Category Archives: Writing

Historic Theater Celebrates the Past, Faces Uncertain Future

The historic Strand Theatre in Old Forge, N.Y.

For movie junkies, entering The Strand Theatre in Old Forge, N.Y., is like stepping back in time to the golden age of cinema, and the dust of past decades clings to the old cameras, projectors, editing systems, film reels and movie posters scattered throughout the small theater.

The theater opened in March of 1923 and is celebrating its 90th anniversary this year. But it still shows the latest releases.

While I was on vacation in Old Forge in early June I saw Vince Vaughn’s The Internship and Now You See Me at The Strand. Walking around before one of the shows I gazed up at a promotional poster for the 1938 film Angels with Dirty Faces, starring James Cagney, Pat O’Brien and Humphrey Bogart. Seeing that item alone would have made my night.

But then I turned a corner inside the theater, just past the snack bar, and a wave of nostalgia hit me. I felt like an archaeologist unearthing the instruments of a lost civilization, as the long narrow room was filled from floor to ceiling with film cameras, projectors, advertisements, photos, posters and newspaper clippings—a museum-quality display of movie memorabilia and analog 20th Century technology.

Movie cameras and projectors on display inside The Strand Theatre.

Owners Bob Card and Helen Zyma bought The Strand in November of 1991 and opened on Memorial Day in 1992.

Card says the collection stretches back to the early 1980s, when the theater was under different management. But he says it continues to grow. “Customers leave off cameras all the time,” he says. “Sometimes you open, you know, and they’ll be a bag or box of cameras in front of the door, and you don’t even know where it came from.” He adds, “Other people, clearly, they give you their family’s cameras and then, you know, they come back and visit them.”

Still cameras on view inside The Strand Theatre.

The collection didn’t seem to be in any particular order, which made it fun to explore.

Some of the items I saw included: a Kodak Ektasound 240 movie camera; some Bell & Howell 8mm movie cameras and Bell & Howell 8mm home projectors; a Kodascope projector; some Brownie vintage cameras and Brownie movie cameras and projectors; a Keystone 8mm camera; some Polaroid cameras; a Kodak Ektralite 10 camera and a Kalart Editor Viewer Eight.

A large Simplex Standard 35mm projector stood inside one of the auditoriums. A pink Post-it note taped to the projector stated that two identical Simplex Standard projectors were installed at The Strand in 1934 and retired in mid-1993.

Card says the cameras and projectors are interesting from a design standpoint. “So many different ideas were tried with them. They’re fun to look at. They used to be fun to use.”

Something else about The Strand made the movie-going experience even more entertaining; Card’s dog, a brown and white Siberian husky named Noah, serves as the theater’s mascot and greets customers as they buy tickets or get snacks at the concession stand. Noah also does cleanup work; on one of the nights I was there, he came into the auditorium, padded down the aisle and scooped up some popcorn that had fallen onto the floor in one of the rows.

Card, who is lean with an angular face and has long shaggy brown hair—picture a lead guitarist for a 1970s rock band—says Noah is a working husky and feels right at home in the theater. “He’s a social butterfly. He loves everybody.”

The “Big Burden” of Digital Conversion

Many independent movie theaters like The Strand are facing an economic challenge that threatens their existence. They must convert from 35mm projectors to digital systems because the studios will no longer distribute film prints.

“Most of the major theater circuits have converted to digital, so there’s very few people still running film at this point,” Card says. “A year ago … it was still almost half and half … and so the pressure’s on.” He adds, “there’s one lab making 35mm prints now instead of four. We’ll find this summer after Labor Day it’s gonna be thinner, the availability.”

He says there’s no hard and fast deadline for the conversion, “but this fall seems to be the deadline based on what distributors are saying, that there really won’t be that much film available.”

In order to make the switch, The Strand will need four digital projectors, along with computer servers, lenses and networking equipment. “Our bills are right at $300,000 to do four auditoriums,” Card says.

“We don’t have to change our screens. Some theaters do. We don’t have to change our sound. Our sound’s up to spec. So while our burden’s pretty severe, some theaters have a higher burden.”

