July « 2011 « Vichy Water

July 26, 2011

Bermuda Cruise Vacation. I Still Hate Sodium (Salt). Future Think (Living to 150 Always on My Mind) Amy Winehouse (27). July 26, 2011

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: ewing, j.r., johnny, southside, wallpaper — earthood @ 3:17 pm

The Celebrity 'Summit'

I love July. On the fifteenth, I saw Paul McCartney live at Yankee Stadium. On the seventeenth, I left on a cruise for Bermuda. Here I am back from cruising in what I’d like to call the Bermuda Oblong (not a fan of the other geometry, ‘triangle’). And somewhere, well into the Atlantic Ocean, which wasn’t overly pacific (calm), I realized my ship was headed towards that geometric triangle nemesis and I thought about tricking fate and all that jazz, so I coined the term, ‘Bermuda Oblong’ which had the instant effect of making me feel better (safer). Anatomy at Rutgers taught me about the medulla oblongata and under naked, smog less skies, I thought about my cerebral correlation between Bermuda and the medulla oblongata which contains cardiac, respiratory, and vomiting centers and deals with involuntary functions such as breathing, heart rate and blood pressure. Watch how I develop this. (How the mind works at sea)

(Christopher Columbus. I thought about him on the eleventh deck)

I can’t tell you how many times walking to a deserted part of the ship, I thought about Christopher Columbus and the ‘Pinto’ and the rest of his fleet and all they endured on the voyage to the land that would one day be in a debt crisis. Columbus’s ships were like a dingy for the ocean liner I was on. And the 1000 feet of cruise ship wasn’t enough for me. I wanted endless ship as we neared the triangle (oblong). That first night, by myself, I thought I saw a white whale (the real ‘Moby Dick’) I love Gregory Peck; one of my favorite actors.

Gregory Peck. 'Captain Ahab'

Why did Gregory take the Captain Ahab role? Why did Robert Shaw take the Sam Quint role in ‘Jaws?’ It made sense as the ship rocked. Both were great roles with undefeatable adversaries and brilliant writers and directors. I love Gregory Peck’s acting so much I almost wanted him to beat the white whale even though I’m a whale watcher and lover. Love chemistry and meclizine chewable tablets/chew just one per day. I was ‘Superman;’ fearless and impervious to sea sickness since I pre-medicated. Ah, but the medulla oblongata controls vomiting. Everything was coming together; clear as the starry, starry night. So if I got sick, the Bermuda triangle (oblong) would be at fault. And the oblongata also controls blood pressure which is influenced by another nemesis of mine; salt, sodium, sneaky additions to food processing to make it taste good and seduce you. Why was salt on my mind; because if anything happened, I’d be afloat in a life boat, in a life jacket surrounded by a sea of salt.

Only about 6% of our daily sodium comes from salt added at the table. Another 5% comes from salt added during cooking. Most of the rest — up to an estimated 77% — comes from processed or restaurant foods. You can help counter the negative effects of a high-salt diet with physical activity. Studies show that the more physically active you are, the less your blood pressure rises in response to a high-salt diet. A little bit later, I’ll talk about physical activity on the ship. Too much salt can have detrimental effects on the heart, kidneys, and blood vessels. Limit sodium intake to 1500mg/day. American men consume between 3,100 mg and 4,700 mg of sodium per day; women consume between 2,300 mg and 3,100 mg. (duh, men eat more.) Salt and other forms of sodium are used to bind and stabilize ingredients and as preservatives, flavor enhancers, and color enhancers.

Damn, salt is all around us, like the movie ‘The Blob’ with a young Steve McQueen. And if we had to adjust to a low salt diet, it could take 8 to 12 weeks to do so. Its quicker/easier coming off other things like ten martinis a day; shaken not stirred. And I wondered about sea salt. It’s the same damn sodium content; so the fast food, sweet little girl, ‘Wendy’ who’s been hawking sea salt in her French fries; its still poison for our bodies. Ah, the things you think about in the middle of a salty ocean in the middle of the night.

Back to ship stuff: I left the house last Sunday and 37 minutes later, Bayonne, N.J. ship terminal; no airport, no scanning or touching body in security checks and therefore no taking off sneakers (I bought clean white socks anyway), no river bridges or tunnels; just a peaceful NJ Turnpike without many cars on a Sunday morning heading north or to Bayonne, originally inhabited by Native-Americans. Before going to staterooms, guests were directed to the lunch buffet on deck ten; endless food; wondrously portentous of things to come. After lunch buffet, we saw the women’s soccer finals in the ship theatre; a hundred people yelling “USA. USA.”

Buffet means the wedding scene in ‘Goodbye Columbus’ to me; the power of movies (media). Ever since, I’ve been a recluse at a buffet, opting to wait until everyone’s plate is full and then trying the invisibility gig with my plate only partially placated. ‘Goodbye Columbus’ was written by Phillip Roth, who went to my Newark high school, a decade apart. As legend tells, perhaps some of that story may’ve happened to Phillip in real life; and a similar story, ‘Goodbye Niagara Falls’, happened to me (mentioned in last week’s blog.) I love the personal spice of embitter; seems to make for poignant writing later in life.

First day at sea (two day voyage to Bermuda and three days in port) I hit the crowded gymnasium which had four exercise bikes for the 2000 sailing guests. I had to wait 40 minutes to bike and read about the futuristic next hundred years. I love what I read during my first 20 minutes on the bike. The birthday card with a computer chip that sings to you has more computer power than all the Allied forces in 1945. And then we throw the card away. I had to jump off the bike and let it recycle to zero; because it was crowded, we were only allowed twenty minutes. I need ninety minutes. Yes, I’m an exercise cheat and me being 6′ 6,” I’m hugely obvious. Maybe that’s why I was left alone. Eventually, we’ll have access to the internet in our glasses or contact lenses. A few blogs ago I told about an online eyeglass company that sells a complete frame and lens for $6.95! And one day we’ll have a driverless car and advanced GPS will do most of the work. We travelled with good friends. My friend Kenneth is a ‘Bondologist’; means he knows James Bond trivia so the contest he (we) won sitting at the Martini Bar, drinking club soda, got us to the bridge of the ship to meet the Captain amidst more security than an airport. The GPS the ship uses is accurate to 45 feet in the middle of a vast ocean. Oh, they filled up a million gallons of fuel before leaving port.

