Historelli's Social Club

VOTE FOR THE STACHE!

2008-07-08T22:42:00.004-04:00

Jason Giambi's mustache needs your vote in order for it to participate in this year's home run derby at Yankee Stadium. Vote now and vote often, unless you are a red sox fan , than just go back to kissing your grandmother on the lips.

The Beautiful Game

2008-06-14T14:42:00.004-04:00

Its Euro2008 time and although my beloved Azzurri are on the brink of elimination, this year's tournament has given us some great matches. Definitely worth a watch.

To get you in the mood, I've posted one of my favorite World Cup commercials from the 1990s, featuring Ronaldo, Figo, Rui Costa and the Great Maldini.

Watch the Long Memory in Action

2008-05-29T15:33:00.001-04:00

I Know You're Gone

2008-05-27T00:53:00.006-04:00

I’m a big fan of Ani DiFranco, the feminist singer, songwriter, & guitar player. As pre-teens, my friends and I used to define the coolness of music by how “heavy” the sound was. That was during the metal days, when loud distortion equaled song quality. Years later, I revisited this old concept of “heaviness.” Listening to DiFranco, I quickly realized her acoustic stylings were exponentially greater than the most massive of Marshall Stacks. Her musical weight stemming from a much more creative place than what I previously measured seismically.

Being cheap but somewhat computer savvy, I was able to create an Ani DiFranco radio play-list via Comcast Rhapsody, which was included free with my internet subscription. Along with Ani songs, the internet radio station churned out music from similar artists. Folk music, feminist tracks, and whatever the application’s algorithm figured thematically similar.

Every once in awhile, a Utah Phillips song would pop up. Songs about labor strikes, cattle ranch wars, long-gone rail lines and antiwar songs. I would think to myself “why this is like gold,” someone singing about the Wobblies, Big Bill Haywood & the Bread & Roses Strike. Topics I became familiar with when I used to write stories for a local paper about the early anarchist movement in Paterson NJ. As I kept listening to him, eventually even purchasing several of his records, I realized that Utah was so much more. Just like Ani, he was a great singer, songwriter, guitar player, and he was heavy, a melodic majestic heaviness that has immensely influenced my thought pattern since first listening to him.

He sang the people’s songs, some nearly a hundred years old. Utah explained that the old labor songs weren’t exactly poetic, because they were working-class songs for working-class folks, that knew little English and had even less schooling. In one of his albums, he stated that the modern protest songs were flowery and difficult to understand. “Middle class music written for middle class consumption, because they got the bread to buy it… A big difference between how many miles must a white dove fly… and ‘Dump the bosses off your back.’ ”

The Labor movement is one of the greatest social destinies this country has ever experienced. Everyone who was not born into money and has experienced decent wages, the 8-hour workday and weekends should thank our forefathers. And not the ones they make HBO mini-series about but rather the raggedy, often illiterate mill workers and dock hands that are lost to the history books.

There is much trepidation about how the regular people will turn out during the eve of total globalization, and unfortunately, we have just lost Utah Phillips who used to help us understand. Luckily, he left us his songbook with some of the answers. I regret that I never got to see Utah Phillips in person, since I was late in hearing his great booming sound, but I take comfort that his voice will continue to resonate in my own personal soundtrack. I also hope that it will play in some of yours.

Do Some Shots Instead

2008-05-22T10:09:00.003-04:00

A couple nights ago, I went out for drinks with friends. The evening started out light and breezy, a few Mojitos, some crude jokes and a toast or two in celebration of times to come. Then it happened, we committed one of the cardinal sins of poor bar behavior, our discussions turned from lighthearted fun to religion and politics.

Shouts of Obama were matched with marching elephants. The topic of equality was chewed upon, spit out, reanalyzed, and then hacked up again into little pieces. Fists were pounded atop tables, silences were cracked with forked tongues and not even the moist sounds of past techno heroics could alleviate the situation. We could have been singing saloon shanties about large-breasted mermaids but instead we were left holding Ron Paul’s toupee…

Afterwards, I turned in my socialist membership card, threw out my Dukakis bumper sticker, and vowed never to discuss religion & politics when spirits are poured.

Working with a Master

2008-05-05T13:02:00.019-04:00

This past weekend, Nik Social and I (with several others) aided in the eventual release of a gargoyle. We were guided by master carver Franco Minervini, who showed us how to work limestone on a model of a humanoid griffin. The actual gargoyle sits atop the National Cathedral in Washington, where Master Minervini worked during the late 1980s.

