Tricks of the Eye

Normally I am quick to correct people (even if only in my mind) who say “All is not what it seems.”  The reason I am so quick to correct is because usually what they mean by that statement is that “not all is what it seems” (meaning, some things are potentially wrong, and some are potentially right) — as opposed to “all is not what it seems” (meaning, everything is potentially wrong).

In reference to the Museum of Illusions in New York City, however,  the phrasing is a rare instance where it actually means what it is intended to mean.  Here “ALL is not what it seems.”  Which is another way of saying Nothing is what it seems.  Because everything you see at the Museum of Illusions — not just some of it — is a trick.


IMG_3648.JPG It is well worth it to visit just to get pictures to confuse and confound your friends, and to get a good laugh,  even if you don’t learn anything about the optical illusions that can alter your perceived reality.

One of the coolest exhibits is the chair that makes whoever sits in it look tiny in relation to another person who is standing in the foreground. There is also a bench that can make you look (in a photograph) like you’re doing a handstand off the side of it without any help. And many other neat things. It is probably even better if you visit after ingesting some potentially hallucinogenic substance, which I did not, but the two friends I went with had done just that.

Even without, I laughed the whole way through.  And there was no trickery to that.


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Dying fashion

I have a blazer.Burning House.jpg

It is one of few things I own that I’d run into a burning house to rescue.

It is a fashion piece, but for me it is strongly associated with the passings of two people:  one from 5 years ago, and one from 5 days ago.

I have this cherished clothing item only because of my old friend Pam, who died in 2014 and whoPenguin with beretm I’ve written about on this blog.  On a mid-1990s visit to Paris, where Pam had already been living for about 10 years at that point, she “owned” La Ville-Lumière in her own special way — party crashing, museum sneaking-into, and being all-around in-the-know about the things most of us don’t have the energy, let alone brain space, for.

Pam liked fashion, dressing well, eating well, and inhabiting the Parisian joie de vivre.  WParis-woman-lifestylehen you visited Pam, you pretty much tagged along with whatever adventure she had brewing. One particular afternoon, the adventure included going to a Chanel sample sale. Then and now, the thought never entered my mind that even at sample sale prices I’d be able to touch anything with a Chanel label, but again, I was tagging along.

We went.  I was a little surprised, I recall, that the room was nearly empty. There were one or two other women there to shop, plus one or two employees who were tending the sale.  Sifting through the racks, I managed to find the only item that seemed really accessible to me (“accessible” = price + lifestyle appropriateness; I am not and never was in the habit of attending functions that require me to look “expensive,” fortunately!):  It was this blazer, with the boldface “Karl Lagerfeld” emblazoned on the label.

So Pam and I ended up with these matching Karl Lagerfeld blazers. Not haute couture; KL1but literally off the rack, prêt-à-porter.  It is beautiful without looking ostentatious. Its fabric is a thick denim-like cotton, black, with perfectly tailored seams and edges and lines. The inside lining is silk. It has six dark-green glass buttons, each set inside a ring. There is movement to it. The actual button closures are much smaller standard black buttons, and the button holes are covered, tucked inside.

Did I know who Karl Lagerfeld was? I don’t remember, but if I didn’t before, I certainly did after. And while I never bought another Lagerfeld or Chanel piece to date, this one became one of my most prized possessions.

It is emotional stock whose value has increased with time, and with the passing of each of the two people I most closely associate it with.

Though it is just a piece of clothing, it is so NOT just a piece of clothing. And that was one of the valuable lessons I learned from Pam:  That Lagerfeld blazer is so much more.

Without knowing, I knew its value every time I wore it, every time I held it close to my body, or placed a ticket stub or a handwritten note on a scrap of paper inside its deep, wide pockets.

When news of the death of Mr. Lagerfeld hit the presses last week, I realized it never was Collect moments not thingsabout the blazer, the jacket, the fashion.

It is, and always was, about the moment, and about the people who brought that moment to life.

They did then and still do, even now.


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Ghostly Savannah

savannah-georgia-postcardRecently I attended a work conference in a small American city in the south that I’d never visited:  Savannah, Georgia.

Savannah is known for, among many other things, being a picturesque and historic city.  It’s also known for being the setting of a 1994 non-fiction book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil , based on a real life crime that occurred there in 1981, thirteen years earlier.

It didn’t hurt that Savannah also is known for being one of the most haunted cities in America. One evening, I stole away for a tour of the “Ghosts and Gravestones” of Savannah one evening. The night-time trolley tour took us to a haunted mansion owned by Andrew Low and the Perkins & Sons ship chandlery, described as a general store for ship workers.

And while I didn’t make it to the famous Bonaventure Cemetery (famously pictured on the cover of the esteemed book referenced above), I did see the 1750 Colonial Park Cemetery.

Oak trees covered in Spanish Moss surround and weave through the grounds of the cemetery, which has gravestones of many notable historical figures, including soldiers from the Revolutionary War.

Here is a video take on Colonial Park Cemetery.


