Later that day I looked around the web for some token of thanks to send to Rebecca the Blackberry Angel, but I couldn’t make up my mind. Flowers seemed corny. A fruit or cheese basket seemed too, I don’t know. I went to Harry & David’s to send a Moose Munch basket, but again it didn’t hit the mark. So I did what I always do in times like this, I called my daughter Kristine for advice. She suggested I make a donation to New York Cares in our heroine’s name. Kristine and I are recent members. We believe in the cause, and they do great work.

I emailed Rebecca the Blackberry Angel to say thanks again, and to tell her in lieu of flowers or some such thing that I was making a donation in her name. 

The next morning she emailed back saying it was a nice thought but not to make the donation in her name, but in the name of:

“all of us who will loose a cell phone or need a hand, and appreciate the kindness of strangers.”

She went on to say that she has been the beneficiary of annonymous efforts, and if I wanted to give something towards the “Big Karma bank in the sky,” that I should go for it.

And I did.

Thank you again Rebecca. Words can not describe my appreciation. 

Peace,

Vinny

Since retirement, Dad has gotten used to sleeping in, and for me in Negril, sleeping in is about six-thirty in the morning. I’m not sure when he actually rose since clocks are not on my vacation agenda, but by mid-morning we were hungry, and I had Dad all jazzed up for an authentic Jamaican Breakfast.

I always enjoy Selina’s so I figured we’d head down to her place for breakfast. We hit a road in a route taxi, and my Dad was great, he just rolled with the punches all week long, open to everything. We got to talking to our fellow travelers about Jamaican Breakfast, and one of the guys named Lionel told us he had a cousin with a real authentic Rastafarian Breakfast Joint directly on the beach.

“I’m a tour guide!” exclaimed Lionel, but when the other guys in the car laughed when he said it, he knew the jig was up.

Of course the afore-mentioned restaurant seemed too good to be true, but what the hell, these guys had a good positive vibe and I said, “Sounds great! Take us there!” Dad seemed a bit trepidatious.

We passed Travellers and Shields and pulled into a small overgrown drive just before Bar-B-Barn. From where we parked, we couldn’t see the beach, or the road, and Dad was expecting us to be robbed at any minute, but I could hear the surf close by. We followed our new friends up a grass covered path and in seconds Seven Mile Beach appeared before us. I looked over to Dad as he stood wide-eyed at the impossibly beautiful sea of blueness. We were so taken by the scene that we didn’t notice the big Rastaman setting up a table for us.

Lionel, who stood beaming as if he was a bit surprised by his new-found success as a tour guide, decided to talk, and talk, and then talked some more. He was entertaining at first, an amiable bloke to be sure, and he was even up front about having to hustle tourists to make a living.

I don’t know If the big Rastaman was actually his cousin Lionel, but Lionel seemed pretty nervous when he came by to give us fresh squeezed juices, or to update us on the progress of our meals.

The Jamaica Breakfasts arrived and I was impressed! They were bountiful and beautifully plated. The big Rasta-Chef explained everything and my Dad was rapt with attention. “Don’t eat too fast.” He admonished us. “We don’t use salt. We let the natural flavors come though the food. Please enjoy!”

This guy had a great touch, and the food was excellent. The Ackee was tender, and there were few bones in the Saltfish. The yam, the plantain and johnny cakes were as advertized, bland at first but the subtle flavors built as you enjoyed them.

I was so happy with the meal that I grossly over-tipped Lionel, which had the added pleasure of making him go away. I loved the guy, but we really wanted to eat in peace.

I guess I’d made up for the previous night’s hooker debacle. I really felt like the island-savvy son, and Dad really seemed to be enjoying himself.

We checked out the beach a while but there wasn’t much going on, and we were back at The Castle before noon. I walked over to the bodega for beer, water, ting and other assorted necessities to stock the fridge for the week, while Dad went to work on his Vince Flynn novel.

On my way back from the bodega I ran into sweet beautiful Petrona, who offered to move us from Deluxe 2 into Superior 12 which had a TV and A/C. Dad was happy with the move, and with the panoramic ocean view from the porch. You really can’t beat this place, you’re treated like family, the location is paramount, and the prices are so low you can’t understand how they stay in business.

Dad and I relaxed reading, taking short dips in the sea, and drinking Red Stripes. The place wasn’t crowded, but we did meet Angela from Nova Scotia that day. Orchid as she is known on the Negril.com Message Board. Dad had been to Nova Scotia with my Mom a few years back, and they seemed to hit it off pretty well. Angela was living large in the penthouse and was on an extendned and extending vacation, she may be still there.