Stone carving is the reverse of molding because instead of putting material together to create a figure, you must take bits and pieces away to free a form. Besides the difference in technique, working stone is much more profound and permanent compared to clay or even paint. Not only in the sense that the finished piece will most likely outlast the artist by centuries, but also for the reason that the actual activity of shaping stone is primeval and ancient. Even a beginner (with any sense of geology) can understand the connection. Stone is eternal; working it forces you to contemplate millennia. Furthermore, stone is rough and until coaxed properly, unyielding. A novice will swell his hands, scrape his knuckles and breathe in dust before continuing. And yet, the finished product can be as refined and polished as the finest impressionist painting.

I wasn’t sure what I would find before taking this stone carving workshop, I did know that I wanted to better comprehend the craft and how it relates to my own roots. Master Minervini stems from the city of Molfetta, where my parents were also born and were 95% of my known ancestors come from. Minervini’s teacher at the National Cathedral was the late great carver, Vincent Palumbo, a fifth generation master whose family also ran shops in Molfetta. Anyone whose been to Molfetta or even seen a picture of the place would not be surprised by the genesis of stone carvers the city initiates. Comprised of sun-scorched limestone buildings, Molfetta shines with a brightness that beautifully contrasts with the deep blue Adriatic and the surrounding olive groves. Years ago, its inhabitants fished the sea, farmed the land or worked the stone. All of my ancestors survived via these trades, and I believe it is essential to experience these fundamentals in order to be healthy and fulfilled, especially in today’s world of text messaging and reality shows.

A little bit of that old-world essence was at hand this past weekend. Working with master Minervini caused limestone dust to fill the air, which then combined with a distant aroma of cooking. I thought to myself, this smells familiar. Shortly after, Nik turned to me quizzically, and said: “It’s weird, but right now it almost smells like Molfetta.”

Romance in Early Spring

2008-03-28T11:49:00.005-04:00

Polish Girl and I really like the outdoors stuff. So our wedding photographer encouraged us to exhibit that side of our lives during our engagement picture shots. I think they came out pretty good! Thanks again Maggie!

Historelli & Polish Girl at the Celery Farm

Doing the Churches

2008-03-21T14:29:00.009-04:00

Yesterday, members of the Historelli clan decided to revive an old familial tradition of visiting several churches on Holy Thursday. Years ago, my father would pack us into the car and drive us to the spookiest churches in North Jersey. Of course, the rule was that you could only visit an odd number of churches. Seven churches was the goal, but if time constraints were a problem, three or five church visits would suffice.

Now, our version of Holy Thursday stems from the old country when local churches would decorate their altars in commemoration of the holiday. Here in the states, not every church does this routine; nevertheless, that fact would not suppress our need to drive around, interrupt some masses and novenas, and light a few candles. A special thanks to cousins Marjorine & Moe, Sister Lucy, and Polish Girl for undertaking this distinctive pilgrimage with me.

According to my odometer, we only drove a combined distance of 17 miles to visit seven churches, plus a couple of drive-by’s that didn’t count because we failed to go inside. Interestingly enough, even though our radius of exploration was not large, we did experience a different form of Catholicism in each church we entered.

In some places, the mood was solemn. At St. Joe’s Church (a suburban church where I’m getting married in August), the atmosphere was quiet, with a couple dozen people sitting in silent prayer. At another St. Joe’s (an ethnically Polish Church in an urban setting), more than 50 parishioners prayed the rosary in unison. Other churches were more social. At a Hungarian Church people were sitting in the pews but also chatting quietly at the entrance of the church, and at a Byzantine Rite Church, worshipers were busily decorating and preparing the cathedral for the upcoming Easter festivities.

For me, St. Michaels Cathedral in Passaic was the most interesting church we visited. Growing up Roman Catholic, the tone and artwork of a Byzantine Rite church initially seemed extraordinary. Sister Lucy explained that at first, the gilded look of this place of worship seemed outlandish, but eventually that sensation normalizes. I felt an intellect of purity in St. Michael’s Church that seems absent in the routines I am familiar with, albeit only by tacit association. Simply put, at the Byzantine Rite Church, there was an older sense of the divine based in a more ancient form of tradition. (Another special thanks to a parishioner who took time out to explain to us the Easter customs and rituals associated with St. Michaels Cathedral)

I am by far not a practicing Catholic. I rarely go to church, but the story of a rebellious group of zealots and their leader has definitely influenced my outlook on the world. Revisiting places that focus on that story was comforting. All five of us were busy yesterday, and all of us checked our cell phones routinely during our biblical adventure. However, for brief snippets of time, we sat in silence pondering the reasons why we have cell phones.

Whoremasters

2008-03-11T13:03:00.014-04:00

I know PR people control the way politicians portray themselves on TV... But where is it written that governors need to wear red ties with white-stripes when proclaiming their shame to the national media?