Back to the future while biking: Mind reading is coming. Today we have fMRI (functional magnetic resonance imaging). fMRI can locate the presence of oxygen contained within hemoglobin in the blood and can even detect the motion of thoughts in the living brain to minute resolutions. I can just imagine our lawmakers down in Washington who can’t even peaceably solve the debt issue (I don’t like the word-‘crisis’), trying to come up with laws dealing with mind reading. Ah, if you could read my mind now. An interesting spiritual thought. If we’ll be able to read thoughts, what about………? Enough future.

Our dinners on the Celebrity ‘Summit’ ship were at 8:30 and we sat next to the Captain’s table which means our sometimes ‘loosey goosey’ Jersey shore manners were left in the stateroom with round view of the white capped ocean, partially obscured by condensation droplets on the window. I remember the movie ‘Diner’ where a minor largesse character fascinates the gang of young boys by ordering everything on one side of the menu. Yours truly did that each night to the ‘Appetizers.’ Why not, I was on vacation. A whole menu of appetizers yielded a ‘big salad’ from ‘Seinfeld.’

I hit the gym every day and sarcastically noted it was easier, with no waiting, to get on the exercise bike non-stop each day. I wondered why. Curiously, on the last day in port, having done all the touring days before, I embarked on a three hour work out and more future read. At the witching second hour, the massive gym was down to three guests; me and a pair of Pennsylvania psychologists. We huddled, whispered, “telomeres” and “you know why we’re only here” and then they left, leaving me to solitary thoughts and i-pod music from the sixties.

Blog confession time: By the fifth day of excessive eating, three daily meals, 5 PM Sushi, and un-frozen pizza at midnight, something strange was happening. I’m an old movie romantic and suddenly at breakfast that morning, I couldn’t look at food anymore and grabbed a banana, scratched under my arms, and spinned wildly around mentally; all because I had just thought about the movie ‘A Clockwork Orange’ and could I be experiencing what Alex (Malcolm McDowell) did; a form of aversion therapy. I dig the author, Anthony Burgess and wonder how and why the etiology of the story. Was he misdiagnosed with six months to live and what we read/see is the product of staying awake for those last months of only writing? I don’t know.

I rubbed my eyes; were they being held open by images of chocolate croissants and egg-white omelets (funny how all good breakfast treats are French). I wanted no more food indulgences. Thank goodness for exercise and ocean air. I was cured back to voluminous food mastication by dinner; the left side of the menu belonged to me. Subliminal: Somalia

On most days after working out, I used the indoor pool for thalassotherapy, an unproven medical use of saltwater for therapy. The pool was hot and salty with powerful soothing whirlpool jets; close your eyes, look to the heavens through glass, hear echoes of distant mythological voices and confirm a vacating effect. Damn, there was no one around to feed me grapes from the buffet.

Now to Bermuda: On day one, with three day unlimited bus/ferry pass, we went to Horseshoe Bay Beach because. With three cruise ships around, by high noon I was back at the Jersey shore, without my jetty, sitting under an umbrella, stuck in a rented chair that wouldn’t let go and sounds of silence deleted by the thousands of beach tourists. Give me liberty or give me a deserted beach next time.

(bermuda coastline and pastel homes)

downtown Hamilton, Bermuda

Clouds formed and precipitated a gold rush to the buses, ill prepared. But Bermuda was magical. I sat by the bus window, my face pressed close to glass, my nose taking in large amounts of un-regulated emissions, looking out at sheer simple perfection and idyllic beauty. I love the quaintness and how every blade of grass, leaf and flower were accounted for. Pastel (even deep purple) homes were impeccably kept. No wonder why Michael Bloomberg, Michael Douglas and Ross Perot have homes here. I thought about the song ‘Everywhere’ by Fleetwood Mac. I love Bermuda; sheer earth-bound perfection. No moped in my Bermuda sojourn; if I broke my jaw playing tennis in Baltimore, can you imagine what I’d do on a moped

( a painting in a St. George's art store which moved me)

lady gertting dunked in St George's. I offered her a glass of water. No further comment.

On day two, we ferried to St. George’s, as quaint as Webster could define. I walked into St. Peter’s church where they have been worshipping since 1612. I spent a few quiet moments just as if I were at my jetty. At high noon we saw a dunking of a woman for being a ‘nag’ and strolled into an art store where I took a picture of a painting which still moves me. I wanted to know what was in the room behind the propped window.

From there: ‘Crystal Cave’ by bus, past a banyan tree and then deep into mother earth. Finally, a bus to Hamilton, Bermuda; a big little shopping quaint city; then a ferry back to the dock at the bay, all the while thinking how often I’d like to come back to this magical island. Two days later we were back driving through Bayonne, on the way home from near nirvana, satiated, rested and in need of massive amounts of catching up on news. Bermuda farewell until.

Inside Crystal Cave

: Inside St. Peter’s Church. from 1612

Norway news was on CNN on the ship’s television and glued myself instead of a late afternoon nap. Then Amy Winehouse. So I was saddened coming off the ship. At home, first function was You Tube and listening to her sing, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.” Why everything? It’s almost a “Blowing in the Wind” question. Why so many gone at 27? Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Curt Cobain and now Amy Winehouse.