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Santa sits alone

Black Friday was over. The initial surge of shoppers had subsided and had now moved on to another channel to satisfy the craving to distract and spend. But the flurry of shoppers continued to and fro, up and down escalators, elevators, and stairs. And in the center of the mall, Santa was situated, gearing up for photo ops with little tykes.


Thus begins another Christmas retail season.


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Reading is a form of travel.

I have not traveled much recently, but I have read.  Here is my take on the novel “The Executioner’s Song” by Norman Mailer, a book I have wanted to read for a long time and finally did between August and October.  This piece is also posted on my Goodreads page as a book review, but without the links.


There’s an assumption I took into reading “The Executioner’s Song” that the condemned prefer not to die, at least not at the hands of the state that has condemned them. Gary Gilmore turned that assumption on its head, which is at least in part what makes his story stand apart from other death row inmates in the annals of criminal history. It is in fact what captured the curiosity and interest of the U.S. and the world at the time the events unfolded in 1976 and 1977.

Executioners coverThe Executioner’s Song” is the only Norman Mailer book I’ve read to date, so I cannot compare it to any of his other works, but it is considered one of his greatest. In spite of the book telling a true story that aims for as much veracity as possible, it won a Pulitzer Prize in FICTION the year after it was published. The Executioner’s Song is considered a “non-fiction novel,” which is a little perplexing to me, because I don’t know whether I’m reading a novel like Caleb Carr’s “The Alienist” that weaves in factual historical events and people, or a non-fiction book that essentially narrates true crime events that draw on interviews, news stories, police reports, and other research, like, for instance, Ann Rule’s “The Stranger Beside Me.” In some ways, it reads more like the latter, yet it leaves the reader feeling as if they have experienced a transcendent literary work.

In what might be a good example of “truth is stranger than fiction,” were Gary Gilmore and the other characters in the book not real people, this would be a hell of a work of fiction. The closest simulacrum to “The Executioner’s Song” is likely to be Capote’s “In Cold Blood,” another non-fiction novel published about 13 years before that also garnered much praise for its author’s ability to fit eloquence and style to the basest natures of humanity.

My take on the difference between these two non-fiction novels is that “In Cold Blood” achieves its eloquence from the skill of Capote’s authorship, not necessarily from Dick and Perry, while “The Executioner’s Song” gets a lot of help from what Mailer mined from Gilmore’s raw material. It is said that Gilmore had a high IQ. No one would refute his artistic talent. Gilmore also exhibited a degree of introspection, erudition, and curiosity (evidenced in some of the conversations he had with visitors, like Lawrence Schiller, who eventually went on to turn Gilmore’s story into a TV movie, or like the priest, Father Meersman). Much is made of Gilmore’s last words being “Let’s Do It,” but the story indicates that his actual final words were spoken to the priest in Latin: “Dominus vobiscum.”

To some degree, every crime story is tragic because of the tremendous loss of life — victims and perpetrators. One critical turning point that sticks out for me is when Gilmore was released conditionally to attend art classes because of his talent for drawing. Instead of enrolling and following through on the art program, Gilmore turned toward crime again and ended up back in prison for an additional nine years. (It’s notable that Gilmore’s own younger brother Mikal Gilmore found success in a creative field; he became a music journalist for Rolling Stone magazine and also published several books, including one about his brother.)

The crux of the tragedy — aside from the fact that so many of these stories compel us, the viewing public, to focus more on the psychology of the perpetrator than on the heartbreaking sacrifice of, in this particular case, two innocent victims who were hard at work living clean lives — is the Why.
Why did Gilmore commit these murders, especially when his other crimes to that point were thefts, break-ins, armed robberies?
Why did he insist on holding the state to its “promise” of execution, when so many around him fought for Life (his, but also against capital punishment generally)?
Why did Gilmore posit his mother as a saint, exonerated of any contribution to the direction of his life?
Why did Gilmore cling to a teenage woman-child he was with for merely 8 weeks as his only reason for living?
Why, in spite of his insistence on dying, did he indicate that he would trade execution for the chance to slip out a side door to freedom, never to be found again?

Mailer attempts to answer some of these questions. Gilmore’s obsession with Nicole Baker, his possible remorse over the murders of two innocent men, his wish for death instead of a lifetime in a prison cell. At a couple of points throughout the novel and one particular point later in it, the author indicates that Gilmore may have had irresistibly strong urges toward sexual encounters with underage girls and that he’d rather die than have to wrestle with those. That, combined with his belief that he should pay for his crimes, combined with another belief that his soul after death could merge eventually with his beloved Nicole’s, once she joined him on the other side, all added up to a death wish. Gilmore attempted suicide on a couple of occasions, but he knew that none of his attempts would be as certain as the Firing Squad.

When the execution occurred, more than one character in the novel mused that they wondered what it actually accomplished.

If Gilmore went to his death hoping he could merge souls with Nicole Baker as soon as she would arrive, he would have a long wait in earthly time; Ms. Baker is still living, under a different surname, somewhere out of the public eye, somewhere in the U.S., apparently having put out the fire on the legacy she is most known for.

