Manic Mode

Dear universe: Can we rewind about two weeks and have a do-over? Because I really preferred a world where being black was not an arrestable offense, a good kid I knew from work hadn't drowned, and Robin Williams was best known for being funny and not for being dead? – Facebook post by John Munzer, my son, August 2014

It’s nearly 1 a.m. and, as usual, I can’t get to sleep. Lately, I’ve been falling asleep around 4 or 5 a.m. and waking up around noon or later. And I’m psyched at the moment because there’s a huge storm heading right at central Long Island where my son lives. And though he has handled himself well in snow before, he has never seen what is predicted – 36 inches of snow with 50 mph winds.

And so, while I’m in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, where snow is rare, I’m listening to one of the news radio stations coming out of New York City.  It’s 4 a.m. there and the storm is hopefully about half over, but the blizzard part of the storm has arrived and Matt and many of my friends will wake up in a few hours to a hell of white. So I'm in a manic mode.

But that’s not what this is about today; although perhaps it is related as I think of the despair many will have tomorrow. It’s about Robin Williams.

I was scanning through a possible movie to rent on iTunes and saw “Good Morning Vietnam” and decided to rent it. It’s halfway downloaded and the computer says it will take about another five hours to finish. Why does it take three plus times the length of the movie anyway? And so, I’ve been thinking about him. I’m not at all surprised he killed himself. He was clearly bi-polar. I am too. I don’t know why, but bi-polar people can be extremely creative and, at times, filled with immense courage. Robin was both. At the time of his death though, he may have been also suffering from a form of dementia according to his autopsy. There was no evidence of illegal drug use, which had plagued him during some of his career.

My son made two posts about Robin on his Facebook page, the second being a picture of him standing on a desk saying  “my captain, oh my captain”. It was from a scene in one of his movies, “Dead Poets Society.” I think it was his most memorable film moment. Playing a prep school teacher, he jumped on a desk and demanded that his students take a look at things from a different angle. When I saw it, I too, started looking at things from a different angle. And while never jumping on a chair or desk when I became a teacher, I certainly urged students to do so.

My son’s first exposure to Robin (as well as mine) was when he was a pre-schooler. Robin played Mork, an alien seeking to learn about humanity, which gave him a marvelous comedic platform at the end of each episode when he contacted his ruler back on his home planet.

But I suppose Robin’s movie career also impacted him. Robin was willing to take risks. His first movie, “Popeye,” pretty much bombed. But the script was far more terrible than Robin’s performance. For every “Good Morning Vietnam,” Dead Poets Society” and “Mrs. Doubtfire,” there were flops, sometimes ahead of their time, like “The Birdcage,” “One Hour Photo,” and “The Butler.” Perhaps one of the most interesting films was “What Dreams May Come,” where, after dying, pursues his late wife who committed suicide. It was an indictment of many of our religious beliefs about an afterlife, especially how unfair it is. I didn’t like the film very much. I felt the computer-generated scenes were too distracting to follow the plot and I didn’t think it was much of a plot. I saw it with my ex, and she liked it. I suppose it was because he went to the depths of Hell to find her. But we both loved “Patch Adams,” where the pompous medical institution was ripped to shreds (she was a nurse and hated the system and I hated it for what it had done to her).

But my favorite was his voiceover as the genie in Disney’s “Aladdin.” Unlike other Disney films, Robin recorded his voiceovers, complete with dozens of ad-libs before the film was made. Usually voiceovers are done as the finished cartoon runs in front of the voice actor.

One of the most interesting times I saw him was in “Inside The Actors’ Studio,” the cable television series. He was manic at his highest (he may have been high too. This was when he was having trouble with drugs) and he was crazy non-stop funny. But he just couldn’t come down to earth.

I was also quite shocked when I saw a DVD of his live show “On Broadway.” It was filled with comedy of an adult nature and the man had no limits. It completely altered my perspective of him. He was no longer a “family” act.  But he was, as always, a tough act to follow.