Amy Winehouse video:

watch?v=NDXgKIpJyIk&feature=share

Somewhere in the confluences of self-introspection, I can’t help but ask, “Where was I?” I can’t explain, but it’s always there; some kind of guilt. I don’t know. Is there a wormhole waiting for me, where I might make a difference? A parallel world? A place Maria (Natalie Wood) sang about at the end of ‘West Side Story.’ I think without knowing what it means. Now it’s exercise bike time. Note, I didn’t say ‘exorcise.’ An hour after coming home to a cool house (and it’s been over 100 degrees for 24 straight days in Texas. Poor cousin Stuart. And they say no global warming.), I ran to the front door, put on an old pair of shoes and ceremoniously clicked heels together, almost yelling, “There’s no place like home.” And there isn’t. My wife yelled from upstairs, “What did you say?” I was too tired so I said, “Never mind.”

(I got up at 6 am to catch the passing under the Verrazano bridge)

CONTACT INFORMATION:

website: http://vichywater.net

Facebook: Cal Schwartz

Twitter: Earthood

E-mail: earthood@gmail.com

Vichy Water Book Trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qj2ko9gcC_M

LINKS:

link to magical Jersey shore. Also check out the ‘Jersey Shore Icon Contest.

http://www.visitthejerseyshore.com/

Comments (1)

July 16, 2011

Paul McCartney. Curt Flood. Television: My ‘Curb’ of Un-enthusiasm and My First and only ‘Dear John’ Letter. Living to 150 years and beyond. July 17, 2011

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: ewing, j.r., southside, wallpaper — earthood @ 9:38 pm

A bumpy anticipated night; cerebral road forks and subways of my mind; maybe this blog will make sense. I said last night at Grand Central Station, “I love the smell of New York subways, deep in the underbelly of the city; a musty aroma after a warm mid summer night’s dream.”

pix of midtown mime on way to McCartney concert at Yankee Stadium

pix of son and me. asking ourselves, are we really going to see McCartney. Answer is YES

If they made cologne encapsulating that smell, I’d buy. Kramer on Seinfeld wanted to bottle the smell of ‘beach;’ same idea. The headlights of an approaching train and I thought Harry Potter was about to scoot me away. J.K. Rowling wrote early ‘Harry Potter’ on the back of fast food napkins, so the legend grows. Yesterday was a mid summer night’s dream; went with wife, son and special sister-in-law to see Paul McCartney at Yankee Stadium.

How can I express the feeling of being there, filling all my senses, (yes even ‘Up in Smoke’ olfactory) marveling at this nearly 70 year old wondrous icon singing for nearly three hours without even a plastic bottle of water to the lips. ‘All My Loving’ of the man, his music, my youthful complacency never having seen the Beatles or Paul live or having gone to Woodstock. I languished in my discontented youth without purposeful direction. Why do I love my youthful complacency; because it taught me all the right moves for living now.

setting up concert stage

McCarney on stage. First song.

Paul’s music was a cyclonic explosion of a myriad of memories. Day tripping all over planet Tralfamadore; I was at a college frat party with a first girlfriend (a senior in high school), holding her hand, or ‘She Loves You’ while I was in the dorm preparing a cheat sheet for Botany or wondering about becoming a ‘Paperback Writer.’ I really did become a writer. Yankee Stadium rocked full. ‘Give Peace a Chance’ cerebrally echoed heading back to the subway; a fight broke-out nearby, while exiting because a guy accidentally bumped another guy’s wife. Ten thousand in that stadium hallway; somebody was getting bumped. I yelled-out the song’s name but it didn’t curb hostility and there wasn’t enough room to shrug my shoulders.

concert pyrotechnics.

Two nights ago I watched an HBO documentary on the life of baseball great Curt Flood. I should mention to you all that a long time ago in a galaxy far away, I watched my share of network television until CBS messed around with the show ‘Dallas.’ Being hooked on the show, wanting to be just like JR, I even bought a cowboy hat and strolled sidewalks of Jersey, proudly and ducking under most doorways because of my prohibitive 6′ 6″ height without the hat.

jr ewing in my hat

The next ‘Dallas’ season had a strange story line followed by the following season telling viewers, that the previous year was just a dream. I’d call that a mind-rape, abuse and a waste of time. For me that was the dramatic, happy ending of all network television forever. No corporate executive sitting on a soft sofa is going to waste my time ever again on insipid programming. So I took to a life of news, biography, science, talk, college sports and documentaries and of course old movies.

Curt Flood

Back to Curt Flood; once again I clench my fists of frustration that growing up, I did not pay enough attention to him and what he was valiantly fighting for. On January 16, 1970, Curt Flood shocked America and baseball by filing suit against Major League Baseball and its reserve clause. Baseball had faced legal challenges in the past, but never had a player of Flood’s caliber/class attempt to attack the game’s sacred reserve clause which effectively bound a player with contract to a team for life. The St. Louis Cardinals outfielder had three All-Star appearances, seven Gold Gloves, and a pair of World Series championships while he earned $100,000 a year, yet accused baseball of violating the 13th amendment, barring slavery and involuntary servitude. Most of the public and media initially reacted to Flood’s action in utter disbelief, branding the outfielder an ingrate, a destroyer, even a blasphemer. He gave his life and the rest of a high paid career to his principles. Only near the end of that precious life, did he get standing ovations by peers for his courage and what he accomplished(game changed and free agency) which he so needed; sometimes he cried at ovations. So I add Curt Flood to an ever growing list from my youth, of people I should’ve known. A lesson for millenials (mid-youth): Don’t let life pass you by. But it usually does. Sure, too bad youth is wasted on the young.

Back to television; I forgot, sometimes there are miscellaneous shows I’ll watch but mostly cable because bad words can be used. Bad words are life blood in the sharpened race, tinged with playground reality and fireside chat with speakers on. So I watch ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ occasionally. Of course no show is going to own me anymore.

