Negril Notes
Thoughts - Words - Images - Music - Loosely based on my travels to Negril Jamaica

At first I thought the situation called for an ode, “Ode to Rebecca”, but our entire relationship consists of two emails and a phone call. An ode might be a bit much.

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

For years I’ve been moving towards eastern philosophy for the answers to my questions. I tried to find my place in conventional western belief systems, but I just couldn’t get past the invisible man in the sky thing. The Force, Universal Consciousness, call it what you will, but that’s what made sense to me. I wanted to cut through the BS, to get to the point. 

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

I’m finally doing it. I’m writing a book.

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

         

205, Damn! The scale in my mother’s upstairs bathroom shouts up at me in bland grey digits.

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

Into the Wild is Jon Krakauer’s exhaustive, insightful, if sometimes bleary-eyed look at the life of Christopher J. McCandless, and his unfortunate death in the Alaskan taiga during the summer of 1992. An admittedly a semi-objective biographer, Krakauer is able to get past his infatuation to give a deep, even beautiful account of this young man’s life and how he affected those around him.

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 

 

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

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

 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

“So, are you heading up to Alfred’s for the beach party?” I asked Georgina, a beautiful Jamaican girl who’s attention to me was motivated by commerce, not by any interest in forty something American men.

“Let’s go to Triple-X, I have friends there.” She offered, suddenly bouncing back into sales mode. She thumbed her cell phone, calling someone as if the decision was already made.

“Sorry Sweetheart. I can’t leave, it would be rude. My friends are over there, and we have plans.” I sat up shaking off my daze, and then standing up in hope of an easy break.

“What? You don’t like me? I thought you were my friend, you can’t party with your friend?” She was speaking faster now, a slight edge emerging on her smiling face.

“Let’s not argue about it Sweetheart. I like you very much, but I’m going to find my friends now. You’ll have more fun with your friends.” I really wasn’t blowing her off. I just didn’t want to get caught up in a situation I couldn’t handle, and the next step was either to shit or get off the pot, as it were.

We went back and forth like this a few times, but she wasn’t very persistent. Could it be possible that she wasn’t all that jazzed about having sex with me? I thought not. Maybe since it was early, only ten-thirty or so, there was still time to work her magic on a less morally upright fellow.

“My ladies are gone, you get me a taxi?” She asked, meaning, “It’s the least you can do you cheap bastard.”

“Sure, OK” I said warily. I wasn’t sure if this was another ploy. We walked in to the bar area of Kuyaba, a waiter gave me a stern just walk through look as he stood in the way to the bar.

Near Kuyaba’s gate I saw a driver who looked familiar. I asked him to take her anywhere she wanted to go.

“Come on Man! You’re not going with the girl? What’s wrong, you don’t like Jamaican girls Man?” The big driver’s voice boomed, and in some way he was letting off the hook.

“Yeah, I like her. She’s beautiful, but she’s looking for her friends, not for an old man like me.” I said trying to match his big voice and bravado.

“Ahh, too much to drink?” He laughed, as I came right up to him.

“I’d hate myself in the morning.” I said quietly as I handed him 1000j.

“Respect,” he said with a serious nod, as we bumped fists. “Get in ‘de car girl.” His booming voice returning.

I said goodbye to Georgina, gave her a few bucks for her time, and off they went.

I walked back to the bar, stopping at the bathroom to wash my face, and to get myself together. A few heads turned as I returned alone, their expressions mixed.

“Barkeep, beer! I need to put these flames out.” I said quoting Tom Cruise. Looking around I saw my friends. They hadn’t gone anywhere, they had just moved to a lounge table with cushy chairs.

“We thought you got a better offer.” They weren’t sure what had happened. “Um… she looked like a nice girl.”

“I’m sure she is, I’ll introduce you when we get to Alfred’s.” I assured them, but our second wind had blown out, and we never made it to the beach party.

