Street Wise

Among the many things that separate the girls from the boys, besides Brazilian bikini waxes, is the way the genders navigate.

All homo sapiens have a built-in GPS in their noses, in the form of a small magnetite deposit found in the ethmoid bone, located between the eyes and behind the schnozz, that helps them find the North Magnetic Pole. Men, however, seem to have a larger lump than women (in the South Magnetic Pole, too), which is why they have a better overall sense of direction. It also accounts for why, on the occasions they do get hopelessly lost, they’re so damned reluctant to stop at a gas station and ask for directions.

Women, on the other hand, prefer to find their way using landmarks and street signs, which is no easy feat if you’re driving on Long Island, a region that shows an astonishing lack of imagination when it comes to getting creative with location names.

In my neighborhood, there’s a residential street called South Long Beach Avenue which, if taken to its end, brings you to Waterfront Park overlooking Freeport Bay. However, a few miles west is Long Beach Avenue, a heavily-trafficked retail/commercial strip that will eventually lead you to the barrier island of Long Beach, known as “The City By the Sea.” I cannot tell you how many times, during my frequent constitutionals through the 'hood, I’ve been stopped by some hapless driver looking for the “other” Long Beach Avenue. The town fathers have even erected a sign at the first major intersection alerting drivers of the following: “Long Beach Avenue, Oceanside, 2 ½ miles” with an arrow pointing west. Here’s an idea for these bureaucratic big daddies. Why not just rename the bloody street and end the confusion once and for all?

This is not just an aberration. The same scenario plays itself out in the next town over, where two streets named “Grand” (one a residential “boulevard,” the other a main “avenue”) are a mere three blocks apart. Whoever is responsible for this set-up has a less than grand vocabulary.

Unfortunately, this drought of designations is even worse when it comes to Long Island’s towns. The best (or worst) example is the “Islips” which encompass Islip (proper), East Islip, Central Islip, Islip Terrace (huh?) and West Islip, which is divided from its sister burgs by West Bay Shore and Brightwaters. (Brightwaters also divides West Bay Shore from North Bay Shore and all the other Bay Shores. Get the drift?)

Once, when my sister and I were small, we giggled as my Mom drove through an area of that seminal suburban village, Levittown, sporting street names such as Griddle, Saucer and Cotton. A few years later, but this time egged on by “mary jane,” I giggled once again when my cousin drove me through a part of Merrick known as “Tiny Town” because of its Lilliputian-sized domiciles. (Unfortunately, we didn’t see any Munchkins, just normal-sized residents giving our smoke-filled car the stink eye.)

Granted these are silly names, but I’d rather lose my way searching for the wildly creative than the mind-numbingly commonplace.

The X Child is Born

“It’s tradition” are words that usually set my eyes rolling, so you can imagine the workout my peepers get during this holly jolly season. To me, Christmas traditions translate into REM-depriving tasks, just when the winter solstice is begging us to get some solid sack time. Over the years, I’ve perfected a few shortcuts that allow me the double luxury of celebrating and snoozing.

Instead of hauling a Christmas tree through the door and toting boxes of lights, tinsel and bulbs out of the attic (not to mention spending the rest of the winter sweeping up pine needles), I take a Christopher Radko ceramic tree from a closet shelf, place it on a plant stand in my living room, plug it in and, presto, “O Tannenbaum”! The half-dozen cookie varieties that used to turn my kitchen into a flour- and sugar-coated catastrophe have been pared down to one, three-ingredient, no-bake, sure-fire crowd pleaser. (Recipe follows for all you bleary-eyed Santa’s helpers out there.) I do spend a fair amount of time hanging lights outside my humble co-op, but that’s to prevent my fellow residents from shooting me a baleful, “bah humbug” look.

There is one tradition, though, that turns this iconoclast into a curmudgeon when not properly observed, and that’s shortening “Christmas” to “Xmas.” I’m not nutty enough to sport a “Keep Christ in Christmas” bumper sticker on my ride, but I believed the old school spelling upheld the spirit, integrity and intent of the day.

Notice the use of the past tense in that last sentence. Turns out that not only is “Christmas” fairly modern, but that “X” is more reverent than I, or others, thought.