The Adirondack North Country Association (ANCA) and the Adirondack Film Society have launched a fund-raising effort to support the digital conversion for The Strand and a number of other movie theaters in small communities across northern New York. The campaign is dubbed “Go Digital or Go Dark” and the goal is to raise enough money for each theater to complete the upgrade by the end of the year.

For more information or to contribute, go to http://www.adirondack.org/GoDigital/. And here’s a trailer for the campaign.

Card says the best part about being an independent movie theater owner is “visiting with people, seeing people come in, and, you know, when they like the film and when they like the place in particular. That’s very joyful.”

And as for the future of The Strand, he says: “We want it to always be here. Hopefully it will.”

Standard

Saroyan Shopping List

My latest stumbled-upon literary discovery at Syracuse University’s Bird Library revealed a clue to a mystery I will never solve. But I was thrilled to find it pressed between the pages of William Saroyan’s The Assyrian and Other Stories.

Books on shelves at Syracuse University's Bird Library. Photo by Steve Sartori.

Books on shelves at Bird Library. Photo by Steve Sartori.

I was searching through the stacks on the fifth floor one morning last week, before heading to work. I wanted to pick up ‘Tis by Frank McCourt and The Human Comedy by Saroyan. After I grabbed The Human Comedy I decided to peruse the large selection of other Saroyan books resting on the shelves nearby.

I flipped through The Assyrian and decided to check it out as well because the book contains an essay written by W.S. called The Writer on the Writing. In it he talks about his writing philosophy and the prolific short story work he produced in the mid to late 1930s.

I found his words to be inspiring.

He writes: “Anxiety at work is what tires a writer most. Writing without anxiety is certain to do the writer himself good; which takes me back to what it was I had hoped to achieve for myself when I wrote so many short stories in 1934-1939. I felt that it was right to just write them and turn them loose and not take myself or the stories too seriously. I had hoped to achieve an easier way for a man to write: that is, a more natural way.”

(Saroyan, William. The Assyrian and Other Stories. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1949. Print.)

He goes on to say the writer should have “implicit faith in himself, in his character, and in what he is apt to write. He must believe that it is possible for him to achieve writing as good as he might ever achieve by writing easily, swiftly and with gladness.”

However, the sage advice from Saroyan was not the only thing the book divulged.

Inside I found a 3×5 index card dated 9/30/03. A shopping list was written vertically in blue ballpoint ink on the unlined side of the card. The list was divided into two areas; one section had the word “CVS” next to it and listed the following items numerically:

1. tea
2. Saltines
3. candy!! (double exclamation points)
4. Advil

The second section mentioned “Carousel Saturday?”—pointing to a possible trip to the mall. Carousel Center was the former name of the Destiny USA mall in Syracuse. For this part the list read:

1. black turtleneck
2. penny loafers
3. socks
4. handerchief (misspelled for handkerchief).
5. beret

A shopping list written on a 3x5 index card, found in the book The Assyrian and Other Stories by William Saroyan.

A shopping list written on a 3×5 index card, found in the book The Assyrian and Other Stories by William Saroyan.

I tried to imagine the person who made out this list. Was it a man or a woman? I narrowed my hunches to either a young professor or a graduate student (both male) picking up some needed supplies and clothes at the beginning of a fall semester. Maybe this student was pursuing his MFA in creative writing. I pictured him with brown hair, a tall, thin frame and wearing his black turtleneck, beret and penny loafers while reciting a manuscript at a cafe poetry reading.

Finding the list made me think that in another life I would have made a good library detective, sort of like Mr. Bookman (Philip Baker Hall) in that popular Seinfeld episode.

I’m not sure why these little discoveries inside books amuse me so much, but they do. Maybe my life is so boring I need to live vicariously through other people. Or maybe it’s just the element of surprise that excites me. It’s fun to uncover something that has been hidden in between the pages of a book for many years.

The only due-date stamp for The Assyrian and Other Stories is Oct. 24, 2003, so I wondered if I was the only person to open this book since then.

I also consider the index card a timeline marker for its owner. It proves he was here; this was a snapshot of his life on Sept. 30, 2003. He existed in a fixed place at a set time. He bought candy and tea and Advil and probably looked stylish in his black turtleneck, beret and penny loafers. He was alive and had dreams.