Later in the afternoon Susan, the owner of The Castle, returned from her vacation. So where does someone who lives in Negril go for vacation? Brooklyn of course! Susan graciously invited Dad and I out for a lobster dinner at Erica’s Cafe.

Susan drove us in her little red car, Petrona joined us, and there was also a Canadian couple, who were long time Negril residents, and friends of Susan’s. We had a nice time, the food was excellent, and so was the conversation. We each had half a grilled lobster, and a nice portion of curried lobster with all the accoutrements. Dad and I peppered Susan with questions about the building and history of The Castle. There’s definitely a book in that story, maybe even a mini-series.

Being Saturday night we said our good-byes to our hostess and we hopped a taxi over to The Seastar In for some twisting by the pool. The road into Seastar seemed darker than usual on this moonless night, but everything brightened up as we turned into the driveway. The party was in full swing when we arrived, Rob, Lisa and Captain Rob were working the webcast, and I introduced my Dad to all the boardies logged in that night. The place was crowded, there seemed to be so few people in Negril, they must have all been at Seastar.

As we settled in with ice cold Red Stripes, there was some commotion in the pool area, some girl had gotten naked and jumped in. Henceforth she will be referred to as Nakid Girl, though her nakedness was relatively short lived. She spent most of her night stumbledancing to the reggae stylings of Rasta Ralphie, other than the few minutes we chatted about things metaphysical. She was very wasted but she was no dummy, and she seemed a bit over her head in whatever she was involved with, but for that night she had a grand time.

Dad was very impressed with Rasta Ralphie. The two of them were in the same basic age range, but old Ralphie had the physique of a much younger man. I’m sure is had something to do with his hyperactive stage persona. I tell you that man can rev up a crowd.

I had a nice time visiting with Rob, Crob and Lisa. Lisa was only a few days away from heading back to the frozen tundra of Winepeg Canada after six plus months in sunny Negril. She must not have stayed too long because it seems like she was back in a few weeks, but I’m sure for Rob it was an interminable absence.

We’d had a long day and I doubt we lasted much later than ten or eleven o’clock. Chris, the Seastar’s owner, had his driver take us back to The Castle with the added fun of sharing the ride with Nakid Girl. 

More to come…

Vinny

So where was I? We left off with Dad and I making it to The Blue Cave Castle after a bit of drama at the airport. Can you believe them treating me like a tourist? Well ok, but anyway it was pretty un-cool.

Arriving on a Thursday was a good idea as far as airfare was concerned, but Dad had to miss the Rutgers v. FSU game. He’s a Rutgers season ticket holder. Therefore after settling in we figured maybe we could find a bar with ESPN for a little dinner, football scores and maybe some highlights.

We asked Santa, the night security man at The Castle, if he knew any bars showing American Football, or at least one with cable. He mentioned a few, but he didn’t seem to sure of himself, so we decided to grab a taxi and see what we could find.

Stepping into the steamy street of the mid-October evening, it was quiet, the little beer shack across the street had morphed into something else since my last trip, and Elvis the carver was gone for the night. In a few minutes we were in a cab with a driver who swore he remembered me from last year, and we lit out for Mary’s Bay. I’d watched football there before, but it looked closed as we pulled up. Even Easy Rock was closed. October is about as low as low season gets in Negril.

I asked the driver if he knew of any places that might show American Football, but he was kind of shaky too. I didn’t want to go all the way to the beach so he turned around and we headed up to LTU or Parrot Bay, but as we pulled past the Castle I remembered Xtabi, “They have TV’s,” I thought.

Before we committed, I jumped out of the cab and asked the girl at the front desk if they had a TV with cable in the bar, and she enthusiastically said, “Yes, we do!” her pretty Jamaican accent filled the room. I all but skipped out the door, paid the driver and said, “Get out Dad, this is the place!”

“They’re playing the game?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but they have a TV with cable.” I was already crossing the street, and in minutes we were sitting at the bar pretty much all by ourselves.

“Hey Buddy, what are the chances you can turn on that TV so we can catch a little ESPN?” I asked as he opened our beers with his lighter.

“Not so good mi bredda, the TV is broke.” he said with a sad smile. I looked at my Dad and he just smiled, “It just ain’t in the cards tonight.”

I just laughed, the pretty girl at the front desk didn’t lie, there was definitely a TV and I’m sure it had cable, but next time I’m going to ask, “Do you have a working TV with cable?” Once bitten…

Dad must have been hungry because he dug right into the mediocre off-season Jerk Chicken, and he really enjoyed his first-ever plantains. We took a few Red Stripes for the road and walked back to The Castle since it was just a few doors down.