Peace

Vinny

After a great meal at Selina’s, we headed over to Kuyaba for dessert. We’d planned to relax, digest a little, and then to ride our second wind up the beach to Alfred’s for the Thursday Night Beach Party.

Does Kuyaba just keep getting nicer, or do I forget every time I visit? You can’t beat the location, a great bar and restaurant just yards from the bay. The ever present salt-kissed breeze whispers through the abundant foliage keeping all conversations private. But it’s the attention to detail, the constant small improvements that I noticed. A decorative stone walkway here, a new lounge section there, a likke splash of design in a newly built stairway, all keep Kuyaba fresh and new every year.

We begged off table seating, who can resist those hanging-hammock-barstool-chair-like thingies Kuyaba is famous for?

I’m glad these chairs haven’t spread all over town. I love the way they get more comfy the more you drink.

Since this was dessert we dared the bartender to surprise us with something unique from his blender. We weren’t heading to Margaritaville that night. These creations were to be glorified milkshakes doused with over-proof rum. I forget what he called them, but they were full of creamy coconut yummy-ness while still packing a punch. After two my sweet tooth was sated, and I switched to Red Stripes. In general my foo-foo drink tolerance is pretty low.

This was Megan and Jason’s last night in town, so I decided to take an evening walk in the surf to give them some time to make googly eyes, and to whisper sweet nothings. The beach was beautiful that night. The faint lights of the beach-side businesses mixed with a three-quarter moon infused the sea with an aquamarine translucence that gave off a soft glow. I’d spent so many nights up in the cliffs these past few years, it felt as if I was discovering it for the first time.

I was lost in the moment, communing with the sea, I didn’t notice a group of five or six Jamaican girls drawing near as I stood ankle deep at the waters edge. I smiled and said hello. I couldn’t help but to notice they were all dressed to kill, though undressed to kill might be more accurate. I think I was staring. I assumed they were headed up to Alfred’s Ocean Place to party.

“You look like you’re having a good time.” A light-skinned girl with the spiky braids said as she came close in the way certain island girls do when flirting unattached older men in flowery shirts.

I didn’t know what she meant by saying that. Was it; ”Hey, you look really drunk, may I take advantage of you?” or; “Wow, you look like and unaffected party animal, and I want to be a part of your world if only for a few fleeting moments.” My problem is, in that moment of boozy bravado I assume she means the latter, and in the morning my empty pockets realize she meant the former. 

“I’m Georgina,” she said with a pearly white smile. The other girls kept walking.

“Hi, Georgina, I’m Vinny.” I played along. I knew my virtue was well intact, and I wasn’t going to be swayed by this twenty year old vixen. The devil on my shoulder smiled wickedly, while the angel on the other knew he was still in control.

We made small talk, the usual meeting a Jamaican thing: Where are you from? Is this your first trip to Jamaica? Where are you staying? Do you like Jamaican girls?

She noticed my beer was empty, and she asked if I’d like another one. I said yes, and she waited while I pulled some cash from my pocket. I gave her 1000j, and told her to get something for herself, big spender that Vinny.

Being past the dinner hour a waiter cleared the surf-side table for two Kuyaba usually sets up to entice folks into a romantic sunset dinner. I took a seat. Georgina returned with a beer and a shot glass with some kind of red stuff in it.

I was surprised when she pounced on my lap and poured the shot into my mouth. Trying to act cool, as if this happens everyday, I reached for my beer, her ample Jamaican ampleness just inches from my face. Taking a swig I tried to regain the upper hand.

The devil on my shoulder was reaching for my wallet, while the angel just looked pissed. She poured what I thought was her shot of rum, mixed with some sickly sweet proof hiding agent, down my throat, and asked again if I wanted to party. 

I feebly tried to make light of the situation, but her coconut oil lotion, the rum and our precarious position were conspiring against me. Luckily physics bailed me out. Her ninety-five pounds bouncing on my lap was just enough to cause the back legs of our folding chair to loose footing in the wet sand, and forced her to hop off as I rolled sideways onto the sand. 