Our shopping list author is not the same person today. He is older and may have a wife and kids. Perhaps he applied the advice of Saroyan in his own creative work. Maybe he completed his MFA and now teaches creative writing at SU. Maybe he published his own short story collection or a couple of novels. Maybe I will find his books in circulation in this same library.

Unfortunately, maybe is as far as my investigation will take me. I’m left with only suppositions, as answers to the mystery of the index card and its owner elude me.

Standard

Man At Work

Here’s a reminder that grace and honor can be found in just about any setting where working men and women toil. This point was illuminated recently while I waited for a Buffalo-bound bus at the Regional Transportation Center in Syracuse.

I was scheduled to take Amtrak’s westbound Lake Shore Limited, as I was heading to Toledo, Ohio, to spend a week with my sister and her family. But a freight train derailment in Montgomery County, N.Y., forced a service disruption between Albany and Buffalo, so Amtrak passengers had to be bused between the locations.

While I sat inside the station I noticed a custodian working his shift. His diligence caught my attention. He was likely in his mid to late 30s with short brownish-blond hair and a goatee. He wore a light blue golf shirt, white sweatpants with navy blue trim on the side, white sneakers and latex gloves.

His face was red and moist from his labor. He was pushing a yellow cart loaded with supplies and kept moving between the garbage cans inside the station, emptying the trash and replacing the plastic bags. He wasted no movement and made no delay in going between the cans; it was clear he wasn’t clock-watching, trying to stall while waiting for his shift to end. He was there to do work and he followed through with alacrity on every task.

Then I saw him again in the men’s room. He was emptying the trash and wiping down the urinals, stalls and sinks.

After the majority of passengers boarded the Greyhound bus that would take us to Buffalo, the driver, a blond-haired man in his 50s with a mustache, stood in front of the terminal talking to some Amtrak employees and a Border Patrol agent. The driver and Amtrak workers checked the tickets of latecomers and loaded the oversized luggage into the baggage compartment in the bottom of the bus.

As I looked out my window, facing the terminal, I saw the janitor working outside. And while the driver and Amtrak workers stood chatting, the custodian emptied the exterior trash cans and recycle bins. He pulled up the full garbage bags, tied them tightly and stacked them on top of his cart; then he would take clean plastic bags, snap them open and insert them into the cans.

He did this a number of times, going from can to can and never saying a word to anyone. He blended into the background of people smoking outside and the employees talking at the curb.

I thought about the janitor’s life. He has a thankless job that requires tedious physical effort and the touching of dirty paper towels and leftover food. I can’t imagine he makes more than 10 or 12 dollars an hour, and I wonder if he has a family to support. I bet he wants a higher-paying job, maybe something that doesn’t require manual labor.

And on this Saturday night it was late, around 9:30 p.m. He looked tired, but that did not slow him down.

Once all of the trash was piled high on his cart, he pushed it inside the station, going through the automatic doors at the front entrance, and most likely wheeled the cart to a Dumpster outside, at the back of the station.

Soon he would punch out and head home. Maybe he would have a late meal and catch some sports highlights on ESPN.

I admired this man for his effort when no one was paying attention to him. I believe our nation’s productivity could increase substantially if we all worked as hard as the janitor.

I’m sure he does not love his job. But it’s clear he takes pride in it. And honest labor in any capacity deserves recognition.

Standard

Man in the Chair

A personal essay I wrote and two corresponding photos appear in the latest issue of the Star 82 Review literary magazine. You can read the story and see the images here. I’m looking forward to reading all of the stories and seeing the fine artwork in this issue.

The text of my essay follows:

It is late in the afternoon on a fall or winter day, and I am visiting my mother and stepfather at their home in Rome, New York. They are sitting in their family room watching TV; if I had to guess, I’d say the show is Judge Judy, Criminal Minds or NCIS. My stepfather Bill, who owns his own contracting business, is reclining in his favorite chair, wearing a work-stained hoodie and sipping a cup of coffee. I walk into the room and sidle up to him. I put my hand on the bald crown of his head, which has a fringe of brownish-gray hair on the sides, and I feel the warmth emanating from his skull. Often when I do this, Bill will say, “God your hand is freezing.” But he does not say anything, and I leave my hand on top of his head and take a glance at the television screen while darkness gathers outside the windows.