Once on the street I thought walking had been a bad decision, and I was quite over-protective of my Dad on the dark dangerous strip of road. I get pissed off at Samsara every time I walk that part of the road, with that wall so close to the road there’s no room to walk, and I’ll never stay at Samsara because of it.

As the shoulder widened we relaxed and my Dad got the chance to say “No Thanks” to his first ganja proposition. I was proud of the old guy, he was smooth and finite, and the Jamaican entrepreneur didn’t ask again.

But the next part was entirely my fault. Only thirty yards from the safety of The Castle gates, a taxi passed slowly, and as I waved off the driver I looked for just a split second too long at the scantily-clad Jamaican hotness in the passenger seat. I knew what was coming next, and I knew I couldn’t stop it.

“Hey boys, you need some company?” there were two of them, and I did something really stupid, and no I wasn’t drunk, I have no excuse, but I engaged them in conversation. I don’t know what I was thinking; I guess I was trying to be cool in front of my Dad, “Watch your island-savvy son handle this.”

They got out of the car, I told them to get back in, and of course they didn’t listen. Somehow certain people in Jamaica just know you’ve recently arrived, and you’re ripe for the picking.

My Dad just kept walking, and at first it was funny. I was between him and the two girls, and I was talking back and forth telling them we weren’t interested. They were nothing if not persistant. Then the tall one passed me and started talking directly to my Dad. He didn’t answer, but I got a little angry. The driver must have noticed my attitude change and called the girls back to the car. Their graphic promises of carnal delights didn’t stop till they drove away.

“Does that happen every night?” My Dad asked half amused and half astonished.

“Maybe it’s the time of year, I’ve never seen them so aggressive.” We were joking as Santa opened the gate for us. I must have looked shocked or something because Santo asked if I was okay.

We were exhausted after a long day and were sleeping soon after entering our room. 

More to come…

Vinny

A friend gave me a copy of The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts. In this book I saw the question phrased in a way I understood it, and the open ended answer seemed to point directly at me.

Born and breed Irish Catholic the idea of a non-theistic religion took a long time to sink in. Over the next few years I read voraciously on the subject. I read the popular books; The Celestine Prophecy, The Alchemist, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior, and even The Dancing Wu-Li Masters. I also read dozens no one’s ever heard of. I went to workshops on “Realizing Your Chakra Energy,” participated in Drum Circles, and other like-minded New Age-y things.

I did a lot of meditation, but I wasn’t very consistent. It was this style one week, this tape the next and so on. No matter how much I sat I didn’t realize any realizations, skies opening or enlightening, but there was something there, something I couldn’t quite grasp, something that kept me coming back.

So, when I moved to Brooklyn last July I made it a point to go to the Zen Center Of New York City to see what they had going on. I wrote about my experience that first Sunday on this site, but not much since. There’s a Buddhist saying: He who knows does not speak, He who speaks does not know. So read further at your own risk.

People always ask, “What do you do there?” Well, we mostly sit, there’s some chanting, and some great teaching.

“You just sit?” Well not exactly, we do Zazen, a form of sitting meditation which is hard to explain, you just have to do it.

“Do you chant prayers to Buddha?” No, chanting isn’t praying, and Buddha isn’t a god.

For something fairly simple it’s very hard to explain. Zen Buddhism is experiential in nature, and it takes time for the clouds in your mind to part for it all to start making sense, and even then it only comes in glimpses. There is something about the practice of sitting quietly and doing nothing, to sit with your own mind, which opens a whole realm of possibilities. 

All the books I’d read pale in comparison to an actual thirty-five minute session of sitting. As it was told to me that first Sunday in beginning instruction after describing the mechanics of sitting Zazen; a very easy to say, but to truly enter into it is the most challenging thing you will ever do.

The challenge is the question, “What is this life?” and for twenty-five hundred years people have been coming to The Buddha for a path to the answer. An answer that can’t be given to you, one you must figure out for yourself.

More to come…

Vinny

My roommate Chris was the Site Captain meaning he set-up and helped run the event. The hard work was done, so all I had to do was show up. Once I committed I got pretty excited, so I wrangled up some family, friends, and co-workers to help out. The Saturday before the event I had six definites with a few possibles waiting in the wings, but of course when the day came only two we able to make it. I didn’t care as they were the two I really wanted to spend the day with anyway.

And wow, what a special day it was! I had been so focused on the outcome that I hadn’t put a moments thought into the process, the actual doing of the thing. I expected a freshly painted fence, and a lunchroom with brightly painted murals. I didn’t plan on the camaraderie and sense of purpose seventy or so eager volunteers would engender. Very un-Zen of me I know.