She sat on the opposing chair, and we did another shot. I could feel her reeling me in. My friends were nowhere to be seen, I had a pocket full of money, and Georgina had my full attention. By this time the angel had gone to bed, and devil was bartending.

Stay Tuned…

Vinny

Most people who frequent Negril tend to shun so-called tourist traps like Rick’s Café. Thought of as a haven for All-Inclusive types (people not in-the-know), Rick’s Café is an island of crass commercialism in what we consider our little bay of authentic Jamaican culture.

Even the guidebooks play along. Lonely Planet’s Guide to Jamaica speaks of the “touristy throngs.” The Rough Guide to Jamaica is downright snippy referring to Rick’s Café as: “Negril’s biggest tired cliché,” and “undeservedly popular.” I think it’s just marketing. People who buy a package deal from Sandals don’t need guide books. Self-styled sophisticated travelers like me, do. 

Caribbean Travel & Life Magazine rates Rick’s Café as one of the “Ten Best Bars in the World,” and Patricia Schultz considers Rick’s one of the 1000 Places to See Before You Die in her smash-hit book. This is high praise for a tourist trap.

So who’s right?

Before my first trip to Negril in 1994, I read several guidebooks, and thus I thought Rick’s was a waste of time, which is funny because I stayed at Hedonism II, the most undeservedly-popular, tired-cliché in the Caribbean.

Several years later, by then an experienced Negril traveler, my date and I spent an afternoon at Rick’s Café, but we left before the sunset throng thronged in. I didn’t understand the pro or the con really. It was a nice place, the food wasn’t very good, the beer was nice and cold, and the single diver was fun to watch.

In 2004 I befriended some crazy people who loved to party. Our night at Rick’s Café was a blast. This was the first time I got the full Rick’s effect: sunset, bikinis, divers, and dirty bananas. I loved the place, sure it was a more expensive than other places in town, but it also had better infrastructure.

Several months later came Hurricane Ivan. Ol’ Rick’s got its butt kicked, as did most of the West End of town. Soon thereafter I stayed right next door to Rick’s at Banana Shout, and I got a good look at the devastation. The word on the street was that Rick’s had American insurance and would be rebuilt by a major contractor. The locals were pretty salty about it, since they knew it would be many months before it reopened, and many months till it brought all those tourists back to the far end of the West End.

Now I rarely miss a Rick’s Café run when I visit Negril. Since Ivan it has been rebuilt twice as big and twice as touristy, but I still like it. The house band rocks, there’s a pool, with all the things pools at bars bring, there’s a second floor dining area with a soul stirring two hundred degree sunset view, and even the food has gotten better, if only by a little.

Peace

Vinny

A few weeks before last trip to Negril, I was doing some spring cleaning, getting the Love Shack ready for Christmas. Yeah, I was spring cleaning in November, make your judgments as you must.

Anyway, I came across a package of battery powered Christmas lights in the back of a closet, and a wonderful idea began to form like in “When the Grinch Who Stole Christmas” when the Grinch’s heart grows two sizes too big.

“I’m going to decorate my patio at The Castle with Christmas lights, just like Calico Jack would have done, all things being equal and stuff…” Did I mention I drink when I clean?

Luckily I noticed some discoloration on the package before I stowed the lights in my rolling duffel bag. At first, I thought Rosie “The Cat” peed on the box, somehow punishing me for leaving her with the evil kid down stairs for a week, but, upon closer inspection, the battery pack had corroded, and all the wires and lights were fused together is a sticky tangle of yuck.

“Well, So much for Christmas lights,” I tossed them in the trash, but didn’t take them off my list.

A few days before my departure, I was in Target (pronounced: tar-j-Ä€) picking up the few last things on my packing list, when what to my wondering eyes did appear? A huge bin of bargain basement Christmas lights! I took it as a sign and picked up a twenty foot strand for a dollar and ninety-eight cents.