Or maybe it played out like this:

Spitzer's wife: Hey honey, how are you?

McGreevey's wife: OK, how are things?

SW: Not too good, Eliot got caught banging pricey hookers two at a time

MW: Oh...that's too bad... Do you want to borrow my blue-pants suit and pearl necklace? It really helped me that day when Jim came out of the closet.

SW: That would be great! Thanks honey... See you next week at the country club!

Nobody Puts Cosmo in the Corner...

2008-03-06T12:24:00.015-05:00

There was this cigar bar lounge called “Retailers,” where I spent entirely way too much time in during my early to mid-twenties. My crew knew all the names of the more sizzling waitresses and they reciprocated our suave by giving us lots of free drinks and more importantly allowing us to stay later than the supposed 4 am closing hour. Several evenings ended with navigations through morning rush hour after episodes of drinking through snifters and swivels.

One particular night, my floral friend Cosmo pulled me away from the blond waitress I was working on and asked me if this “guy” he was talking to… "was really him.” Curious, I walked over to the bar, pressed my face into his visage, and came to the conclusion that I was indeed staring at dancer extraordinaire: Patrick Swayze. I turned to Cosmo and replied. “Yeah, that’s him.” Cosmo responded by purchasing shots of the most expensive of tequilas.

Now, Johnny Castle was already half-zooted. Apparently, an altercation with his wife had caused him to go on a bender and by the time he got to us, he had already assembled an entourage of young girls, Asian men and one very insecure Italian restaurateur who acted like he was the actor’s keeper.

Cosmo continuously poured drinks for his new celebrity friend, even forcing Swayze to call his mother up in Jersey and tell her that her son was really a good guy. Since it was on the wrong side of 4 am, I don’t think mama Cosmo appreciated the gesture. The rest of the night is sort of blurry to me. As I sat in a corner table with my lady friend, Cosmo assaulted the Italian guy, imploring him to “go home.” Then, he took some curtains down and wore them as a cape. Mr. Chiapas, who was still wet behind the ears at the time, over-appreciated Mr. Swayze with several bear hugs and even put his scarf around the actor’s neck and pulled it back and forth, kinda like a burlesque dancer would do….

Now, I do not encourage swooning over celebrities, especially ones that were part of the epic drama “Roadhouse.” However, if you ever have the chance to sit back and relax while your friends chase down and manhandle a famous actor, I strongly suggest you appreciate the situation. Unfortunately, Mr. Swayze may not be long for this world, so I would like to thank him now for a very funny night.

Yellow Eyes

2008-02-11T16:01:00.001-05:00

I love birds. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe because when I was growing up the faraway places I saw on National Geographic were too out of reach, so I settled for more suburban game. When you’re a kid interested in lions, tigers and monkey-eating eagles, it’s not easy to do field research. Luckily, I grew up with a big back yard, with lots bugs and birds. Not the same as the ones shown on TV, but good enough. I spent a lot of time out there learning the names of those bugs & birds and even began to understand what eats what and all the other laws of nature afforded to a kid during summertime.

The bird thing has never gone away. Just like baked ziti, pin-striped uniforms and green-eyed girls, I’ve never lost my affinity for flying creatures. Whenever I need to reclaim clarity, I take a brief birding tour and put things back into perspective. It doesn’t hurt that most birds are out of human range. When babbling brooks and warbling warblers replace cell phones and honking horns, it’s easier to reach a Zen like state.

Bird watching is somewhat about lists. Birders will go out of their way to seek out rare species or seasonal birds that only appear once a year during migration. I too am guilty of this practice. Last week, a Eurasian subspecies of teal was spotted in the Meadowlands and I wandered toward the sighting with the hopes of checking it off on my life list. The Eurasian Teal differs only slightly from our own Green-winged teal, but since it is a variation of the “regular” native teal, crazed birders need to go see it and check it off their lists.

However, I know that the list thing is superficial and it was another bird that helped me realize this. After checking the Eurasian teal off my list,” (btw, a teal is a type of duck) I turned up the path and flushed a pair of decent sized long-eared owls.

Now, there are a few things you should experience before the worms eat you. One of those things is to stand face to face with a wild owl. After withstanding the bright yellow-eyed glare of this creature, I fully understand why owls are patrons of Halloween and also the symbol for wisdom. If you move, an owl will follow you with its gaze and if you blink, it is so quiet you won’t even know it flew away. I literally froze in my tracks. Needless to say, the owl won the stare down and I went home to ponder my thoughts, not really worried about much.

I'm a Pope!

2008-02-09T01:32:00.000-05:00

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

Do the test and then put the results in the comments section...