The day was all about the process, the experience. The care and goodwill this disparate group of strangers put into beautifying this little elementary school in Brooklyn warmed the cockles of my heart. It was so much of a “Coming Together” my inner cynic was forced to do a double-take. Could it be there really are this many good people in the world? And this was only one of a hundred plus events that day; seventy-five hundred people fanned out across the city planting trees, fixing up schools, cleaning playgrounds, and generally doing good.

Did I mention it was really fun too? I’m no painter, but I painted for hours. Kristine and I did a lot of sky work, while Diana painted a super-hero elephant. The sky is important in mural painting, there’s a lot of it, and the chances of screwing up are slight. Kristine and I also did about an hour of fence scraping, less glamorous than mural painting, but it had to be done. I was impressed how the crayola blue fence brightened up the whole school.

I’m proud to have been a part of Hands-on New York Day. So proud in fact that this Thursday evening I’m going to Borough Hall in Brooklyn for orientation on becoming a full-fledged member on NYCares, the umbrella organization which Hands-On New York Day is a part. My little crew is excited to do more volunteering, and as members there is literally something going on every day, so finding a monthly project to work on shouldn’t be tough.

I’d like to thank everyone who made this day possible; Christian for all his hard work, Kristine and Diana for making the day even more special, and every other person who worked at Public School 94 on April 12, 2008.

Vinny

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

There, I said it, and I’m holding to it!

I’ve wanted to write this book for a long time, but there’s a lot more to the process than simply writing. The abstract idea, “I think I’ll write a book about my time in the bikini business,” sounds like a good one. It’s just chock full of whacky, fun and sexy potential, perfect for the next romantic comedy, but an idea is not a story. I’d thought through a million different angles, went through old journals to find story snippets, but in well over a year, the idea stayed just that; an idea.

Then, out of nowhere, it came to me. The structure of the thing popped into my head. Eight-thirty at night while riding the 63 bus through Park Slope, there it was. I grabbed my notebook and let it all stream onto the page. One thing led to another, and by the next morning I found myself looking at characters, chapter titles, a beginning, middle, and an end. There was even a working title: The Devil Wears Spandex.

Yeah, I thought it was a cute title too, though it’s all but obsolete. The story is taking on a life of its own, shattering the boundaries of the afore-mentioned abstract idea. Two people thrown together by an admittedly outlandish attempt at fame and fortune has become the vehicle to tell the real story—My story. 

Except now I can edit as I go.

To keep myself on track, these are my self imposed deadlines:

• Have a properly formatted book proposal done and out to no less than 12 publishing houses.

• First draft completed.

• Revisions completed. Properly formatted manuscript out to no less than 12 publishing houses. (Unless of course one of the proposals actually hit home)

• Submit draft to self-publishing company. (50 Copies) 

• Give those “Limited Editions” to friends and family for Christmas. 

Wish me luck!

Vinny

         

“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. 

This is how Eli Manning looked at the end of that legendary drive:

Vinny

At first weighing the scale showed a more agreeable, albeit false, 186, but I knew it was just toying with me. The fluffy artichoke green toilet mat somehow got stuck in the lower left corner of my mom’s digital scale. It’s the only scale I ever use. First, it’s a good scale. My sister Anne bought it for Christmas or a birthday some years ago. I don’t know how you buy your mom a scale as a present, but I guess it’s a mother/daughter thing because mom loves it, though somehow I doubt a son could have gotten away with such a gift. Oh yeah, and second, I tend to trust things digital.

I had estimated 209-212. I usually err on the high side so as to stave off disappointment. Those of us in the girthy set play these games with ourselves. So after a quick shower and a pee (every ounce counts) I tried again. I tapped the scale with my foot to awaken it, waited for the display to read 0.00, and then stepped on.

“Blink-Blink 205.0″ Well, several pounds less than my estimate, but I was exactly 205 at Christmas, and I was hoping to break the stalemate.

It was a bit before 5AM, so I called a cab and got dressed. Oh, did I mention I was naked for the first few paragraphs? By 5:12AM I was at the Edison Train Station, and by 5:16AM I was headed south to Philly. This was my second trip to Philly in the past five days, and since I was sans car I had more trains, trolleys and busses in my future. But for this trip I’d planned a Phil-a-riffic treat for myself! I de-trained at Suburban Station in Center City Philadelphia at exactly 7:09AM, and since time was a factor in my little scheme, I ran up the several flights of marble stairs to 16th & Arch Streets; 205 not withstanding.

Like the Philadelphia Landmark that it is, there stood Tom’s Lunch Truck, my favorite street cart on the planet, standing humbly just where I left it seven months ago. If this was an audio blog, Handel’s Messiah would be playing in the background right now. It took all the strength I had not to run up to the cart giggling like a girl scout.