You have to begin with the fact that “Jesus Christ” is not Jesus Christ’s name. (To quote my neighbor, “Ain’t that a bitch?”) “Jesus” is a transliteration from the Hebrew-Aramaic to Greek to Latin to English. Jesus’ full name was Yeshua ben Yoseph, translated in English to “Joshua son of Joseph.” (Mary was a Jewish mother, but even she didn’t have the chutzpah to name her son “Yeshua ben Yahweh.”) “Christ” is an honorific from the Greek, “Christos,” meaning “anointed one” and which, when written in its native language, reads Χριστός.

For at least the past 1,000 years, “Christ" and its compound words, including “Christmas," have been abbreviated using the initial “X" or “XP" in the original Greek. Examples can be found as far back as the “Anglo-Saxon Chronicle" from 1021, in many manuscripts from the 15th century and even in Eastern Orthodox icons of today. The labarum, or the Greek p with the x crossed through its stem, is used in the major Christian religions and is depicted in Paul Ruben’s 1622 painting, “The Labarum," pictured above.

All this historical context is never going to convince the diehard “Christmas-ers" to break out the WD-40 and remove those bumper stickers, but I’ve found a new holiday shortcut that will make writing out all my Christmas…er…Xmas cards even quicker.

And now, for that recipe…

12 ozs of chocolate chips (Semi-sweet or milk. Butterscotch works nicely, too. Your call.)

6 ozs of cocktail peanuts (Don’t try to get all heart healthy by using the lightly-salted or no salt varieties. Save the sacrificing for Lent.)

3 ozs of Chinese noodles (LaChoy or any other brand that looks like short strands of spaghetti.)

Line two small or one large cookie sheet with wax paper. Melt chips in microwave according to package directions. Stir in nuts and noodles until well-covered. Drop onto wax paper-lined sheets using a garden variety teaspoon. Put in fridge for one hour or until set. Place in tightly-covered, wax paper-lined tin. Store in fridge or a cool, dark place.

If you want to get all fancy, you can add a ¼ cup of dried fruit to the mix, such as raisins, cranberries or cherries.

Oddly enough, I don’t have a name for these tasty treats. My original recipe card has “Crunchy Chocolate Drops“ at the top, but that name’s never stuck. A friend thinks they look like nests, so “Noel Nests“ may not be a bad designation. Frankly, you can call them whatever the hell you want. Just make sure you call me after you’ve made a batch.

Merry Xmas one and all!

The Quantity of Mercy

“You are like me. We forgive nothing!”

Followed by the unctuous offer of a cookie, this was the wizened, wicked Don Corrado Prizzi’s proud assessment of his equally Machiavellian granddaughter, Maerose, in John Huston’s darkly funny mafia satire, Prizzi’s Honor, a truly under-appreciated comic gem.

To the Prizzis (and the Corleones, for that matter), forgiveness was for chumps, especially when family honor was at stake. Cross them once, and you could bet the vig that your name would be crossed off the rolls of the living.

When it to comes to the adage, “forgive and forget,” I’m not as absolute in it its rejection as the corrosive Corrado, but I’m not buying it wholesale, either.

So much has been made about the emotional healing power of forgiveness, not one but two annual “Forgiveness Days” are now observed. According to the various organizations that support these days and their mission, forgiveness doesn’t mean to forget, but does afford the offended peace of mind while taking the temptation of retribution off the table.

That’s fine as far as it goes, but my Shakespearean question is, how much is too much of a good thing?

Just as twenty-four of our state courts have adopted the “Three Strikes” law, I have my own scale of justice – “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

Regrettably, I’ve had to invoke this personal code of honor twice this year and, unlike what some forgiveness fans will tell you, my soul is not being eaten up by anger nor do I have any burning desire for revenge. On the contrary, if I had given either party the chance to turn a double dose of the same transgression into a triple, that would have blown whatever peace of mind I can muster these days. Like the popular game show, life is a game of “Survivor.” If I have to vote you out of my tribe to preserve my dignity, guess whose torch is going to get snuffed?

Mae West once embellished the above line from “As You Like It” as follows, “Too much of a good thing is wonderful.”

To put my own spin on The Bard, “Too much forgiveness is unforgivable.”

Think I’ll have a cookie now.

Amazing Academics

Say, what the hell do you parents do, anyway?

Twiddle your thumbs?

Gather wool?

Rest on your laurels?

Anything at all?