On the recent season premier of ‘Curb’ there was a segment when a young girl gets her period for the first time in Larry David’s foyer. He ran upstairs for his soon to be ex-wife’s box of tampons and tries to instruct the girl through the closed door how to use it. He didn’t do well because what guy really knows. Why do I bring this up? Borrowing a Phillip Roth, ‘Goodbye Columbus’ story line; back in college in 1968, I had a rich doctor’s daughter girlfriend. Her parents liked me and lavished trappings of the good life on the poor son of an old fashioned shoe-salesman. Girlfriend and her mother were obsessively close. When her family took a month long cruise to the Greek Islands, they left Calvin with the family Lincoln Continental to use; it promptly died a mile from the ship terminal; a harbinger of things yet to be perhaps. When the family returned, doctor and wife sat me down, since I pinned their daughter by a romantic lake at the Jersey shore, and informed me that they will only let their daughter marry a doctor. I was two years away from being a pharmacist and was not changing careers. Seems like a forerunner of the Kyoto Protocol (curbing greenhouse gases); nobody budged. But I was smart enough to realize long term relationships do need a modicum of sexual compatibility and since we were both virgins, we’d have to address the issue.

By the fall, she was practice teaching near Niagara Falls and we planned the most clandestine secret assignation. I’d come to visit, no parents would ever know, we’d consummate in a cheap motel. I’d become a man and decide whether med school was in the wicked witch of the north’s crystal ball. Twenty minutes before leaving, her mother called and asked me to bring some sweaters; it was getting cool up there. I was devastated and still am; trust was all gone; my own bed and breakfast room waited that her mother booked for me. Alas, we got a motel room and we were just about ready for the deed, when she went to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, a sheepish voice came through the door, “I got my period. Do you know how to use tampons?” I still don’t. Another ten minutes, she emerged wearing no less than seven pair of underpants. On the long lonely winding drive back to Jersey, I heard ‘The Beatles’ sing “Hey Jude” for the first time and heard Paul sing it last night and goose-bumped.

“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad
take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better

Hey Jude, don’t be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better”

I knew what had to be done. I didn’t agree with all the lyrics but the melody killed. Truth told, I never forgot; maybe if I had the impetus, I’d lie down and talk to someone to see if I was scarred. Here’s what I wrote her:

8-25-68

“It seems I could only look back-look back on past yet recent memories. How ecstatic and carefree I feel now. It’s strange but now I see little children laughing and dancing gaily around and around a MAYpole-but so slowly they danced as if in slow motion. The sun was so very bright that I had to squint. Oh, but they are gone now.

Then I saw a great vast body of water-an ocean with its towering waves thrashing the sandy desolate beaches. The water was such a clear dark blue-its perfect union with the sky at the distant horizon was only upset when little ships sailed on by. But suddenly the sun vanished behind a great surge of dark gray ominous clouds; a storm came but then it passed.

Finally I saw a little girl with bright green eyes. She was running, dancing, and singing. She was so happy. Far away from the little girl, I also saw a little boy with searching brown eyes. He was running, jumping and climbing and he was so happy too. Then the two children were ushered home where they ate a nourishing and carefully planned meal. They had such a good time again after being dismissed from lunch. Later they prepared for sleep and dreamt of promising and pleasant things.

The children are running now and TIME is running so fast as if to overtake them. One day they bumped into one another while they were still running. The boy picked the girl up, looked deeply and apprehensively then affectionately into the pools of her green eyes and held her hand tightly for only a brief moment. She ran off again and so did he. This time they were running away from one another, on a straight, rigid, freshly paved road. Their backs were turned and they didn’t see each other crying. As long as the road remains straight, they won’t hurt each other again for they can’t bump into one another.

Maybe they will stop crying. Maybe they will get tired of running.

Oh, but it is so foggy now. It might snow or did they buy pop-corn or a box of candy. They will both be late for lunch; that would be terrible.”

Cal

I never saw or heard from her again after my Dear John letter. ‘Hey Jude’ helped change me. Life is full circle. Last night more ‘Hey Jude’. A few months ago, Facebook helped me find her. So I saw her again that night and then I went into the kitchen, hugged my wife and thanked her for being part of my synchronistic life.

As you know reading my blogs, I’ve been concerned with living to 150 years old; kind of a quest, Jason and the Argonauts and tinged with enough reality and caring that I am now joining an organization that is advocacy and research for unlimited life, which is becoming more plausible with every Moore’s Law year, as human knowledge doubles. For a recent newborn I told the parents, their child will more than likely live to 150 but with quality and extended time on tennis courts.

Part of the tools to help us all get there is spreading the word that this is a realistic goal. “Knowledge is Good.” From, ‘Animal House.’ Lions and Tigers. Oh my.

Here’s a link to the website; start exploring, expanding, digesting and growing younger and going to rock concerts and lengthening your telomeres. There is something in the hills.

http://www.imminst.org/

An easy way to sign off on today’s “Beatles” oriented blog; share a few words from ‘Imagine.’

“Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can

No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world”

John Lennon

Imagine ‘them’ just quietly solving the debt ceiling and doing the right thing for the economy and good and welfare of all upright standing beings.

CONTAC T INFORMATION

website: http://vichywater.net

Facebook: Cal Schwartz

Twitter: Earthood

Email: earthood@gmail.com

LINKS:

link to magical Jersey shore. Also check out the ‘Jersey Shore Icon Contest.

http://www.visitthejerseyshore.com/

and for special deals on Jersey shore rentals: (it’s never too late)

http://shorevacations.wordpress.com/

Vichy Water Book Trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qj2ko9gcC_M

Comments (1)

July 12, 2011

Fat is Cannabis Addictive? Synchronistic Headache. More Asbury Park and Jersey Shore Jetty (habit or hobbit?) Bashful. Sedona. Playing Chicken with a Newark Bus. July 12, 2011

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: johnny, lyrics, salt, southside, wallpaper — earthood @ 1:42 pm

At 3:08 AM, Monday I finished watching ESPN’s replay coverage of USA Women’s Soccer(World Cup) vs Brazil. I knew the outcome but a high school buddy told me at a Sunday night oldies concert and fireworks display, that it was a must see. This great band, ‘Bronx Wanderers’ was doing a ‘Jersey Boys’ medley; we got up to dance with no shame, perhaps because we were among the youngest of the lawn chair seated audience. When we gyrated close to each other, he yelled into my congested ear, that I should see the soccer match replay.

you tube game tying goal. a must see

Abby Wambach after scoring game tying goal

When Abby Wambach headed that shot in, it was the same rush of excited disbelief as when Boston’s Bill Buckner let the ball roll through his legs during Game 6 of the 1986 World Series or when Al Michaels, with eleven seconds left in the 1980 Olympic Hockey game, USA vs Russia, proclaimed, “Do you believe in miracles?” Good stuff on a strange weekend. Saturday morning, I drifted out of body. If I explained in any depth now, I’d worry about losing readership. Maybe it’s like Sam Harris’s analogy about the hair dryer. Someone talks/prays to God through a hair dryer as if a microphone; it’s enough for a one-way trip to a ward at Bellevue. The same person prays out loud without the hairdryer and all is perfect mainstream acceptable.