Tom and his wife were friendly as ever, but to my horror they looked upon me as a total stranger. Was it my Brooklyn-Cool black leather jacket? Or had it just been too many months? Maybe in the food cart business a man only has the synaptic space for a rotating recall of current customers. But then, as soon as I ordered my Scrapple, Egg & Cheese on a Roll with Hot Sauce, the lights of recognition flashed and I was back in Philly on every level.

“Regular coffee light and sweet?” Tom’s wife asked with a grandmotherly smile.

“Where-a-da-hell-a-you-been?” Tom’s Eastern European accent inquired, suspecting that maybe I’d defected to the new halal guy around the corner.

“I moved to Brooklyn.” I parried.

“Brooklyn? They don’-a-have e-scrapple in Brooklyn.” His playful smile returning.

“I came all the way from Brooklyn for this.” I half-lied as his wife handed me my bag of wonderful scrappley goodness.

“Don’t be a stranger…” Tom shouted as I crossed 16th street heading for the EL.

Down in the subway, a strange place to catch an EL, I had just missed the train, so I had a rare several minutes completely alone to enjoy Tom’s gastronomic creation. I’d like to put into words the amazing taste of this, The King of All Breakfast Sandwiches, but mere prose would never do it justice. Poetic chops the likes of Whitman, Ginsberg or Frost, could, maybe, on a good day, possibly describe the wonder of this meal. “I don’t think I will ever see a tree as lovely as Scrapple Egg & Chee… z”

I was still bathed in the post coital-like high from the above mentioned culinary orgasm as I made my way through 69th Street Station in Southwest Philly. I was struck by the familiarity of these people, my Philly bredren. All hearts pumping midnight green Eagles blood, grudgingly supporting the Giants over the hated, cheating Pats. All around me were hundreds of cheesesteak eating, Wawa shopping, blue-collar warriors setting out to do good on a crisp Tuesday morning in January. I felt at home.

Peace,

Vinny

After reading the book, and dubious of Hollywood’s popcorn culture, I expected the movie to be an idealistic, hero-worship story of a man-boy searching for himself amidst a cast of wacky characters and weeping, out-of-touch parents, but bravo Sean Penn, I was wrong. The film was deeply engrossing, and deeply moving. It did smooth over several key points in the book, but I’m sure the book glossed over some key points in the truth. On both fronts we are left with a worthwhile story that actually inspires thought as opposed to just another handful of popcorn.

I found myself relating to the character of Chris McCandless, though I didn’t find him noble, at least no more noble than myriad other young men who’ve searched for truth in their lives. Reading between the lines, I felt his anger, his narcissism, and an immaturity that, two years out of college, he was still holding on to. His too-late tragic realization of these issues after a series of seemingly simple errors that lead to his death, left me aching with sympathy.

On another level I know this guy. I have a daughter who is about the same age as McCandless when he began his wandering, and I very clearly remember myself at his age. I knew something wasn’t right, and I too ran away. Not to the desert or the frozen north, but into the arms of a beautiful woman, and into a life I was no more ready for than was McCandless. Like his Alaskan Adventure, I thought marriage, family and a mortgage would solve my problems, quiet my demons, in effect be The Answer.

Part of me sees McCandless’ death as a coward’s suicide. So wrapped up inside his own trunk as not to see the forest. Yet another part of me can understand a plan gone awry. After the death of my hastily built fortress, leaky and incongruent, I fought through years of my own wilderness, hurting those who came close, and lashing out in silence at a world thought unfair and cold. When I finally endeavored to look up, the pieces of life were hard to find.

Have I come out the other side? I don’t know. What I do know is that while I feel for Chris McCandless and for those out there like him, you can’t just go up on a mountain and die there, figuratively or otherwise. Life isn’t that easy! You must come down from the mountain, and bring what you’ve found there into the world.

Peace,

Vinny 

 

 

Info:

West End Road - Garden Side across from Rockhouse.

Food:

Erica’s Lobster dishes are the mainstay of this little gem in the Negril cliffs. Grilled Lobster all over Negril is so often tough and/or lacking in flavor, few people really know what to do with it. At Erica’s the lobster is tender, buttery and the lobstery deliciosity just explodes in your mouth.

We had a wonderful soup to start things off, then out came the lobster. We were a party of four the first night, and eight the second night. Yes, I broke my “one meal per trip” rule, it was that good! The Grilled Lobster, must have been cooked slow on low heat, it was tender and shot through with buttery flavor. We also shared Erica’s Curried Lobster, though my preference is a spicy curry, the almost Thai-Style coconut milk infused curry was really beautiful.

Drinks:

I didn’t go for the fancy foo-foo drinks, but the Red Stripes were cold and plentiful, and unlike a lot of places in Negril they kept them coming.