A sick realization makes me shudder. I pull my hand away because I recognize in the moment that the head of this man I love could, in a matter of seconds, be crushed with a baseball bat or cracked open with an axe blade. Blood could splatter against the walls and he would slump over in the chair, inert.

And I think this not because I am homicidal or possess a desire to kill my stepfather. Quite the opposite. Fear sets in because I realize the man sitting in the chair, with a beating heart, functioning brain and sense of humor, could be gone in an instant.

He could be animated in one moment and his breath snuffed out in the next.

Most likely my stepfather will not be killed by a blow to the head or a tree crashing through the house. A heart attack, stroke or cancer will probably get him in the end. And while I already know this, I pause and allow this knowledge to sink in, so I will appreciate him better.

A year or two later my mother would lose her battle with cancer. And her death would remind me that we do not live life all at once. It’s not one big project we have to complete by a set deadline or a trip to Europe you have planned for years.

Instead we experience life in small doses, tiny beads of time on a string. And it helps to recognize them, to acknowledge you are present and alive even in the most mundane circumstances—while you are talking with co-workers in the parking lot before heading home for the day, running errands, doing laundry, baking a chocolate cake, tossing a football with friends, reading to your kids at bedtime. These are subplots that drive our stories forward. They are not exciting. They are not memorable. But they are part of our existence and we have to value them before they and we are gone.

So, after I pull my hand away from Bill’s head, I decide to sit on the couch next to my mother. She hates when people talk during a program because it distracts her, so I look at the screen even though I am not interested in the show, and I do not say a word. But during a commercial break, she mutes the sound with the remote control, and Bill and I converse about something. And I can’t remember the topic we discussed, and it doesn’t really matter.

Standard

Second Look: Hotel Art

I spent a recent weekend at the Wingate by Wyndham hotel in my hometown of Rome, N.Y. Besides the amenities of a free daily breakfast, a 24-hour fitness center and a coffee pot in my room—which I consider a necessity—I enjoyed another perk I imagine most people overlook when roaming through lobby of a hotel or grabbing a soda at the vending machine. It was the collection of artwork hanging on the walls of the lobby, in the hallways and in my room.

Hotel Art #1

I think the abstract works were acrylic paintings or mixed media pieces, and it was obvious they were all made by the same artist, although I never determined his or her name. The prints were mounted with navy blue matting and had wide silver picture frames.

I admired the simple, elegant designs and lush color schemes. Tan, orange, rust and turquoise colors dominated the surface, and what looked liked black graphite markings outlined circles, squares and other shapes filled in with acrylic paint. The textures, patterns and colors invited the viewer in, but did not overpower or call attention; the effect was a feeling of serenity.

Hotel Art #2

If I needed to rehearse a business presentation in my room I would welcome the chance to glance up at these paintings, taking a visual break from memorizing the notes, charts, graphs and sales figures. I think looking at the artwork would allow my mind to wander briefly, getting lost in the landscape of colors and patterns. Perhaps the reverie would relax me, making me feel less nervous about the presentation and even lowering my blood pressure.

Obviously hotel art does not attract attention like a Warhol or Dali exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. And in the rush of checking in, carrying your bags to the room, swiping your key card and flipping through the HD channels on the television, you could easily miss some of the art pieces scattered throughout any Marriott, Hyatt, Crowne Plaza or Sheraton hotel in America.

That’s because hotel art is invisible, like the maid pushing a cart in the hallway or the frumpy lady clearing the breakfast dishes. But the pieces are there, just waiting for us to look at them. The paintings in my room seemed to say, “Hey we’re here anytime you want us. No pressure, though. Enjoy your stay.”

Hotel Art #3

And this recognition made me realize I have to sharpen my sense of awareness, being open to the possibility of making discoveries amid the bustle of keeping on schedule and crossing off items on the day’s itinerary.

Standard

Black Box short film premieres in NYC

Black Box, an experimental short film I produced and directed in 2012, makes its premiere today at the NewFilmmakers New York Screening Series at the Anthology Film Archives in Manhattan. I’m happy to say the piece will finally see the light of day.

Dancer and choreographer Brandon Ellis. Photo by Michael Barletta/Courtney Rile.