Bobby D. Backs Obama!

2008-02-04T19:31:00.000-05:00

Imperfect!

2008-02-04T09:20:00.001-05:00

Somewhere in Boston, eight-year-old Seamus O’Malley is crying into his Guinness. Two-hundred miles south, little Vito Calzipazzo is enjoying a nice slice of victory pizza …with extra mozzarella. The patriots, like many paper tigers, have fallen to their own hubris. Their fans, jaundiced and shallow have already replaced their Brady jerseys with (pink) Sox caps and Big Papi underoos. Meanwhile, Giselle is now servicing Lawrence Tynes in a two-star motel off of route 3.

Tools of the Trade

2008-01-28T10:49:00.000-05:00

Google has this nice way of coordinating their logo with relevant holidays and festivities, thus informing the unaware web-traveler how to better celebrate less popular occasions such as Earth Day, the anniversary of Sputnik and Christmas. Today’s day of note is the 50th anniversary of the Lego Brick!

I grew up on Lego sets, so I will celebrate their anniversary by wearing a pair of block-shoes I especially made for the occasion. Although uncomfortable and perhaps dangerous to drive in, my Lego loafers will clearly declare my love for this noble toy of my childhood. I remember hours spent constructing airports and police stations with my cousin MJS, only to have to pack up the moment we were done because we spent too much time building the structures without realizing it was time to go home. Of course, cousin Margarine could have facilitated the construction, but she was a girl and therefore not allowed to play with us. In our defense, we did allow her to be the manager of the junkyard, which controlled all the extra parts we didn’t need. I’m not sure how she felt about that…

More recently, Santa Claus (aka Historelli) bought my nephew Tay-O a collection of “Mars Mission” Legos, which guarantees at least one astronaut and one alien per box. Some have questioned whether Historelli actually bought these toys for himself rather than for his nephew. Perhaps, but then who were the Playmobils for?

Now I’m all grown up and Polish girl and I are at the cusp of purchasing our own home together. A slight fever of nervousness has set in since I am not the handiest of the handed when it comes to home-improvement. Although I’m far from being moronic with tools, every third project I’ve ever attempted usually results in a panicked phone call to the B-in-L, who comes to the rescue with his magic skills of wizardry.

I believe we could avoid the source of most tool trepidation, if those fat-cats in Washington got off their plush and initiated an initiative that would subsidize the use of Legos as the primary building blocks for new home construction. Legos are relatively easy to handle, water-proof and even come in an array of lovely basic colors. They have red and white and also yellow. Not so much with the green though, unless you buy a set that necessitates a large grass field which then provides those giant flat green Lego pieces that are supposed to resemble lawns.

None of the above...

2008-01-24T11:27:00.000-05:00

This blog is by no means apolitical, but then again, Historelli has never openly endorsed any specific candidate during any particular election. Of course there was the time I sanctioned the candidacy of Zglarkon during the Nebularion Caucuses of Flipzgorp-7. But who didn’t back Zglarkon that year! That being said, I’m still curious to see how my very loyal (and very sexy) readers feel about the upcoming election. So please vote in the poll(s) presented on the right hand side of this blog.
your friend and lover,
Historelli

Dont' Send in the Clowns.

2008-01-17T11:46:00.001-05:00

According to a recent study by the University of Sheffield, children generally dislike clowns. The report, published by Nursing Standard Magazine, found that the demonic images of clowns may not be the best décor when designing a children’s hospital. Since kids are afraid of clowns, an insane image of Bozo may hinder the healing process rather than assist it.

A simple conclusion, but I can’t help but think that maybe this report is more cultural than scientific. Across the pond in the UK (where the study was conducted) more than 250 kids interviewed (ages 4 to 16) believed clowns to be scary. However, here in the States, it seems that our kids and many of our adults, still love clowns.

One of our favorite harlequins is a short golden-haired nymph the kids like to call Lady Toxic. This former nickelodeon whore has a whole routine where she gets all looped up on loopdies and then drives around looking for hacks to photograph her. It’s a hilarious performance, with lots of cursing and crying and every so often this white trash princess tries to get custody of her kids, but she’s always too drunk to show up for court! What a laugher!

Last year, America lost one of our most beloved clowns known as Pigiant This hefty heartbreaker had this great gimmick where she would inflate to an unhealthy figure and then use magic dust drinks to slim back down. She would also love to slur her way through award ceremonies and when the crowd grew restless, she would reveal her two best silicon assets. Then there was the time she overdosed on Chloral Hydrate and everyone fought over her corpse, that bit kept us entertained for weeks!

So in America we still love clowns, albeit in a different form. So maybe its the attitude of the audience that's changed rather than the appearance of the classic clown.

