Do Some Shots Instead

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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.