Ambiance:

I must admit to driving and walking by Erica’s many times over the years and passing without a second thought. When we pulled up I thought, “Oh, this place! I always wondered what this place was…” The warmth and home-y-ness of the place is apparent as we took our seats.

Now, both times we were there with Negril royalty, the first night it was Susan and Petrona from The Blue Cave Castle (Susan took Dad and I out to dinner), and the second time it was for Queen Trudy’s birthday dinner, so I’m not sure how this ambiance will stand up when next I go there with other lowly commoners.

Service:

The service was quicker than most in Negril. Friendly, but not all over you, and as I wrote above, the cold Red Stripes kept coming. There was no empty bottle doing the head-waggy-whip-around looking for the server thing so often needed in even the better restaurants in Negril. 

Value:

The value the first night was awesome, Susan treated. The second time, I don’t remember the exact price but that doesn’t really matter I remeber the value. I remember being full, happy and buzzed, driving up to Seastar thinking I must have underpaid my share of the bill, since I was less than 2000J lighter and we all chipped in for the Queen of Negril’s dinner. 

Notes:

Erica’s is one of those places in Negril that you can take newbie friends who will be so impressed with the experience that they think you are “like totally” plugged in to the town. I plan to use this to my advantage on future trips. I wish there was a website to promote, I can only say to try it. You won’t be dissappointed.

 

Bon Appetite Mon,

Vinny

Uncharacteristically I’m going to begin with a rant:

Sangster International Airport just keeps getting nicer and bigger, and dare I say, more Americanified every trip. Normally I’d have my driver friend Clive pick us up at the Airport, but on this trip his phone just rang and rang, so I figured we’d save a few bucks and hop the J.U.T.A. to Negril.

I’ve done this quite a few times in the past. It’s the “I don’t want to haggle as soon as I get off the plane” solution. You may have to wait up to an hour, but it’s easy and there’s time to grab a beer while waiting. This time we walked up to the new-fangled J.U.T.A. booth and the J.U.T.A. uniformed guy starts telling us the $20US service wasn’t available since there were only two of us, and the minimum ride to Negril would be $80US.

He was full of crap and I told him so. Sure it was about 6PM by this time, and it seemed we were the only ones from our plane looking to utilize this mode of transportation, but I never remember getting a discount when they shoe-horned a dozen of us in the van for a mid-day trip.

There was a woman behind the counter giving me the “don’t listen to him” look, but when I asked for help she wouldn’t intercede. I was trying to keep my cool. This was my Dad’s first interaction with Jamaicans, and I didn’t want to start this vacation on a sour note. I was about to go outside and cut a deal with any of the thirty drivers right outside the door, but I was pissed that he was working us over and decided to push the point. I even wrote down his name if only to excoriate him in this forum, but I lost the damn slip of paper. 

Finally after about fifteen minutes of him pretending to ask this and see to that he came over and said he found a driver, but for the base rate he would only take us as far as the Negril roundabout it would be another $20US to get us to the Blue Cave Castle, and I quote, “Way up in the cliffs.” I told him the Blue Cave Castle was only 1.2 miles from the roundabout, hoping he didn’t know the actual mileage either, and that if he wanted a bribe just to ask for one, but to just cut the crap!

I asked him if he knows Clive from Negril, not my friend Clive, but the other Clive who runs the J.U.T.A. station out in Negril. I told him I was going to call him to straighten things out. “Can I borrow a celli?” I asked. I guess that made an impact because he started dragging our bags towards the parking lot.

Truth be told, I’ve only met Clive once when my friend, the other Clive, had to stop by the J.U.T.A. office on one of our many trips to or from Negril. I felt like an ass for pulling the boss card, but I wasn’t going to let this guy beat me. I always say, “If he was a good hustler, he’d be working the beach not the airport.”

We headed out of the airport in a nice comfortable van, with a very cool driver who immediately began to tell us what a jerk the guy we were dealing with was, but he was working the tip by then. I told him the deal and that I wasn’t a cheap bastard, I just felt we were being taken advantage of.

The night time drive to Negril took well over two hours due to traffic and road damage from thirteen straight days of rain. When we got to The Blue Cave Castle I tipped the driver well. I ended up paying the same amount as originally quoted but on my terms. One: he was a good driver and the trip took longer than expected. Second: there wasn’t the usual “just got into town” ganja purchase to compensate for since that usually puts a few bucks in the driver’s pocket.

All in all we took it in stride, Dad was no worse for wear, and at the end of the process we were at The Blue Cave Castle looking out at a gentle sea and up to a starlit Jamaican sky.

Peace

Vinny

I’ve posted a bunch of pics in my Gallery, click the link above.