The project originated with the music. A piece by Franz Schubert inspired me, sticking in my head for years and refusing to release its hold until I made something out of it.

I discovered the music of Schubert purely by accident. I was grocery shopping around the time of the Millennium at a Fry’s supermarket in Phoenix, where I used to live, and I saw a display of CDs featuring the works of famous composers. Mahler, Beethoven, Bach, Schubert and others were on sale just a few feet away from the laundry detergent aisle and an in-store Chase branch. I think the CD cost me about $5; it’s called Classical Masterpieces: The Best of Schubert by Madacy Records.

The song that enthralled me is String Quartet No. 14 in D minor (Death and the Maiden). It’s about 16 minutes long and invites the listener to indulge in its melancholy bliss. I read that Schubert was aware he was dying at the time he wrote it, so needless to say, it’s not upbeat.

I was working nights at the time and I used to put the song on the repeat cycle on my CD player and try to fall asleep while the blazing Arizona sun invaded my room in the afternoon.

But what does this music have to do with a film? I had always thought the piece could be paired with images to create a powerful work of art. But it didn’t seem suited to me for use in a narrative film scene with characters and dialogue. And it wasn’t until I watched Maya Deren’s Ritual in Transfigured Time a few years ago that I realized Schubert’s work could serve as the foundation for a conceptual video art piece that incorporates the medium of dance to express emotions.

So I came up with a concept for the film; but since I know nothing about dance I collaborated with a Syracuse-area choreographer and dancer, Brandon Ellis, who interpreted my vision and developed and executed the dance routine.

Dancer and choreographer Brandon Ellis. Photo by Michael Barletta/Courtney Rile.

Two things about the project were important to me: one was keeping the piece short and manageable, since it was a low-budget production and I was self-financing it (the edited master is about four minutes long). Secondly, I did not want the piece to be just a straight dance performance like you see on stage.

So here’s the basic premise:

The dancer in the film clutches a black box representing the human heart as a repository of life’s emotions. It is a metaphor for all of the turmoil and pain we carry with us inside. Through a series of movements, the character becomes free from the density of the black box, and he is able to leave it behind and thus arrive at a state of inner peace.

Dancer and choreographer Brandon Ellis. Photo by Michael Barletta/Courtney Rile.

For the production I collaborated with Michael Barletta and Courtney Rile, founders of the Syracuse-based production company Daylight Blue Media. Barletta and Rile served as camera operators during the shoot, and Rile also edited the film.

The project was filmed in an old industrial warehouse in Syracuse last summer and we shot the dance sequence from multiple angles to create a sense of dynamic action (or so I hope).

Dancer and choreographer Brandon Ellis. Photo by Michael Barletta/Courtney Rile.

One other note is relevant. I was concerned about using the music from the CD I owned because of rights issues, so I purchased and downloaded a royalty-free version of the same piece from Apollo Symphony Orchestra. ASO has a wide selection of classical music and it’s a great asset for filmmakers and artists looking for music for their projects. The version I bought cost about $40 and allows for multiple uses, e.g. online and DVD, etc.

Since I am submitting the project to other film festivals and art galleries, I will not post it on my blog at this time. But if you would like to see it, just send me an email at ffdhold@yahoo.com and I will send you the Vimeo link with the password.

Thanks for taking the time to read this and good luck with all of your creative endeavors.

Standard

Three more gems from Broken Lights

I finished the 1920 poetry book Broken Lights: A Book of Verse by Glenn Hughes, which I mentioned in my last post.

In spending some time with the book, I inspected the library checkout card and was amazed to discover it  was first taken out of Syracuse University Library on September 2, 1926. I find it exciting to think that more than 85 years ago someone else was flipping through the same pages and reading the same poems. The last date stamped on the card is June 7, 1932. And another stamp on the first inside page reads, “STORAGE 28 JUL ’65 J F.”

There are several beautiful poems in the collection, but three short works that appear on consecutive pages (56-58), a literary triptych if you will, struck me the most. The first two seem dark at first but both end on a positive note. They also employ an alternating rhyming pattern. Here are the three poems:

RETROSPECT

God knows what dreary stretches lie
In the vast regions of my heart—
Bleak places where all flowers die,
And birds flee from wind’s keen smart.

