I’m gonna miss Van. Shaun Cassidy, not so much

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‘I hadn’t thought about record albums in years; now they’re stuck in my mind like a Monkees tune’

Once, when The Child was, oh, eleven or twelve, she happened to be standing in front of the bookshelf — probably looking for the chess pieces, bless her smarty-pants heart — when she pulled out one of the large square objects pictured below and asked, “What is this?”

When I told her it was a “record album” she looked totally and completely blank. So I said, “You use them to play music. With a turntable.” Seeing her still-baffled countenance, I added, “kind of like an earlier version of a CD.” “Aaaah,” she remarked. “I get it. And look: there’s much more room for liner notes!”

I’ve had record albums on my mind lately because, as you probably know by now (and maybe are tired of hearing about), The Dude and I are in mid-life downsizing mode. Going from a respectably-sized New York apartment to, basically, a Barbie-and-Ken playhouse. We’re talking telescoping down from 1600 sq. ft. to, oh, 350. Give or take a square foot — or toe.

Barbie’s playhouse kitchen. Yup, that’s a two-burner stovetop

Well. You basically cannot squoosh twenty-six years of stuff into a space that small. So something’s gotta give. Heck, forget “something”. Let’s be honest and say “everything”. Yup, kids. Everything’s gotta go.

So last weekend The Dude and I rolled up our sleeves and started in. I made some calls and found out that a place called (here comes a plug; I love this guy!) Innersleeve Records in Amagansett would take our albums. All of our albums. And we had tons. Not only our Beatles and Monkees and Stones but The Dude’s parents’ showtunes and classicals and, yes, Shaun Cassidys.

We carted about fifteen linear feet of record albums to good ole New Best Friend Chris at Innersleeve, who not only accepted our motley donation with good grace but actually helped us carry the darned things in from the car. And, let me tell you, record albums — good liner notes and all — are heavy.

Another album gem from our ex-collection

Oh, before I forget. Somewhere in this collection is the very first record album I ever had. Someone — I think it was my Middle Younger Brother Roger — gave it to me as a gift, not realizing that I did not own a turntable upon which to play it. I was a freshman in college at the time, and I used to say to my dorm buddies, “Why don’t you come on over to my room? We can hang out and look at my record.”

Just for fun, here’s an album by The Dude’s doppelganger

Well, I’d love to hang around here at my computer, sharing more stories from my storied past, but there are family photos to be put away. (“You absolutely must put away all photos!” saith the real estate agent, sending me into shock.)

Seasonal selection of family photos, never to be displayed again. At least not in this apartment

Oh. And there are the books. Did I mention that we own a lot of books? We scratched the surface (sort of) last week, when we disposed of about 20 linear feet of art books. God bless you, East Hampton Library. I promise to go to Authors’ Night every year until you run out of authors.

Got books? These are only the art books

But here’s the thing. At least record albums are back in vogue, at least in some decidedly hipster circles. You know, as long as you call them “vinyl”. 

Which brings me to this shelf. I’ll give you my coolest Springsteen if you can help me figure out how to turn this complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica into hipster bait.

I bet they don’t even have “hipster” under “H”

New York City. October 2019

 

It’s a small world, after all

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‘It took me nearly as long to get to Roosevelt Island as it did to get to the Amazon River’

I didn’t get his name, but I’m betting it was ‘Tony’. He was the guy manning the gate that lets you into the waiting area to ride the tram back from Roosevelt Island.

One of my besties (hi, Laurie!) and I had spent a most marvelous time strolling around the Island, checking out the new monument to Mr. Roosevelt, the old Smallpox Hospital (where they used to quarantine the poor sufferers, bless their hearts), and even the new Cornell Labs (where they let us in, but only so far in; they have very nice light fixtures in their cafeteria).

Monument to Mr. R. One of my other bestie’s sons really really wants to skateboard here

You can’t go in because it is ‘unstable’ (not that I’d want to), but here is the Smallpox Hospital in all its tumbledown glory

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There is no ‘P’ in ‘Short Stack’

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‘Who knew a pancake could be so Proustian?’

I was thinking a lot about pancakes this past weekend. For one thing, it was Father’s Day — a day, like Mother’s Day, when the ole pancake griddle (or frying pan, which is what was used when I was Growing Up Lutheran) can get a real workout.

I can remember a time, not that long ago, when, as a young(ish) mom myself, I would rustle up a batch of pancakes not just for Father’s-or-Mother’s Day, but almost every Sunday morning, winter and summer — pretty much all year ’round.

My Garland, all shined up at that. This is the same stove that Julia Child owned, I'll have you; the one that's in the Smithsonian. Not this exact one, of course

My Garland, all shiny and ready for pancake-making. This is the same stove that Julia Child owned, I’ll have you know; it’s in the Smithsonian. (Not this exact one, of course)

I’d man (woman?) the griddle on my impressive Garland six-burner-and-griddle-topped stove, spatula and coffee cup in hand(s) while The Child polished off an impressive number of pancakes (five? seven? ten?) without benefit of butter, syrup, or even fork. The experience was rather like watching my Oldest Younger Brother Scott polish off sweet corn. (His talent for this inspired my Swedish Grampa to give him the nickname Scott ‘Sweetcorn’ Henry.) Continue reading

Yup. Even Slackers get the Labor Day Blues

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‘Summer, I miss you already’

I know, I know. Summer isn’t officially over till, like, September 21. But even if yesterday wasn’t Labor Day, I say that if I have to grill my burgers by flashlight it’s Autumn. Okay? And today it’s back to Reality (and the Big City), since even sporadically-employed freelancers like me have obligations and responsibilities. (See ‘I love the smell of SoftScrub in the morning’ for envy-inducing examples.)

But before I go, I’d like to recall a few of the summery things I miss already, along with those white bucks I never got a chance to wear:

Glam home upgrades. Look out. If the Southampton Hospital Designer Showhouse Committee gets wind of our new propane tank, they’re sure to come calling.

Nope. It's not the Oscar Meyer WeinerMobile. It's our snappy new propane tank. Now everybody's gonna want one.

Nope. It’s not the Oscar Meyer WeinerMobile. It’s our snappy new propane tank. Now everybody’s gonna want one.

Newsy neighbors. Due to an amazing stroke of parental luck (The Dude’s Dad had many famous–and grateful–patients*), we live in a neighborhood of BoldFace Names. One of our neighbors was recently on the front page of the Post for erecting an electric fence to protect the ‘Hillary for Prison’ signs he put up in his yard. Another, Jerry Seinfeld, was in the East Hampton Star’s Crime Log for running an illegal lemonade stand: Continue reading