Finally in my room at The Blue Cave Castle, I dropped my bags and plopped on the big bed. The salty evening breeze billowing the lacey white curtains, throwing gentle blue shadows around my familiar room. I could have called it a night right then, but I had plans. I walked into the bathroom, and was revived under the cool fat-water shower.

“Christmas Lights!” Popped into my mind, and running from the bathroom, I was barely dry before tearing into the small yellow box of colored lights. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any convenient power on the patio, and no way was I going to wait till tomorrow to pick up an extension cord.

So I looked around my place, and I found a socket near the big bay window that faced the Caribbean. Aahh, this was the perfect place to express my Yuletide spirit to passers by.

I ran outside to view my handiwork, and I have to admit the lights looked fantastic. I sat on the Castle wall for a while with a cold Red Stripe luxuriating in my accomplishment. After ten or fifteen minutes I remembered I was expected over at Xtabi to meet up with friends for dinner. We had a date with some five star jerk at 3Dives, so I went inside to put on some good clothes.

“Woooooooo,” someone was shouting from somewhere behind me. I spun around to see a glass bottomed boat about thirty yards out on the sea, silhouetted black on black, I couldn’t make anyone out.

“Merry Christmas!” A woman’s voice shouted. “Love those lights!” 

I walked to the patio wall and waved, “AARRGGHHH! Merry Christmas Me Matey’s!”

“Thank You, Happy Christmas Pirate Mon!” replied a smiling Jamaican voice as they rounded the cliff and faded from sight.

Needless to say the lights were a big hit.

Vinny

Deep in the hoary depths of Negril Jamaica, lives a mysterious and fabled creature. A creature that has defied definite detection, yet the locals know well the curious scent and the slimy trail of this jumping Jamaican juggernaut.

Yes, it’s the Jamaican “Leaping” Slug.

The first whispered accounts of this mythic creature date back to the earliest Spanish explorers like Columbus, and Juan Valdez. After the Spanish came the Romanians, and then the Crusaders, and finally the Brits. They were all so busy raping the land for the Queen and Country that sightings were relegated to either a lack of sex, or of Vitamin C.

The first substantiated sighting came in 1791 when escaped Irish indentured servant Phinneas McBogan became the first white man to see the, and I quote, “Slimy Leaping Bastard.”

McBogan came to Negril fleeing his British oppressors. He befriended a small band of Jamaicans, and he drank their ceremonial mushroom tea. Later that night while wandering along the cliffs he wrote this in his journal:

“I was lying at the base of a fine palm tree. Suddenly the entire jungle began to dance a fecking jig. I had the feeling I was being watched, and then I saw it! From one grand leaf to another I watched this slimy bastard, like a bleedin’ tree frog, leaping with a mighty gusto. Brilliant!”

I came across this amazing account while excavating a humble Irish hovel high in the hills of Donegal, Ireland. You see, McBogan was my Great Great Grandfather’s next door neighbor’s daughter’s schoolmaster’s great great uncle twice removed. I became obsessed.

Many of my colleagues have been searching for more mainstream creatures like The Yeti, Bigfoot and Nessie, but since I was a boy I felt the need to be different. All my friends say I’m quite different, and I relish that clear compliment.

So, after years of careful study, I came to Negril to meet this amazing creature for myself. Limax Negrillius, as it is known to amateur crypto-gastropodologists like me, is not very different from his cousins the Spotted Leopard Slug or the GGGS (Great Grey Garden Slug). The Jamaican “Leaping” Slug is a beautiful grey color and feeds on tiny mites which inhabit banana and pimento leaves. Yes, he is a carnivore!

In my dozen or so trips to Negril, I have seen many beautiful slimy slugs, but the Leaping Slug eludes me. I promise to come back again and again, drink copious amounts of the magical mushroom tea, and I vow not to rest till I find, film and photograph my silent slippery nemesis.

Stay Tuned

Vinny

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