But this I know: though desolate
Such of my heart’s dark spaces be,
Fair fields there are, inviolate,
Glowing and warm with love of thee.

REPLY

“Life—what is life?” I asked the world,
The world did not reply;
Its bitter lip with scorn was curled,
And mocking was its eye.

But then you came, and now I stand
From the grim world apart;
For life was in the soft white hand
You laid upon my heart.

SONG OF SORROW

The songs I made for you are dead,
For the aching of my heart has drowned their melody,
It is the winter of our love,
And the rose leaves that were scattered in the summer
Lie black and scentless on forgotten paths.

Ah, desolate, desolate with nameless yearning
In my heart that was so light in other days,
And somewhere in a garden,
Where a bird is singing in the sunshine
I can see you sitting, weeping,
With your gold hair all about you,
And a beautiful, deep sorrow in your eyes.

(Hughes, Glenn. Broken Lights: A Book of Verse. Seattle: Department of Printing, University of Washington, 1920. Print.)

 

Standard

A Jewel in the Stacks

I went to Syracuse University’s Bird Library to pick up two novels I hope to read over the summer: Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and The Killing Man by Mickey Spillane. But as is often the case when I am roaming through the aisles on the fifth floor of the library, another book caught my attention. It’s a slim volume of poetry titled Broken Lights: A Book of Verse by Glenn Hughes, published in 1920. I pulled the rust-colored book off the shelf and flipped it open randomly, stopping on page 68, where I found the poem Dakota Night. As I read the poem, the words stirred my imagination, making me feel like I was standing in a knee-high field of grass surrounded by a bowl of stars.

DAKOTA NIGHT

Was ever such a night for stars
Above this silent prairie land,
Where lonely years have left their scars
In rocky buttes that darkly stand
Against the liquid film of night
So richly flecked with golden light!

There is a peace here, native, strong,
That lies upon this rolling waste
As though the gods had labored long
And, wearying, had turned to taste
The joy of dreamless sleep.  No breath
Is heard.  It is a peace like death.

Yet hark!  A murmur on the hill!
The wind among the grasses wakes;
A cricket strums and then is still.
How sweet the music that night makes!
Starlight and quiet once again
On lonely butte and barren plain.

(Hughes, Glenn. Broken Lights: A Book of Verse. Seattle: Department of Printing, University of Washington, 1920. Print.)

I found an online story about Glenn Hughes, or at least I believe it’s the same Glenn Hughes who penned Broken Lights.

And this incident proves why books on paper will always possess more allure to me than e-books. Bound volumes hold tactile power; the way they look, feel and smell invite the reader to explore the space sandwiched between the front and back covers. My literary find also makes me wonder how many other interesting books are just waiting to be discovered on the library stacks.

You can read Broken Lights online for free.

Standard

Dinner in a Chinese Restaurant

On a rainy Wednesday evening I broke the monotony of my work week. After leaving the office I went to Syracuse University’s Bird Library to edit some nonfiction story manuscripts and write longhand in my journal.

Photo by Steve Sartori

Photo by Steve Sartori

I drank a cup of coffee as I worked and after I finished writing, I perused some large format art books stacked on the shelves nearby. I opened a book containing Raphael’s drawings and then leafed through a heavy volume featuring artwork by Caravaggio. Huge color plates demonstrated Caravaggio’s mastery of light and shadow, and the powerful images depicting Christ’s life, crucifixion and entombment stirred my soul.

After leaving the library I decided I would go to Panda West restaurant on Marshall Street for takeout Chinese.

Photo by DreamDays

Photo by DreamDays

I hadn’t eaten Chinese food in a long time and decided I would treat myself. While standing near the front counter I looked through the paper menu trying to decide what to order, and when the woman up front finished talking to a customer, who was paying his bill, she turned to me and said, “OK, you know what you want?”

And I decided in the moment to eat in rather than get takeout. “Table for one,” I said to her.

“Sit anywhere,” she said.

I sat down at a table for two in a corner of the restaurant with my back to a window facing Marshall Street. A young, thin Chinese waiter came over with rice chips and a stainless steel kettle of tea. I have always loved the taste of house tea in Chinese restaurants (oolong I think), especially when it’s served piping hot.