Trips to Win

2008-01-07T15:18:00.000-05:00

I never bought into the whole “Texas’ hold’em” craze that began about 5 years ago and I’ve been habitually unimpressed by the wave of poker enthusiasts that constantly caw about their years of card playing prowess. I liken their ilk to the increasingly growing amounts of Boston Red Sox jerseys that are infiltrating the youth of North Jersey. They act as if they have actually spent the 80 years before 2004 genuflecting in front of Ted William’s decapitated head when in reality they don’t even remember Manny as an Indian.

I’ve spent a youth full of holidays playing poker with my extended kin. Games like Follow the Queen, the Cross, the Elevator, the Split, Good & no Good, No Peek, Three in the Hand & Two on the Floor, Jacks or Better-Trips to Win and several others that sound much cooler when called by their southern-Italian dialect name.

This past holiday season I took part in several of these poker challenges and I realized a few things. The excitement comes partly from the low-stakes gambling (bets are never high, but you could come home with $50 clean on a good night) but also because of the background chatter that occurs during the game. First off, the genre is always blue, like the second (late-night) seating of a comedy act. Sex, scandal and bathroom humor are the essential theme at a night of family poker. I’m guessing this stems from the fact that we are all descended from construction workers and longshoremen and Poker is essentially a game for the rugged individualist.

Our grandfathers, uncles and fathers came from overseas, landed at a jobsite and during off time, probably learned a few American card games. Much of the trepidation they faced each day was not brought home but the games they learned were fun, so it was ok to share them with relatives. Unfortunately for them, leisure time with the whole family was lacking, so Poker was reserved for the holidays.

For me, the evolution doesn’t stop there, a recent rendezvous with my friends the Chappoblancos yielded a fun night of dice games that resulted in an impromptu hip-hop video. Proving that it’s not so much the game itself that creates the fun, but who you are playing it with. I’m sure there is no sex talk or spontaneous singing during the poker games they show on ESPN.

A Stocking Stuffer for your Liberal Friends!

2007-12-21T11:30:00.000-05:00

It’s gonna be like New Years when Mr. Bush finally leave offices. People have been screaming “Worst President Ever” for so long that it has almost become “uncool” to do so. On Inauguration Night Eve, people will be counting 10, 9, 8 7, 6…you know how the rest goes.

This scenario will definitely play out if a democrat wins in 2008, and will probably occur if a more moderate Republican wins. Mr. Bush incompetence is not without precedence; President Harding who served in the early 1920s was cut from the same mold. Upon being elected, Harding appointed a highly influential and criminal cabinet prone to accepting bribes and kickbacks. Harding was also a very poor public speaker and he once admitted that he wished there was a book available that could explain to him: how to be president. He died in office so there was no New Year’s Eve feeling leading to his departure.

So the countdown begins, 395 days to go from this point on. For those of you who would like enumerate the peeling away of days, may I suggest the “Backwards Bush,” keychain as a holiday stocking stuffer. This gadget has been around for a while, but methinks it has gained altitude since we are now approaching the beginning of the end for W’s term in office. Unless of course he declares Martial Law and cancels the election next November.

Where is Persepolis?

2007-12-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

For the past three years, I have included an extra credit map on my final exam that has a trick question on it. The test ends with an unlabeled map of the Mediterranean Sea and the countries that surround it. Below the map is a list of place names that can be located somewhere on the map. For example, the island of Crete (where the great Minoan Civilization once flourished) has a giant number 2 on it. My students are required to write the number 2 next to the word Crete, which is one out of five place names on the list.

What I have done…you see… is include the ancient city of Persepolis within the list of place names. However! (pause here for evil) the map only extends to the very limit of the Mediterranean Sea. Persepolis was located in what is now modern Iran...miles and miles east of the Mediterranean Sea! In three years, not one of my students has had the geographic confidence to call me out on this deception. And yet, right here on the internet I have revealed my plot, anyone can see my chicanery. Any one of my students with a basic understanding of Boolean should be able to find this page of clues. But not one of them will, since they do not know where to find Persepolis.

Grinchy McScrooge?

2007-12-05T13:33:00.000-05:00

I guess the feeling of anticipation never goes away, but exactly what am I waiting for? As an adult, I can still appreciate the change of season, the light displays and the culinary get-togethers, but why do I still adhere to a mental advent calendar that literally counts down the days till Christmas?I suppose I really like the food, especially the delicacies the cooks of my Italian family make. However, the 31-year-old Historelli has to think about cholesterol and other non-fun hindrances. So I’ll have to eat the dreaded Fritelle filled with tuna fish rather than the more delicious ones made with Mozzarella.