Saturday night my wife and I were back in Asbury Park for dinner, a board walk, music, and a diet ice cream kiosk in Long Branch. Strange ice cream. Not many calories. You keep eating endlessly; it’s cold, sort of sweet but your tongue taste buds are not satisfied. Something is missing. I knew there was a paucity of fat; the stuff tastes good and is actually addicting. Really is.

addictive fat french fries

Fats in foods like potato chips and French fries make them nearly irresistible because they trigger natural marijuana-like chemicals in the body called, endocannabinoids, researchers at the University of California, Irvine have found. So dig this (my son probably thinks I sound like a dreaded hipster now). The researchers discovered that when rats tasted something fatty, cells in their upper gut started producing endocannabinoids, while sugars and proteins did not have this effect. McDonalds (Big Mac people) must’ve known about this compound for a long time. The adventure starts on the tongue, where fats in food generate a signal that travels to your brain first and then to your intestines. There, the signal stimulates the production of endocannabinoids, which initiates a surge in cellular signaling that prompts you to totally pig out — probably by initiating the release of digestive chemicals linked to hunger and not being full that compel us to eat more. And that leads to obesity, diabetes and cancer. Last weeks blog, I mentioned that 347 million people world-wide have diabetes now and more on the way. Funny thing; I don’t care anymore about legalizing marijuana. It’s not personal Sonny. Actually it is.

saturday night asbury park boardwalk

Back to a strange weekend: I finished a 1/2 cup of chocolate pudding flavored soft ice cream and was not satiated, so I threw the rest away. I want fat in my ice cream. Then (11 PM) something possessed me to drive around the block to an old account’s optical store in a small strip mall. For 25 years, I sold them eye glasses. The store was gone, replaced by a shiny white tiled, neon bright pizza place. Sure, it’s been three years since I saw them, but I was devastated; where and why have they gone. Later that night, Google told me they moved and I was relieved. Nobody likes change.

Back in the days of the wild-west and Grafton’s Merchantile Sundries and Saloon (a hangout in the movie ‘Shane;’ a western but one of the best movies ever and I can’t get my son to watch it. ‘Animal House,’ sure, 100 times) I once took a four day course in how to deal with ‘change.’ The following morning, my wife and I were back in our refurbished Conestoga wagon, on our way to a beach at the Jersey shore, up the road a spell from Asbury Park. After the wood bench, that I directed our team of horses from, gave me a splinter through my chaps, we hitched up and made it to the beach, depositing a $14.00 beach fee with a cigar-smoking rugged sheriff type character. Two hours of Ipod music later, I was on my jetty for a meditative session.

my mindful jetty sunday. no clouds on the horizon either.

It was a perfect ten day; blue sky, vitamin D absorption, heat, and gentle ocean. (I decided not to wear a bathing suit). I walked along the ocean, dodging cockles, empty mussel shells (some muscles too) and balls (beach). The walk took me south past places of beach privatization; just before that, the world went dark then nova bright. Thousands of people were huddled underneath umbrellas and sprawled on blankets and light weight chairs when suddenly, I saw the couple whose store I looked for the night before, strolling on the beach. My life is haunted with strange synchronicity; we hugged and reminisced. I recanted the night before. I had a new Facebook friend and more importantly, a curious buzzing headache which lasted all day.

idyllic beach unbrella scene

My mind was firing which is what I’m going to do in this blog; to give substance why I feel like I’m seeing and writing through a hair dryer. Please don’t tell on me. I hate second floor rooms with faded wall paper. Now I dislike Rupert Murdoch just as much. Can any of us imagine what he had his British tabloid do to violate human privacy and decency; for one, to hack the phone of a dead thirteen year old girl. This scandal will grow like a metastasis. I’m not surprised. Some companies do kill; their products and policies kill. Actuaries advise how to keep killing to make money like delaying a recall of dangerous products(cars, RX drugs). Humans are the cheapest renewable resource.

When was the last time someone called me bashful? Maybe it was Aunt Lillian. She was always comparing me to her son; arch rivals in a changing world and he looked like a young Lex Luthor. A small plane is flying overhead, pulling a banner, advertising ‘Reidel,’ a wine glass company. Is there such a demand? A man with a biceps tattoo, a few feet away on a blanket, lit a cigarette and gave one to his underage daughter (with a tattoo on her stomach). Cardiac cockles warmed to see true American family togetherness. I saw a commercial where just one lung cell, damaged from smoking, can start the cancer ball rolling. A phone call came from a Russian nurse (who looked like a blonde tennis player), watching my Uncle Joe (nearly four years ago). He had just passed and I needed to get there and sign papers. I knew Joe for sixty years and the image I’m stuck with was his diapered fetal position and cool skin to a parting touch.