I have tons written so I’ll be posting beginning tonight.

Vinny

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. 

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

Stay tuned to this space. I will be posting as often as I can, I will also post links to webcasts, and any other happenings that happen along.

Peace,

Vinny

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. 

 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

Well, this time I’m not stressed at all. Here is it 28 days, 14 hours and 45 minutes from wheels up and I’m completly confident in my packing and organization. I’d like to think I’m maturing, or that I’m learning from my past. But no, I just never unpacked from my last trip!

Don’t get me wrong, I unloaded the stinky clothes, and aired out my big rolling duffel bag, but afterwards I just dumped most of the stuff back in. Then when I moved to Brooklyn I threw more crap in it, and rolled it away in a rented storage space several blocks away. I’ll go get it this weekend and double check it against my list.

Yes! The List! I know how you all look forward to my Packing List, so without further ado: Here it is!

The Packing List - October 2007 Trip with Dad 

Clothes (This is a two week trip, but I’m planning to get some wash done)

• 2 pairs - Swim Trunks (I plan to do more swimming this trip)  
• 3 pairs – Cargo Shorts (Somehow all my shorts have leg pockets these days)
• 3 pairs – Gym Shorts
• 12 Assorted T-Shirts (I just blow through shirts and I usually bring a few silly ones like my Spongebob shirt that seem cool when I’m packing, but would make me look like a moron if I actually wore them in public)
• 6 Hawaiian Shirts (I deleted the golf shirts this trip, I think I look cool in Hawaiian Casual) 
• 1 pair – Jeans
• 1 pair – Socks (This was 5 last time, what was I thinking?)
• 12 pairs – Underwear
• 1 pair - Silk Boxers (Just in case)
• Sandals
• Flip Flops
• Running Shoes (As if?)
• Fleece Jacket (For to and from)
• 2 Ball Caps (Eagles and Phillies, though with the way the Birds are playing I may opt for an “I ♥ NY” hat instead!)
• A Collapsible Duffel Bag (The last few trips I used this for dirty clothes and stuffed my suitcase with souvenirs)

Health & First-Aid

• First-Aid Kit (Simple, Band Aids, alcohol wipes, tweezers)
• Benadryl Itch Stick (For creepy crawly bites - I recommend it highly)
• Aloe Vera Lotion (Gringo burns)
• Sun Block 30SPF Spray-On (Spray-On RULES!! Worth the extra $)
• Sun Block Stick 30SPF (For my nose)
• Sun Block for Sensitive Skin 45 SPF (For my face, no comments please)
• Chapstick w/ UV protection
• Bug Repellant w/ at least 30% Deet (Can’t use wimpy stuff in Jamaica)
• Pepto Bismol Individual Packs of Caplets (Just in case of Bustamante’s Revenge)
• Excedrin Extra Strength Individual packets also (Nothing better for a Negril hangover)
• Vitamins
• Hand Sanitizer (Sounds a little prissy, huh)
• Wet-Ones (Put them in the freezer and use them to wipe your face. Woo Hoo! An old restaurant manager’s trick)
• Condoms (I usually think up a funny comment here, maybe that was a jinx…)

Toiletries

• Toothbrush
• Toothpaste
• Mouth Wash (I usually list floss, but I’m not living that lie anymore! Who flosses on vacation?)
• Shampoo
• Gel
• Disposable Razors (I always bring 4, I know not why)
• Shaving Cream
• Moisturizer (Yeah, moisturizer!)
• Hair Brush
• Deodorant
• Cologne (I’m a Polo man)
• Towels – Washcloth

Other Stuff

• Digital Camera
• Camcorder
• AAA Batteries – Energizer Max - 8 Pack
• Laptop Computer (The Castle has WIFI)
• DVD’s 
• Disposable Flashlight (Rarely needed, but needed when needed)
• Disposable Rain Ponchos (I’d delete this line, but I still have the same two ponchos I bought 5 years ago)
• Disposable Lighters
• Leatherman
• Travel Clock
• Cell Phone
• Sunglasses
• Breath Freshening Gum (Jerk Chicken is great, but …)
• Candy for the Kids – Non-melting, individually packaged, and yummy! (I usually come home with most of it, but I always bring some)

Mind and Body

• My Jamaica Journal – It’s a leather bound journal Kristine got me a few years ago that I only use in Jamaica.
• My Non-Jamaica Everyday Journal
• A Good Journal Writing Pen (High quality, low friction. A Fast Pen)
• Assorted Incense
• My Travel Buddha
• My Portable Sitting Cushion
• Books:

Gone to New York - Adventures In The City by Ian Frazier 
A Collection of Short Stories about NYC.
I thought it would be fun to read about my new home while in Negril.