That’s the idea I get after reading about Sheldon Karnilow, the Half Hollow Hills’ school superintendent who earns a whopping $351,946.00 a year. According to board president Anne Marie Sorkin, Mr. Karnilow is a “bargain” at that price. Why? Let Ms. Sorkin explain:

“He’s got 10,000 kids that he gets to school every day. He’s in charge of their health, their safety, their welfare, their education.”

Not only should this shame all you lazy-assed Moms and Dads out there, it goes a long way towards explaining why property taxes on the Island of Long (the lion’s share of which go to schools) are some of the highest in the nation. Mr. Karnilow isn’t just a superintendent, he’s freakin’ Superman!

How else to explain his ability to kick 10,000 kids’ cans out of bed every school day, stand over them while they do their morning ablutions, serve up a delicious and nutritious breakfast, wait with them at the bus stop and then manage to be in his office when the first bell rings?

And what about the countless doctor appointments, bike helmets, winter coats and college educations he has to pay for? Why, it’s a wonder the man isn’t a pauper living in a cardboard box!

In fact, these LI school superintendents, who make up nine of the ten highest-paid K-12 school employees in New York State, are such a special breed, they and others like them have spawned the word “educrats.”

What’s an educrat? Since the Amazing Karnilow is busy teaching every subject to every student in his school district, let me enlighten you.

An educrat is, quite simply, an educational bureaucrat who works as an official or administrator in a school district. Used in its more derogatory form, educrats are more interested in the process of learning, and how that process is funded, than learning itself.

I will also add that LI’s superintendents seem to possess a preternatural stamina that mere mortals do not. For instance, Commack Union Free School District’s superintendent, James Feldman, retired in June with two decades’ worth of accrued vacation and sick time. Is this guy an educrat or the Energizer Bunny?

It’s time to get off your backsides slacking parental units! You may be stressed out over whether your job will still be there tomorrow (something these tenured Titans have no worries about) or running yourselves ragged working two jobs to make ends meet, but you should count yourselves lucky that a good chunk of your salary is paying for these educrats super-sized compensations.

Or, as one defender of LI’s superintendents put it, “People would love to spend less, but they would very much like to have someone who is beyond competent.”

Way beyond. In fact, suspiciously almighty.

Ill Will

Readers of this blog may have noticed I’m an avid admirer of alliteration. Not everyone is a fan, as demonstrated by this line spoken by Albert Brooks’ ironically named TV journalist Aaron Altman in James L. Brooks’ “Broadcast News”:

“A lot of alliteration from anxious anchors placed in powerful posts.”

Call me anxious but, more and more these days, I’ve found three alliterative words popping up in my thoughts or out of my mouth – deranged, demented, delusional.

Looks like I’ve inadvertently tapped into the national zeitgeist. A new survey by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration found that 20% of American adults have experienced mental illness in the past year. That adds up to a whopping 45 million crazed citizens.

In an age when federal frisking of innocent airline passengers in the name of fighting terrorism seems sane, this comes as no surprise to me, especially since trying to be all “Que Sera Sera” all the time brought on my own year-long bout with depression exactly a decade ago.

What was alarming about the whole episode – besides the ever-present ennui, vaguely suicidal thoughts and a constant knot between my shoulder blades the size of a baby’s fist – was not recognizing the demon until I was well out of hell. My epiphany came one night several months later, when the symptoms of the disease were listed in a TV commercial touting a miraculous new anti-depressant, followed by those always scarifying drug side effects. So that’s what was eating me. Hmmm.

Turns out I didn’t need a magic bullet like Prozac, Paxil or Zoloft to blow me out of my black hole, but a healthy dose of that always energizing elixir, anger. During an office holiday party at the end of that “lost year”, one of my former company’s muckety-mucks publicly and wrongfully accused me of making slanderous comments against her. After a fitful night’s sleep, I woke up like I was shot out of a cannon, said “piss on this” and set about gathering my advisers and allies to do battle. I was back and loaded for bear.

I think my own experience neatly reflects what’s really ailing Americans – our meek willingness to drink a Kool-Aid that promises to cure our security ills but, instead, inflicts such debilitating side effects as loss of freedom, dignity and control.

Here’s my personal Rx for fighting the forces that have induced this coma of passivity and powerlessness: rationality, reaction and, most of all, rage.