The Da Nang River. and I do hear "A Whiter Shade of Pale"

I know where mental firing comes from. A funny silly comedy movie with surprising nudity was ‘Blame It On Rio,’ starring favorites Joe Bologna and Michael Caine. I blame my hair dryer mind on ‘Sedona, Arizona,’ not Rio. Twelve times over the years, I’ve been in Sedona; my first time, around seventeen years ago, with the family, driving up from Scottsdale, on a break from a national sales meeting. After two hours of driving, red mountains jumped out of nowhere and the world went breath silent. A red pile of dirt on the road side just past the Sedona 4500 feet elevation sign caused my rented white Cadillac to stop. In that pile of dirt, I rubbed red soil all over my tan arms. If there was magic in them hills, I wanted some. I got what I wanted (for life); permanent affectation. The best thing about being twelve and working for Meyer Kravitz, the grocer, was washing out the empty cole slaw tray. Small fingers picked out soggy cabbage remnants from opaque rivulets of watery mayonnaise and sugary vinegar. A loud EPA helicopter passed overhead. The earth moved. I saw the Da Nang River and heard ‘Whiter Shade of Pale;’ the power in those blades and in thinking under an umbrella. I don’t like sun on my body.

Walking up Columbus Avenue in Manhattan, past a Paris like side-walk cafe, I thought I saw Ann Coulter and Rachel Maddow having dinner together, wearing sunglasses but I still knew them. A side effect to Sedona intoxication is déjà-vu and hair dryer moments, perhaps too frequent. Wallpaper and flowers do sooth a soul. A man with a heavy southern accent phoned, offering to impregnate a young stabled girl for a fee. One day I woke up and knew I’d spend a Christmas Eve in Montana but in a snow storm. An hour went by and I stood motionless near the summit of a red vortex mountain off of Sedona’s Airport Road.

on a sedona mountain vortex. the sun was on my face.

Later my son and I took a Pink Jeep tour and when we got back to our car and did ignition, the clock read 4:44. I can’t forget that. Stephen Hawking said recently there is no spirit or God. And this morning, I read that preliminary research indicates that 8-10 glasses of water a day could significantly ease your back and joint pain for up to 80% of sufferers. I’m going to finish my novel one day disputing, refuting Mr. Hawking; maybe before that, physically levitating myself. A large obese teen, a few blankets over, un-wrapped a sub sandwich; long and soggy, it almost gave way from the middle. He caught it in time, spoiling my amusement. Minutes later, it all disappeared into a distended intestine. One Sedona trip, I drove passed Oak Creek Canyon and saw Native Americans on a mountain top, selling jewelry and silver artifacts. I stared at faces of endurance, warmth and compassion more than I did at what they sold. Native music of Incan Pan Pipes and Native American Flute has been part of me a long time.(Coyote Oldman’s ‘Tear of the Moon’) Why the attraction, I wonder. It’s a pulling and an inexplicable need to be there. A few months ago, my friend Ruth, a psychic, told me I was a Native American and I happily accepted.

Chief Seattle

video. you tube Tear of the Moon excerpt

father and son. belmar. truman president. jetty in background

On my refrigerator is a picture of my father and me (I was four) on the beach just a few miles away from my multi-colored umbrella. He was hugging me. In a shadow of my mind, I called the picture, ‘The Last Hug;’ it was black and white, obviously, just like the movie ‘The Last Picture Show.’ When I need oblivion fix and to feel desolate abandon, like sagebrush blowing down the main street, I watch that movie. It took me a long time to visit Texas. Last summer I visited my Uncle Joe’s best friend, cousin Stuart in Dallas.

What would I say to an old college girlfriend Ronnie, after nearly forty-two years, if I found her? Facebook helped me find her sister but she wasn’t her sister’s Facebook friend and she smoked a lot of ‘Newport’ cigarettes. A party fishing boat was chugging by just off shore. When I turned thirteen, my mother gave permission for me to spend the day with Uncle Herman (he wasn’t a real uncle) on a fishing boat. She warned me about sea sickness and my inexperienced legs (whatever that was). An hour into the sail, I realized how wise mother was. How can you throw-up for two straight hours? Can I be such a naive independent voter? President Clinton left office with a huge budget surplus. Eight Bush years later we were buried in debt. Politics is paradox, paradigm and parasailing off a Caribbean island when the tether breaks and you drift to Cuba. Would they believe me?

Einstein said the world was a dangerous place to live not because of people who are evil but because people don’t do anything about it. When I’m near this ocean in summer, I think about the March on Washington on August 28, 1963. Why didn’t I go? I was old enough (18). Dr. Prinz from Newark gave a speech just before Dr. King and said the most tragic thing about mankind is silence.

Pix to the right: Civil Rights Leaders before March on Washington August 28, 1963 with President Kennedy.

Summer of 1966, I was in Jersey City studying German on the second floor of a building off Journal Square rented by Rutgers; best college grades ever; straight A’s and I can’t remember what happened to that paisley shirt I wore all the time. My professor asked me if I wanted to study in Germany next semester. Politely, I declined. Another airplane was flying overhead pulling a banner. Bob Dylan is soon coming back to Asbury Park. Two years ago my son and I made it through the fifth song. Coca-Cola’s goal is for all bottles to be ‘PlantBottles’ by 2020. Bottles that I see now in the sand will still be here in six hundred years.

Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona

A small parking lot was filled as I walked up to the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona. Looking out at Cathedral Rock and Bell Rock through the window of my mind was wondrously ethereal. What a place to get married. Somewhere I heard that Senator Barry Goldwater helped get the chapel built. And I owe the Senator something. During his Presidential campaign, a bunch of us New Yorkers (implied easterners) didn’t let him get a quiet word in during his campaign speech in the Field House. Time Magazine said his Toledo appearance may’ve been the most disruptive of the campaign. Kids were worried if he got his hands on a bomb as Vietnam was becoming a war. A composite picture of some of those kids is right in front of me. The Republican administration of the college changed admitting policies the following year so no more New Yorkers. Warm diet peach tea quenched my dry mouth. Sun is setting. Tractors were beginning rounds to wipe out foot prints in the sand; time to pack up your sorrows. My head was still spinning with synchronistic thoughts and fragmentary ideas of birthing this blog. I think the most important thing I wanted to remember was the last time somebody said I was bashful. And I did. And I keep hoping that I captured and conveyed. Maybe somebody can piece things together. The name of the fishing boat I was on when I got sick was the ‘Marie S.’ My umbrella didn’t help; arms and face all red (a women’s lawyer?). What an expression; “I’d die of embarrassment.” Maybe I would, if Ronnie found this blog. I wonder what’s going to happen to the debt ceiling on August 2, 2011. Once I pedaled my bike towards a Newark bus, but chickened out a half block away.