It’s definitely not about the toys anymore, although I will play with whatever my niece and nephew get this year. Playmobil, legos, hopefully they'll get some of my favorites. The shopping could be fun, but I did most of that online and I’d rather stick reindeer antlers in my eyes before wrestling with the mall monkeys for available parking. Spending time with family & friends during the holidays is always interesting, so I may be anticipating these quirky get-togethers. Though this year, a heavy profound sadness constantly reminds us that we lost one of the best “Santa Clauses” ever to perform at our Christmas Eve celebrations. I remember one year when Austin Powers actually came instead of Santa Claus!

I like a few of those holiday TV shows, but for some reason I always miss that one "stop-motion" special that I really enjoy. I forget the name of it but it’s the one when Santa Claus is about to die and the council of immortals vote on whether or not they are going grant him perpetual life. The main immortal guy is the omnipresent” Great Ak,” a true badass with a booming voice and a giant antler crown. According to the story, he is the “master woodsman of the world,” and it’s because of him that Santa is able to retrieve all the stolen toys back from the evil Agwas…

In the end, this Santa Claus, (whose life intertwines with the origin stories of many Christmas traditions, such as Christmas trees, toys, stockings), is eventually granted immortality. I may be looking into this too deeply, but I believe that the moral of this specific story (originally written by L. Frank Baum, the guy who wrote the Wizard of Oz) is really about the transcendent nature of Christmas itself. Baum's Santa Claus character is more a symbolic concept of Christmas rather than being the actual guy who lives in the North Pole. In other words, of course Santa Claus is immortal! The logic and continuity of the holiday cannot die, it is above even death. Maybe that’s why I’ll never lose my holiday sense of anticipation; its not my place to break the tradition.

Assignment: Create an Impulsive Spectacle!

2007-11-19T15:46:00.000-05:00

Sitting in the room of a cold November day I wish a parade would pass through. Sounds crazy doesn’t it? But in some coral corners of the world, spontaneous parades are the norm rather then the exception. A couple of weeks back I was lucky enough to attend a Very Merry Berry wedding in Nassau, the capital city of the Bahamas. There, we ate, drank, indulged and imbibed, all the while enjoying the company of some good friends. Of course, every so often a lull would occur—the drinks would slow down and a yawn or two would appear in the fringes of the group. But just before the concerns of the next morning attempted to commandeer the occasion, drums sounded, whistles blew and an infectious infusion of maracas and horns mixed together in pure tune.

What we experienced were snippets of Junkanoo, the traditional street parade featured every Boxing Day (Dec. 26) in various parts of the Caribbean. I’ve read that the Bahamian Junkanoo is the best known version of this joyous dance, created to celebrate the brief respite given to African slaves during Christmas. The Junkanoo has since been incorporated and practiced into the festive competition it is today. Besides the “rockin” sound, the Junkanoo offers an impressive sight. Junkanoo groups are dressed in a grand visual experience of colorful paper costumes, donned with feathers and glitter, even if they weren’t playing amazing music these guys would turn heads on appearance alone.

Basically, when the garbage can drum starts beating, it is necessary to drop everything and join the parade. There can be no hesitation to whether or not you want to dance, since the juggernaut of tropical reverberation will plow over you and leave dazzled those who fail to join. Put more simply, you’ll just be a “Johnny sour-pants” if you don’t take part. Luckily, with the group I was with, there was no chance of foul tasting pants. Polish Girl’s college friends are quite a chill crowd and I’ve been enjoying them every since I was formally introduced to the group, some five summers past.

So there I was dancing away behind a Caribbean parade when I turned to Porella, a fellow participant and part of our group. “I feel sorry for the people who aren’t in this parade.” Her expression, (she’s the girl in the center of the picture with dark hair) echoed my sentiment. Although that moment was two weeks ago, I still want back into that parade and since we are heading into the holiday season anyways, let’s say we grab some noisemakers and start some spontaneous processions. If anyone asks why you have all gone crazy just tell them Prof. Historelli assigned you some homework.

Prepared to be Scared!

2007-10-30T12:59:00.000-04:00

I’m not sure if I believe in any of this but it still makes for good Halloween conversation. The following link-drop is from the Ghost Investigator’s Society, a group of five individuals who seek out scientific evidence of ghosts. They do not use Psychics or Ouija Boards and they do not claim any religious or supernatural power. They simply go into supposed haunted houses, cemeteries, and prisons with electronic recording equipment, infrared detectors and cameras in search of tangible evidence of ghosts.