A note about the style in which Mailer wrote “The Executioner’s Song”: The eloquence of the title stands in stark contrast to the sparse, spare, and masculine sentence structure and overall delivery of the book. Some of the sentences struck me as non sequiturs. Others sounded like they must have been manufactured. The prose got the story across in a way that seemed at times lumbered, at times inspired, and at still other times sacred.

I recommend reading “The Executioner’s Song” to anyone interested in crime, history, personality, and the psychology of (mostly) men who cross into murder. Though I haven’t read Mikal Gilmore’s book “Shot in the Heart” yet, I’d think “The Executioner’s Song” should go hand-in-hand with it in order to get a fuller picture of what it was like to know and even grow up with Gary Gilmore, a self-destructive man who was at once a victim of his own choices, of the juvenile system, and of his devotion to his young “elf” he might have seen as his sole route to redemption.



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Church cemetery

As a kid I watched the Gothic soap opera Dark Shadows daily and, like many, was obsessed with Barnabas Collins, the resident Gentleman Vampire.

IMG_0013In this video, actor Jonathan Frid, known for his role as Barnabas Collins, narrates verse in a piece titled “When I am Dead,” with imagery from the cemetery outside of St. Paul’s church near Wall Street in lower Manhattan.









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Merry Go Round

Few things represent summertime better than amusement park rides, and one of the IMG_9130staples of every amusement park is the carousel — commonly referred to as the “merry-go-round.” One summer eveniIMG_9135ng a couple of months ago, I took a ride on the merry-go-round at Kennywood Park in West Mifflin, Pennsylvania.

This one in particular I have ridden at nearly every age of my life, since childhood.

More history and background on it is here, on the website of the National Carousel Association.  At the time (1926), a price tag of $25,000 for this grand carouselIMG_9149, whose maker was in declining health and living in Philadelphia, was quite a bargain.

Here is a mini-film with themes that represent the circularity of life, of individual lives, of seasons, against the backdrop of the all-consuming gentle motion and beauty of the merry-go-round.


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Listening to a book isn’t reading it.

Remember story time?

I don’t either.  But as a grownup, I’ve come to appreciate the value of being read stories to.

When it comes to the effects on the brain, though, I’d guess that listening to a story being read to you is not the same as reading the book yourself, regardless of format.Audiobook listening

I’m no brain scientist, but my hypothesis has been that the active pursuit of reading text on a page (fiction in particular, because it requires the brain to envision the scenarios it is reading about) probably activates different areas of the brain than the passive experience of listening to an audio book, which, I suspected, is akin to watching television.

Turns out science doesn’t quite back up this hypothesis of armchair scholarship, at least from what I’ve been able to find through online searches on the subject.

Book reading

In fact, here are two articles, written about a year apart, that support the very opposite of my hypothesis, making me quite decidedly wrong.  One article, from August 2016, essentially tackles a similar hypothesis to the one I started with, and the other, a droll New Yorker piece from October 2017, basically confirms that my hypothesis is unsound.

Granted, these articles are, at least in part, opinion pieces.  Plus, in fairness, the question at hand is really about whether it’s somehow cheating to listen to a book rather than to read it, not other minutiae of the neurological effects of reading.

Ultimately, it comes down to what the goal is. In these busy times, it’s hard not to rely on listening devices, apps, and audio books that get you up to speed in time for your next class, book club meeting, or reading goal.

So listen away.

As long as you donmultitasker-cartoon‘t fall asleep at the wheel, it seems as good as the old fashioned method.

Then there is the issue of multitasking




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Face plant

Sometimes, the distance between a pleasant moment and an utter nightmare is just a few feet and a millisecond.  This is what happened to me on a recent Saturday night while out walking my dog.

FacePlantEncouraged by me, the dog broke into a run. Obviously, he has double the number of paws I do, and is about sixty-five percent of my weight (most of it muscle), so it goes without saying that his “horsepower” way outdoes mine.

When he broke into an on-leash run, it took me for a very brief wild ride, also known as face-planting right down on the hard concrete sidewalk.   Pop Art Beaten Business Woman with Bandaged Arm Smiling. Injured

Gives a whole new meaning to “hit the ground running.”

Skin abrasions, bruised eyes, swollen forehead. Check. Fortunately, no breaks, punctures, or apparent permanent damGirl in mirrorage. Doc says “You were very lucky.”

It’s just a matter of time before I recognize the girl in the mirror again.

On a pleasanter note, on the way home from the doctor, I took some video footage that turned into a short music video — so something fun (-ish) came out of the ordeal.



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I’ve always liked college towns.

A recent trip to Boston brought to mind this line in a scene from the movie (often referred to as the “mockumentary”) “This is Spinal Tap,” where Tap keeps having their gigs cancelled in city after city, town after town. When they find out the Boston gig has been cancelled, too, the manager makes a lame effort at consoling the band by saying “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. It’s not a big college town.”

I stayed on the twentieth floor of a hotel near Kendall Square in Cambridge, and here is the view from my room.



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