The Newark bus I almost played chicken with

CONTACT INFORMATION

website: http://vichywater.net

Facebook: Cal Schwartz

Twitter: Earthood

Email: earthood@gmail.com

Vichy Water, a novel. Book Trailer link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qj2ko9gcC_M

LINKS:

link to magical Jersey shore. Also check out the ‘Jersey Shore Icon Contest.

’http://www.visitthejerseyshore.com/

and for special deals on Jersey shore rentals: (it’s never too late)

http://shorevacations.wordpress.com/

Comments (4)

July 6, 2011

Fourth of July. Asbury Park, NJ: Forever Young, ‘The Stone Pony’, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes.’ Diabetes. Exercise. More Absurdities. July 6, 2011

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: general, george, johnny, southside, washington — earthood @ 12:07 am

: General George Washington

Somebody told me the other day that General George Washington ‘celebrated’ the first Fourth of July in 1778 in New Brunswick, New Jersey, just up the road from me, by directing his army to put “green boughs” in their hats, issuing them a double allowance of rum and ordering a Fourth of July artillery salute. When I was growing up in the fifties in Newark, New Jersey, my father used to take us to visit my grandmother in Plainfield, twenty miles south.

The Plainfield NJ Revolutionary War farm house

A thousand feet from my grandmother’s kitchen, where sumptuous fresh potato salad always waited, was an old Revolutionary War era farm house; General Washington was rumored to have slept there for one night. At the rear, adjacent to a vacant lot overrun by wild perhaps poisonous weeds, was supposedly an obscured entrance to a cave beneath the house.(built to help General Washington escape or hideout) Unfortunately for me, local urchins convinced me it was haunted; enough of a deterrent to last for decades. My loss; I can’t imagine all the rich history that waited in that dark dank cave. Years later, the farm house was restored but never found its just national historical place. Up until ten years ago I used to drive by my grandmother’s house, adjacent to an active railroad trestle, and I’d just sit in the car and stare down memories of 24/7 potato salad and a brave neat loving woman from the old country.

It was July third, ten years ago and I was heading home through Plainfield, but the house was gone; nothing was left except a patch of tired brown grass. I’ve never been back to Plainfield, angry that they took away my memories on the day before July fourth. A few July third’s before that, I was rushed to the hospital for jaw surgery; a few weeks prior, I was playing night tennis in Baltimore after having spent the day at the Vietnam War Memorial. After a lethal drop shot, barely clearing the net, my knees gave out valiantly and the energy of my body falling, concentrated on my chin, breaking both mandibles. A few weeks elapsed before correct diagnosis and hospital surgery in an attempt to redirect the healing process of my mandibles. This means, I was wired shut for two months. No talking, no tuna fish (solid food), no communication except grunting and signage to my ‘Clara Barton’ wife. Alas, somehow it was the best two communicative months of our marriage (up to then). Despite these two somewhat negative personal launches into our country’s birthday, July Fourth is pure patriotic magic for me.

My last few blogs I’ve been talking about Asbury Park, New Jersey, a real Jersey shore town that has undergone a renaissance from the blight of the sixties to become a place of youthful exuberance and musical expression; truly a place where the music lives. Last few weeks, I’ve been there regularly; perhaps a delayed reaction to not having gone to ‘Woodstock’ in 1969.

Woodstock 1969 (at Max Yasgurs Farm)

My hair was short for 1969 standards. I was out the door, running to a waiting car heading to Yasgur’s Farm in Bethel, New York for three days of fun, peace and rock music. A door handle within reach, suddenly my fiancé calls out from our co-inhabited apartment, warning me that if I go to ‘Woodstock,’ she wouldn’t be there when I got back. So I went back and spent three more years with her and regretted every August not having been at that festival of a lifetime. (I could’ve also saved three years. Maybe) Much input swirls around my streams of consciousness; awareness of youth gone by, recapturing youth, refusing to move on, which means not acting my age. But Virginia, you know what, I know there is a Santa Claus, and actually I am acting and thinking my age. If there’s substance to living to 150 years old, which I’ve been blogging and plotting; then I’m still a youngster by those chronological standards. Where am I going with this? Two weeks ago I was visiting my son in his new apartment in Brooklyn and we saw on- line that ‘Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes’ were doing a live concert at the legendary ‘The Stone Pony‘ in Asbury Park over the Fourth of July Weekend.

We looked at each other, smiled and knew we were going to that concert; a young father and son thing to do. I was going to the ‘Stone Pony‘ for my first time. Where have I been all these years, Joe DiMaggio? I’m a late bloomer; accepted and lived with. Rather than do a long history of ‘The Stone Pony‘ here’s a history link: http://www.stoneponyonline.com/info/history.html

Appropriate to spend part of July Fourth there; I think of George Washington, that old farm house in Plainfield, where he slept one night and ‘The Stone Pony’ a Jersey shore ‘house’ which is to world musical history as Washington is to our country’s history. Cirrus clouds told us perfect weather. A parking deck attendant told us it’s free tonight. A local bar served up a Cajun shrimp dish on a bed of warm spicy grits. “What’s a grit?” my son chimed in, perfectly imitating Joe Pesci in ‘My Cousin Vinny.’

Excitement grew; it was near 8pm and ‘Southside Johnny’ concert starting time. Walking towards the beach and ‘The Pony,’ it was great to be alive, knowing you’re young (because of the exercise, 40 supplements a day and mental determination and attitude) and you’re hanging with your best friend (son).