Yes John, I would also like to see Robin best known for being funny and not for being dead. But he left us a wonderful legacy that made the world a better place for his being there – something we all should aspire to. 

By the way, it's still going to take four more hours to download the movie.

Crossroad

As most of the people who know me are aware, I live in a travel trailer and — in between cross country journeys — justify my existence by volunteering in state and national parks. They are rent free and I do not pay for utilities.

At the moment, I have no assignment for May and June, a tough gig to get, and I stumbled into a situation that sounds rather attractive. It is at a county park in Columbia County Oregon. Compensation includes a free single-wide home and $150 a week for 15 hours. I have been offered the position through the end of October, but have discovered the spot can also be for a year round host. I've been offered the gig at least through the end of October.

On the plus side, I would be able to give up the vagabond lifestyle for a while. I've generally lived in a tent or a trailer since 2010, though I did lease an apartment for about 15 months, though I mainly used it between November and January before heading south to a warmer clime.

I would probably not need the trailer any more, but would have to keep it anyhow if for some reason I was terminated.

Being in one place means not having to travel to another location. The last move I did cost me about $200 in gas and other travel expenses. It costs at least $2500 to move to the other coast, which is the reason I have done seasonal work in the midwest for the past two years. And frankly, I don't think I can keep up with the 40-hour work weeks any more.

On the negative side is location, location and location. Just look at the map:

This map is about 20 miles wide. There are few signs of civilization. It is in the heart of Oregon Logging country in the Coastal Mountain range. The bare spots you see are generally areas that have been logged and there is no sign of reforestation. 

But the major problem is that there is no cell service for fifteen miles in any direction. I've been in isolated areas over the past two years, but there were towns nearby. And I've always had service. I bought a smart phone with great reluctance last year because I needed a hot spot for my internet. I'm about 25 miles from a McDonalds or Wal-Mart, my personal requirements for calling an area "civilized." So food is something that needs to be shopped for and cooked. I'm at a point where I don't enjoy cooking anymore, especially for myself. I am no longer fond of canned or frozen meals. I often go for fast food, or food from a deli department.

It's also about 68 miles — about 90 minutes from my son and his family. And while that is certainly better than being 3,000 miles away, it is a tough trip over two-land winding and sometimes steep roads. And it's a continent away from many people I love and care about.  The idea of a nighttime drive home for either of us in unattractive, though it would be much better as the days become longer. 

And it's unfurnished. While I'm not ready to go dumpster diving, I'm not able to afford much furniture without going broke.  I don't feel secure enough to sell the trailer to furnish this place and I certainly need a truck, rather than a car, in this territory.

And so I contemplate it. I'm tired of being a vagabond and a free house is awsome. Living in the middle of nowhere is not. 

And so I ask you, what are your feelings about this?

The antipizza

Anyone who has lived between the Delaware River and the Atlantic Ocean is aware that there is a vast epicurean wasteland west of that River. For beyond that point there are impostors.

Their names are infamous: Pizza Hut, Domino’s, Little Caesar’s, Poppa John’s and Sbarro are among these spawn of evil incarnate. Even worse are those new “take and bake” places like Papa Murphy’s (What the HELL kind of a name is that for a legendary Italian food?). These places give you horrifying junk and then blame YOU if it didn’t turn our right, because, after all, it’s YOUR oven.

Everyone knows that frozen pizza is pathetic. Because, of course, you freeze the ingredients.

And as I have been up and down the Atlantic Coast several times and have recently completed my third cross-country trip, I have been exposed to these impostors. I know the best I can hope for is some processed cheese melted on all kinds of imitation crusts with packaged meat and other ingredients tossed in.

For those of you who live west of the Delaware River, one has to understand why these foul impostors are rarely around between the river and ocean. It’s because New York is THE city. It is where many immigrants came to our shore, especially the (are you ready for this?) Italians.

