A Photo Per Day

My girlfriend Ursula has been posting a daily photo on Facebook of her life for a month. Pictures include the view from her apartment, the street vendor from whom she buys her morning coffee, her bike, etc. And she's struggling. I keep thinking, "You live in Manhattan -- every street has a new photo op, no?" Not to mention that she's artistic and works for MOMA. It seems like it should be a relatively easy assignment for her but it's not.

I was wondering if I could do the same thing here for a month. How difficult would it be in a town where nothing happens? Apparently pretty darned tough. But I might try it during November -- a month in the Roc that's notoriously devoid of character. No falling leaves. No sunshine. No snow (hopefully). 

I'm a terrible photographer but I brought my camera with me yesterday, in preparation, just to see what I could capture.

First stop, early morning, my sister's new puppy barking at the waves outside the cottage. He was racing around so quickly I could barely capture him in the frame.

Then, off to the tiny Episcopalian church that's about one minute up the road where my little man rang the bell after the service. So stinkin' cute to see him pulling the giant cord and listen to the bells chiming.

 

After church, we went bowling where I somehow forgot to take pictures. What I should have captured were the insulting graphics that appeared on the giant screen above our lane. Dancing pins shouting "gutter ball." Great for a little kid's self-esteem (not to mention mine). 

Remembered the camera before lunch at Rio Tomatlan in Canandaigua. Como se dice, "yummy" en Espanol? It was here, after buying the kids new winter coats and gloves on the way to the restaurant, that I heard, "Thank you mom for the best day ever." Warms the heart. 

 

Intent on studying the selection of salsa verdes, the subject of the photo hides behind his menu.

Last stop on the way home, apple picking at the aptly named The Apple Farm. Riding the tractor . . . 

Picking yellow delicious . . .

Posing like the Fonz at the top of the hill camera askew . . .

And picking red delicious . . .

So tired at the end of the day, I could have slept while sitting upright but I let the Milkman do that for me  :)

Meliora Monday

When we were both grad students at the U of R, my girlfriend Marg asked me what "meliora," the University motto, meant.

I responded, "It's Latin for mediocrity."

My extensive knowledge of Latin could, both then and now, be boiled down to a) the few Latin roots that I knew which formed commonly used words in English and b) the English translation of the tune "Dona Nobis Pacem" that we sang ad nauseam (ah, see what I did there?) during choir practice under the tutelage of the famed Harold McAuliffe. Give us peace.

I am now pleased to inform myself (because you probably already knew) that meliora, in fact, means "Always better." Hmmm, how much more fitting, inspirational and beautifully poetic. I learned this not through an active Google search but rather from the online viewing of a collection of beautiful photos of the University of Rochester entitled, Photo Friday, which contains a Meliora photo.

Although it's not as visually stunning as some of the others, my favorite is the image captured below that was taken by Jessica Stoll (a PhD candidate in Political Science). It reminds me of walking through that same cavernous hallway with my mom when I was younger and taking dance classes at the university. Every week, those walls would have a fresh coat of paint and graffiti and, as a kid, I thought it was just a little bit scary.

It also reminds me of the first time I discovered that same dungenous, rank passageway as a grad student and immediately flashed back to an aspect of my childhood that I had all but forgotten. Never in a million years could I have envisioned the day, possibly 20 years later, when I would be back on campus as an MBA student. Wow. From expressive, modern dance movements to game theory. 

Certainly different but . . . always better?

Pack Rat

While sorting through an old box of stuff in the basement, I came across heaps of mementos including a photo of my mom on a date in the 50s in a frame that says, "Souvenir of Moroccan Village: The Gayest Spot in the Village" and "Slumming in Greenwich Village." Inside that frame was also the front page of The AMBAssador 25th Anniversary Issue (October 1953) which I'm guessing was the internal newsletter for employees of Alexanders. My mom was apparently an Alexanderite (posh name for a salesperson?) and was pictured with four other women alongside an article that states, "Alexanderites strutting proudly down the aisles of our two Bronx stores and at White Plains recently had ample reason for thrusting out their chests and boasting a bit." You go girl!

Speaking of strutting themselves, I also unearthed a picture of my dad circa 1945 with a bunch of other guys in the Navy all dressed up like (I think) girls? They're lifting their skirts (yes, you read that right) to show their boxers but also are wearing hats, garter belts on their thighs, and scarves around their necks. I'm thinking that they may have fit in better at Moroccan Village than on the U.S.S. Richmond. What happens at sea stays at sea?

In the pile, I found a bunch of my old concert tickets including the Who, the Stones, Rush, Santana, the Dead, the Lounge Lizards, Elvis Costello, UB40, Joe Jackson, Janes Addiction, Simple Minds, the Call, Tom Petty, Cheap Trick, the Plasmatics and more.

And I found a receipt from Marine Midland Bank dated March 16, 1983 where I ran into the Thompson Twins at the ATM and they all signed my bank balance ($311.68)! I also have an REO Speedwagon ticket signed by Gary Richrath and Kevin Cronin. Ah yes, you can tune a piano but you can't tuna fish.

My least favorite ticket? The Cars. I'll never forget them singing, "Can I bring you out in the light?" and flooding the War Memorial with stadium lighting. Unbelievable buzzkill. Worst ending to a concert ever. Not just what I needed.

Lastly, I found a copy of Playbill magazine circa 1984 in which Aaron Sorkin (an SU grad with whom we used to stay on our weekend trips to the city) wrote, "It was great sex! Come live with us." Aaron S. For whatever reason, his S looks more like a backwards dollar sign. (Note to mom: We didn't really have sex. It was his roommate who hit on me at the time but I feigned death. It worked.) In any event, Aaron was convinced that he would be famous one day and I believed him. Back then he was a talented writer living in a walk-up in Hell's Kitchen; now he's a talented gazillionaire living presumably in some heavenly mansion in California. Maybe I'll take him up on his offer now?!