A few blocks down, on the right was a lively vacant lot; a group of people formed a drum circle and played, so we listened for a while, deeply inhaling Asbury’s musical salt ocean air. Then I looked across the street at the back of an old green house. A young teen was playing a guitar by the back steps next to two huge urban paintings. Indeed this was a revived Asbury Park, the place where music lives.

an Asbury teen, a guitar and urban art.

From a distance, we saw the towering edifice of the ‘The Stone Pony’ summer stage and our walking pace accelerated. Thousands of people were as close to the stage as they could get. For me, the thrill of being in a place of rock history, was like the first time waiting to see Santa Claus at ‘Bamberger’s in Newark. All too frequently, I looked around at demographics and realized I was among the oldest but really as young as anybody else gyrating to ‘Southside Johnny.’ Damn. I was there and loving every minute. My son and I were busy high-fiving. It was great to be young and alive.

Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes on stage

Then I thought about my father who took us to Asbury Park on weekends to boardwalk concessions. When he was fifty, as I recollected, while listening to ‘Southside Johnny’ and occasionally being tapped on the shoulder, asking me to move slightly right or left (I’m nearly 6′ 6″), my father resigned himself to old artery hardening age, and spent the next forty years of his life waiting for it to end, sitting in a chair in front of a television. Curse remote control in later years; it kept him motionless in his chair. Two weeks before, I went whitewater rafting with my son. During the intermission, I went inside and checked out ambience of purist music history; yeah, I ‘goose-bumped.’

As the second set began, security cleared a path just in front of me as Steven Van Zandt (E Street band) and actor and raconteur Steve Schirripa walked by. Van Zandt jumped on stage for a bunch of songs with Southside Johnny. Pure magic all around, everywhere the eye could see. Pure lessons of life; to palpate and participate, to “be the ball” as ‘Ty Webb’ said in ‘Caddyshack.’ My son won a texting contest and back stage we met most of the band. I remember Winston Zeddemore in ‘Ghostbusters’ proclaiming, “I love this city.”(New York) I do too and Asbury Park, the magical ‘The Stone Pony’ and my generation of baby boomers who ‘refused’ then and now.

son and I at concert

'Winston Zeddemore' from 'Ghostbusters' my son's favorite

Earlier I talked about my potato salad producing grandmother, who suffered from diabetes. The number of diabetics worldwide has more than doubled the last 30 years, jumping to an estimated 347 million people. Part of the increase is due to rising obesity rates. I wonder about all our obese kids here in America who won’t figure into the stats yet; they’re too young. Treatments are not great for diabetes. I’ve been working hard to avoid it as all four of my grandparents had it; a smoking gun to my furrowed contemplative brow. Massive exercise, supplements, magnesium, mental attitude again, may be helping me stay far away. I like to say, I’m not in the mood for it. I’m thinking about the older generation again, now disappearing; the old picture albums of ten people sitting around a table with flowers, dressed in finery, a small container filled with complementary cigarettes; all long gone now; distant memories and foreboding awareness. Back when they had the temerity to put cigarettes and engraved matches on tables in the catering hall, if you had a heart attack, the doctors told you to rest up for a few months then take it easy for the rest of your life. Today, a revolutionary approach tells you a few days after said heart attack, to start working out on a treadmill or bike, massively. The heart is a muscle; it wants work, just like the nine million Americans unemployed. I wonder, being an independent voter, if the other party does everything they can to better our living standards or do they do everything they can to derail and unseat the sitting President, in that quest for power, sacrificing American citizen’s good and welfare? Sometimes I think it’s awfully obvious; a ‘Moonstruck’ slap to all our oblivious faces.

Back on the absurdities (of modern life) ranch, I just read about the death of a Harley- Davidson biker near Syracuse, New York. He was riding, protesting the law requiring wearing helmets for biking. If he had a helmet when he went flying over his handlebars, he would’ve lived.

worker trying to contain Exxon-Mobil oil spill on our Yellowstone River

I’m getting tired of hearing about Exxon-Mobil and accidents. Hundreds of barrels of crude oil spilled into Montana’s Yellowstone River after an ExxonMobil pipeline beneath the riverbed ruptured, sending a plume 25 miles downstream and forcing temporary evacuations. Facebook is valued at $100 billion (it’s just data and a members list). Delta Airlines is worth $ 8 billion and Groupon who refused to sell out last year to Google for $6 billion is at $25 billion now. And an eyeglass (letter Z) on-line company is advertising a complete frame and lens for $6.95. What does that say? And I love the Utah guy who paid a $25 disputed medical bill in pennies and was cited for disorderly conduct, a fine five times the bill.

Two days ago, July Fourth, I was on the beach at the Jersey shore, alternating time sitting in a beached chair under a beach umbrella listening to my ipod music, (folk, opera, rock, new age) with sitting on a nice rocky horror jetty, talking to this neat group of gregarious seagulls and finally walking ocean side for a few blocks to the other jetty of my mind. As my mind does often, it fires away. The other day, I watched the finals of men’s and women’s Wimbledon tennis.

(virginia wade who was the last Briton to win wimbledon singles championship in 1977) I watched that match.

Fifteen years ago, I sat in the grandstand court at the US Open for the first week, seven days in a row and watched for twelve hours a day. I knew the rankings and pairings by heart. Fifty years ago, I knew the batting averages and team standings of the whole National League. On the beach of my mind Monday, I realized I knew only a handful of current tennis players and haven’t watched any television baseball yet since the last few games of the World Series last October and I haven’t been to the US Open, other than the Finals, in those ten or fifteen years. But I was at ‘The Stone Pony’ on Saturday for a rock concert so maybe, on this second day after the Fourth of July, in a year of my youth and expanded vital lung capacity and cerebral sharpness, I might plan a trip to Wimbledon next year or the US Open later this summer or Yankee Stadium or get back soon to the ‘Pony’ after all, the converse may be true to “you’re not getting any younger.” But maybe I am, in my mind, going back to the Jersey shore and not Carolina. Happy Sixth of July.