Photo by syrguide

Photo by syrguide

The man handed me a menu, but I said, “I’m ready to order. I’ll have steamed chicken with mixed vegetables.” He said, “Sauce on the side?” And I said, “No sauce, just plain.”

“Just plain,” he repeated and nodded his head. He left to put the order in and I took off my coat, opened my duffel bag and pulled out the arts section of the New York Times.

I then listened to a stocky Middle Eastern or Indian man talking to a woman at a table in front of me. I think they both work in the medical field and I heard him mention the practice of anesthesiology. The woman leaned over the table toward the man, straining to comprehend each word emanating from his dark lips.

I relaxed amid the dim surroundings of the restaurant and half-listened to other diners talking in low voices. About ten people were scattered throughout the large dining room at that time—a few older couples, a group of Asian college students and some female students.

I scanned a few articles in the Times and refilled my small white porcelain tea cup several times, and then the food arrived at my table. It seemed like it took about 7 to 10 minutes to cook. The chicken and vegetables were presented in a round bamboo serving dish and the waiter placed a small bowl of white rice on the table. I was hungry and I ate quickly.

When the waiter came around again I asked him to box up the leftovers. I paid my bill and the waiter returned with my leftovers, a fortune cookie and a few pineapple chunks on a small plate with toothpicks sticking out of them. I don’t recall my fortune and the pineapple tasted like the Dole canned variety, but I appreciated the after-dinner offering.

I left my tip at the table, put on my coat, hat and gloves, slung the book bag over my shoulder and darted out into the damp night. I walked along Marshall Street, turned right on South Crouse Avenue and made my way to the bottom of the hill toward Genesee Street.

Dining out midweek was a rarity for me. I think the last time I had sat down to a meal in a restaurant before going to Panda West was when I ordered a short stack of pancakes at Cosmos on Marshall Street on a Sunday morning after mass at the Alibrandi Catholic Center near campus.

And the beauty of this mundane Wednesday night meal at Panda West was made clear to me when I stepped into my one-bedroom apartment. After putting the leftovers in the refrigerator, I realized I would not have to fix anything for dinner or eat another meal at my small card table in the living room, accompanied by fictional guests in the form of movie characters beamed out at me on my laptop via a Netflix streaming video.

I experienced contentment by eating dinner like a normal person, at a restaurant, surrounded by other human beings engaged in conversation. And even if I wasn’t part of the discussions, at least I was there, out in the world, regardless of being alone.

Standard

Twitter Observations

I feel like this is a Saturday afternoon confession before the vigil mass at my local church. My name is Francis and I am now on Twitter. My handle is @FranDiClem.

I signed up recently because I work in the communications/media industry and I need to keep up to date with new technology and communication methods. Being that I’m well into my fourth decade of existence, I guess I’m a little concerned about becoming a professional dinosaur. So I want to learn as much as I can about practices that apply to my fields of endeavor.

I am still learning the lexicon of Twitter and the process for tweeting and retweeting. I understand the concept of hashtags but I haven’t started one yet.

RT, DM, @, # . . . are these 21st century hieroglyphics?

As a general observation of Twitter, I must admit that when I log into my account I feel like I am bombarded with the digital equivalent of thousands of Kerouac-esque, stream-of-consciousness manuscripts—all being sent to me at the same time. The sheer quantity of news items is overwhelming as the buckshot of information continues to fly across the computer screen.

And I wonder if I am better served by spending 20 minutes reading one long-form story from the New York Times, The New Yorker, The Atlantic, etc. or reading snippets of articles from ten different sources. Does Twitter really make us more informed?

For me it seems I can get a better grasp of what’s going on in the world, quickly, in a few keystrokes, by going to the landing page for Google or Yahoo! News.

I realize the social element of Twitter attracts people, and I am exploring this benefit of the site. I have enjoyed making connections with people I have never met as well as reestablishing ties with former colleagues who still work in the news business.

I guess the key to Twitter is just having fun with it, not taking it too seriously and just using it to stay informed and engaged. I also recognize that it offers great potential as a distribution outlet for those who create content.

So I will be keeping an open mind as I observe how other people—namely the experts or thought leaders in the Twitter space—write incisive messages, make connections and generate followers.

But I wouldn’t suggest following me anytime soon. I still need to pass the intro. course.

Standard