Interestingly enough, when they go back to listen to some of their sound recordings they hear voices (known as EVP, Electronic Voice Phenomenon) that were not present when they were actually in these locations. There are a lot of non-paranormal reasons for EVPs, such as sound interference from surrounding phones, tv or radios. Or they could just be fakes! I have to admit that most of these recordings don’t really sound like anything. What’s interesting however, is that the messages that are clear, seem to be both malevolent and benevolent. And regardless of the message all of them are still eerie to listen to. I heard about these guys while listening to Art Bell on Coast to Coast, another source for good Halloween conversation and I suggest you all tune in this Halloween at 1 am for his annual Ghost to Ghost Halloween edition of the program.

Searching for Halloween

2007-10-28T12:57:00.000-04:00

Let us recap. According to the previous three-part epic, atmosphere dictates mood and as a result, any scary environment can create monsters. Moreover, (if you remember a similar HSC post from October), there is a difference between real fear and the nonsense type of panic that the television feeds us everyday.

Therefore, if certain places are haunted, (that is…if the actual essence of certain air is uniquely and unremittingly putrid, something disgusting will eventually show up) and within these authentically scary places lurk true monsters, those who acknowledge this formula should surely experience the core spirit of the holiday. But even if this is true, is it wise to do so?

During Halloween, we explore spooky scenes and give candy to dirty little children who show up to our door begging all in the merriment of the unknown, which in its different forms can scare anyone. Not the type of “scared” that puts butterflies in your stomach before the start of new job or the trepidation that chills the bones upon the realization that a child-molester like Curt Schilling will win another World Series. This type of fear is more ancient. Perhaps it is a primeval peculiarity we claim to want relief from, but in reality just want a chance to tap into its source of ogreish orgasm. We have all felt it but only a few of us have the penchant ability to turnkey it into something tangible. I am curious about those who can truly translate Halloween.

A few weeks back, Polish Girl and I paid homage to the home and grave of Washington Irving, America’s first celebrity writer and creator of such characters like the Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle. Originally from Manhattan, Irving spent some of his childhood in the Tarrytown/Sleepy Hallow sections of Westchester County and the atmosphere of the place stuck with him for the rest of his life. In fact, when Irving wrote the Legend of Sleepy Hollow he was actually living in Spain but the reminder of his days in New York resonated so soundly within his memory, he was able to cite specific locations and characters with little difficulty. When visiting his home today (now an historic landmark known as Sunnyside) it is impossible not to get a taste of this specter. It doesn’t hurt that pumpkins and headless horsemen adorn the entire town, a smart form of marketing by local residents trying to cash in on their most famous son. Of course, the people of Tarrytown did not invent the ghosts Irving wrote about, since the original Dutch settlers only recognized what the Indians they encountered knew for centuries; something is not quite right about that area near Sleepy Hollow. Maybe it took a different mind (like Irving’s) to dissect what others realized but never had the ability to highlight. On the other hand, maybe those before Irving were just too frightened to do so.

Interestingly, the frequency of ghosts is not something solely attributable to Sleepy Hollow or even New Orleans, a place I recently visited that seems securely penetrated by the allure of goblins. The truth is that we are all surrounded by the unfamiliar and nameless, but either we are unable or just reluctant to obverse it.

For example, my loyal readers like F. White, the Chiapas crew, Nik Social, Frank A. and Mr. & Mrs. Moe Green all live in a very very haunted town. Evil has been enveloping its residents for decades. In 1870, their home, then known as Union Township was home to a sweet German woman until a bout of hallucinations caused her to attempt suicide and eventually land her in the Insane Asylum. Nearly 50 years later, this quiet little town located in the Meadowlands again made headlines when it’s Health Inspector gunned down a former mayor. Later, the Health Inspector slit his wrists and died in the bathroom of his home on Willow Ave. I wonder if his ghost still haunts that street... The crazies from this town seem to have ventured northward, even infiltrating the territory of Sister Lucy and her family. According to reports from 1924, a man named Solaski swallowed a chain of gold then went insane after the necessary stomach surgery. After the operation, he escaped from Hackensack Hospital and then beat down a bunch of police officers from the neighboring town. They shot him seven times but he still lived. I wonder if his energy is still running wild in that area…

My other readers may feel safe at this time but they aren’t… Across the river from the aforementioned place in the meadowlands, fellow blogger Ricky may have to deal with flying ghostly body parts. In 1929, a 20-year old bootlegger watched for police while his friends made some illegal booze. Although, I’m not sure if they made any good hooch, they did succeed in blowing up their house. Authorities found the lookout guy in pieces nearly two blocks away!
Meanwhile, Gus lives practically next door to the final resting place of Jennie Bosschieter, a young pretty mill girl who was drugged, assaulted then murdered by four wealthy businessmen from Paterson. I wonder if anyone or anything still visits her grave? Hmm… who did I leave out…. AO needs to watch out for the ghosts of runaway slaves and cousin Marge should not go to Rite Aid late at night because she may encounter the phantom of 17-year old Christine Hervish. Someone smashed her jaw then murdered her near that present location almost 85 years ago.