And so one must experience pizza in one of the thousands of small pizza places that dot the metropolitan area. The impostors are rare. They simply can't compete with the quality. The crust is thin, but not so thin as the slice can’t be folded in half as one eats it. The cheese is fresh, the sauce is home madeand perfectly spiced. And despite their small size, these pizzerias provide a bountiful menu of Italian-American dishes including veal, chicken, sausage and meatballs served with an infinite variety of pastas, cheese and sauces – or as classic heros.

Alas, I am in Oregon, about 30 miles west of Portland. And these imposters are everywhere. It makes me very nervous as my frugal lifestyle has boosted my credit rating to ridiculous highs. And I am often sorely tempted to head to PDX and fly back home, if only for a real meal in Brooklyn, Queens or even Jersey. Could there be anything more wonderful than take-out with a fabulous friend? (Especially if she lived in Denville!)

My love for pizza and other Italian foods began when I was a callow youth of about 10 tender years of age. You may ask why it took so long to have pizza, and you may. I had eaten spaghetti out of a can and occasionally my mother would make it with canned tomato sauce, not the sauce you think of. It was the tasteless, spiceless kind. But what did she know? She was Irish. And so on a hot summer day at a beach along the Rockaway River in Mt. Tabor, New Jersey, I approached the snack bar. And on the counter was pizza. It was truly lousy pizza, but even then, it was wonderful.

And so, my mother had been forced to journey to Fred’s Pizza, located in my hometown of Morristown, New Jersey, every other Friday (payday) where we would enjoy an epicurean delight of  “two slices and a soda.”

And then things got serious. When I was married, we discovered that the Daily News had rated the best pizza place in New York City was about five blocks from where we lived and we went there many times. But to be honest, it was about the same as just about every other pizzeria in New York. I was especially fond of a small little place in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. It was a few blocks from my in-laws home and had incredible chicken and veal Parmesan. The last time I ate there was on my way home after selling the house. I went about sixty miles out of my way to eat there, and it was well worth it.

Anyhow, except for a few weeks in New Jersey in October of 2013, I have been out of touch with the “real” stuff since I hit the road full time in 2012.

And thus in Banks, Oregon, I tripped upon the antipizza. Banks is a small town. It has little retail, but it does have a small supermarket. Next to it is “Main Street Pizza.” As we enter, you are warned. It is not for the faint of heart. I approached the counter and asked for two cheese slices and a soda. I get a blank stare from the counterman. “Sorry, we only sell slices between 11 and 1.”

WTF????? The entire NYC metro culture, not to mention the economy, is based on two slices and a soda. A place that did that on Long Island wouldn’t last a week. And so I reviewed the menu. It had sandwiches. A sausage and pepper would be great. They didn’t have it; nor did they have chicken, or veal. The girl at the counter never heard of them! How can you work in a pizza place and NOT know about veal parmesan? They had ham, Swiss, roast beef, cheddar and other sandwiches without a hint of salami, pepperoni or provolone. Would you like an antipasti? Good luck, they didn’t even serve pasta! And forget meatballs. Even the nearby Subway sells meatball sandwiches for $5!

In the tradition of the Portland region, however, they did sell eight varieties of microbrew beer.

As I was leaving, wondering if the Chinese restaurant next door knew how to make chow mien without noodles, I passed by a table and noticed that the pizza didn’t look half bad. In fact, it looked and smelled about the same as the beach pizza I had more than half a century ago. And so I ordered a large pie. I went shopping at the local market and the pie was ready when I was finished. I brought it home, opened it and discovered the pie was sliced into 12 pieces. That was weird. The “real” way to eat pizza is to fold it in half so the oil can drip on your shirt as you bring it to your mouth. That works with eight slices. I was tempted to describe the slice as "lice" — one letter shy of a slice."

And so, my memories of real pizza still intact, I tasted it. And it wasn’t half bad! In fact it was good – not as good as east of the Delaware – but good enough to be the best west of the Delaware. The crust was perfect, and the cheese and sauce in correct proportions. I had four of the “slices” and divided the other eight into four bags and put them into the fridge for future meals.

Cold pizza for breakfast? Oh yeah!