The Bourne Supremacy - by Robert Ludlum
Working my way through the series backwards, don’t ask.

Zen Buddhism - Selected Writings of D.T. Suzuki
I like to think big thoughts on vacation.
I’ve been wanting to study more classical Zen writing.

Travel Supplies

• Passport
• Money some 20’s, and $100 in singles for tipping
• ID, ATM Card, Credit Card
• Travel Wallet
• Plane Tickets
• Printed Hotel Reservations
• Pens (Half a dozen pens for immigration and customs forms on the plane. No one ever has a pen, and I like to be the hero)
• Lonely Planet Guide to Jamaica ’06 Edition
• Jamaican Road Map (Don’t ask me why. I’m a map guy!)

That’s it for this trip, as always please feel free to comment.

Peace

Vinny

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

It’s funny how things hit you. I worked from home today, and I spent most of the day listening to Philadelphia talk radio. The day’s big hubbub was the decision by the Philadelphia Eagles to release Jeremiah Trotter. I always liked Trotter, he’s a good guy, he’s great in the locker room, but he was a step slow last season, and it’s time for him to go.

If I took the train home to Philly, half the train would have a kind of hangover because of the Trotter news. Someone would see you reading the headline on his paper and say, “It sucks what they’re doing to Trot.” An affirmative grunt would rise from the throat of everyone within earshot.

Later I’d stop in the Steak & Hoagie Factory, and I’d get into a conversation with that drunken guy who is always in there watching the Phillies. Then he’d probably get all emotional, and I’d regret starting the chat.

But in Brooklyn, no one cares! No one knows who Jeremiah Trotter is, and if they do know, they don’t care. I felt so foreign! 

Intellectually I knew leaving the Philadelphia area after twenty-two years would eventually hit me, but I thought it would be more, I don’t know, cinematic? Like maybe catching Rocky IV on TBS, or seeing a picture of Kris and Me on South Street, but no, I’m standing on the D train heading into downtown Brooklyn pining over the future of the Eagles’ Defense, and it hits me like a ton of bricks.

Now I didn’t weep openly or anything like that, and I’m sure I’ll get over it, but it will be a long time before I can say I’m from Brooklyn.

Good Luck #54,

Peace,

Vinny from Philly

The little bits of news we’re getting isn’t good. Drudge is reporting “HELL STORM: JAMAICA,” thanks Matt, like this storm isn’t senationalized enough. The BBC is using terms like “lashing” and “battering.” The Weather Channel is doing wall to wall coverage, but they’re not showing live pictures.

The Weather Pixie on my sidebar is presiding over thunder and lightning, but she’s reporting little wind. The Jamaica News Gleaner seems more concerned with quarreling polital parties using the storm to run a-muck just a week before the big elections. At least it’s still online, during Ivan they went text-only, and for a while they were down alltogether. The Go-Jamaica Blog is full of stories and photos. 

Rob, Lisa, Captain Rob, RL, Petrona, Susan and the Crew. Clive, Selina and her family, and so many other friends and aquaintances. The list gets bigger every year.

Godspeed till morning, the sky will clear and the sun will shine.

Vinny

This trip is going to be a blast, (aren’t they all in thier own way?), my Dad, Vinny from Jersey, will be coming along for all the fun and frivolity this time. It’s his first time to Jamaica, but he’s been to the Caribbean many times. Over the years I’ve brought back souveniers, so he does have some proper attire, at least one Red Stripe shirt, and a tye-dye.

Plans? Plans? Of course I have plans. I used to plan each trip for hours at a sitting, but recently I realized, “I keep going back over and over, so why not continually plan, but in smaller chunks. Then just plug them is as needed.” 

So on this trip the only real planning will be for my Big Blue Cave Castle Bashment. The Sunday after we arrive we’re having sunset cookout at the Castle. I’m thinking, BBQ, beer, rum, music and maybe a webcast if I can set-it up with Rob @ RealNegril.com. I’m not sure who will be in town, but we should be able to round up a crowd.

By the way, you’re all invited.

We’ll do a few day trips of course. My Dad will love a Black River Safari with Rasta George, and then on to Appleton Estates for the rum tour. It’s corny, but I like it. A detour to The Pelican Bar is possible too. I’ve heard a lot about the place, but I’ve only seen it in pictures. Then there’s snorkeling, bar hopping and possibly a fishing trip with Captain Rob.

My Dad is with me for the first week and then I’m solo for the remainder. There’s nothing like it, two weeks at the Blue Cave Castle overlooking the hopefully placid Caribbean Sea.

I can’t wait, its just on the other side of September…

Vinny

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 downstair