*Note: when reading the newspaper articles, click on the image to enlarge the print

The Shorehouse - Fin

2007-10-05T13:17:00.000-04:00

The bedroom furnishings were simple, consisting of a bed, a dresser and a nightstand. Since the fittings were dusty and old we stopped short of unpacking our cloths and accessories, opting instead to leave everything in bags atop of the furniture. Regardless of grime, it was a far better decision to remain temporary and offer no sense of permanence to this house. Perhaps, the original owner of the yellow suitcase thought this realm as a comfort, only to remain here past comfortable. That considered I resigned myself to the opinion that our bags would remain virtually unpacked and our stay a brief testament of our wits.

In the daytime, two long windows provided ample light to this room denying the most mischievous shadow even a limited existence. However, upon nightfall, every creature or passerby of the outside world cast the most ominous silhouettes upon the walls. A tree swaying gently in the late summer breeze depicted itself as a colossal hobgoblin with outstretched arms trying to reach inside the window. Visions of ghouls, hunchbacked and racing hurriedly on the street below, emanated from the outlines of teenagers escaping to the beach. Street cars, driving past with their lights ablaze caused the most fantastic carousel of illumination upon the walls. The light would first hit the far wall, stretch out against the ceiling and then finally fade upon that wretched hole in the corner where the cursed suitcase lay hidden. Jealously, I glanced at Barbara who was asleep and tranquil in all her snuggery. How could she sleep with all the surrounding madness? At this moment we risk abduction, but still she slumbers! I closed my eyes in hope for composure. Slowly, my breath became less erratic and my quickened pulse subdued. Realizing the responsibilities of the morning, I reluctantly reached over to the nightstand, fumbled through some medicines and swallowed half a hand of Acetamophin.

It was breezy out on Grandma’s balcony, but not enough that I needed a jacket. Plus it was too much fun out here to worry about being cold. Peering down onto the noisy street filled with tiny European cars was great entertainment, especially since I was miles away from all my friends and action figures. I didn’t even notice the green shutters open but sure enough there was Great Aunt Chiara smiling at me, confounded that I was outside without something covering my shoulders. “It’s not nice to be out here this time of year, now blows the 'Sirocco,'" she said. “It’s a bad wind that comes over the ocean and from the Sahara, it could make you sick, and it’s dangerous, go inside. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here.”

A sharp rush of pain slammed into my head. Something crashed upon me causing such sudden discomfort that I cried out in agony, gasping for air as I sat up in bed. I reached my bandage-hand to my aching face and tried to make sense of what just happened. Someone punched me! I looked at Barbara, but she was tucked-in so securely, it would have taken her several minutes just to unwrap. She couldn’t have slapped me and then returned to sleep so swiftly. Thoroughly shaken, I felt my surely-wounded scalp and sensed for blood, but I was unconvinced if it stemmed from my head or hand. Slowly the intensity of the headache receded but still my eyes fought to accommodate the mouth-gaping stare into the darkness. At this hour, barely a car drove by to offer some light into the bedroom, and even the breeze was fugitive. In fact, the sea air was not salty and fresh but instead thick and foul, filled with sand and the fetid presence of kelpies.

The unmistakable sound of scratching nails on floorboard greeted me next. At times it came from my right side and then switched to across the room near the door. I scanned the landscape to no avail. There was nowhere to focus my attention. Then I heard the door of the storage room creak open. Luckily, the slow hum of a motorcycle was approaching the house. With any providence, the driver would direct his high beam squarely upon that miserable spot in the wall. First shadows appeared, then a flicker of a shine. The room lit dimly enough to provide the scene of a clawed hand dexterously closing the door of the suitcase chamber. I was astonished! How did that raccoon get back into the house, and how as I going to get it out of this room? If I woke Barbara up, she would freak out. I would have to sweat this one out alone. Again I waited, this time for the sounds behind the storage room. The creature scratched and jostled about, until stopping suddenly. It had noticed me. I was inching cautiously in its direction with the idea of trapping its exit with the night table. Unfortunately, this lively spirit realized my intention and now fixed its reddish gaze solidly upon my stance, causing me to freeze in terror. Not from fear of rabies or the scratching out of my eyes, but because of how my visitor chose to greet me. Instead of growling or hissing a warning, this beast of torment gurgled out a clear, discernible and human laugh.