“You have a bug on you!” exclaimed a stranger standing behind me  in an outdoor public space.

“”Where?” I said.

“On your shoulder,”  she said. “Look!”

Pointing begins.

It’s spring in New England. Bugs reappear after a lonely, cold, long winter.  The return of bugs—or as my science teacher friend corrects me “insects”—are a natural occurrence during spring. They are as familiar as the return of Robins grousing around my lawn for big  juicy worms.

I like insects.

“KILL IT!”  she snapped.

What?

“The Bug.”    “Kill it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s gross.”

“What’s gross?”

“That BUG ON YOUR SHOULDER!”

“It is?”  “How so?”

This woman lectured me.

“If I had a bug on my shoulder, I would kill it.

My reply: “You DON’T have a bug on your shoulder; I do.”

Disgust turned to anger on her part.

The conversation continues. My turn.

“It deserves to live”  I delivered this sentence like a cunning  chess move.

A strange hue of red swept across her face.

“I cannot kill it. This insect has a mother! There is no reason to kill it. I’ll just move it to that  branch over there (pointing) where it can crawl and do things insects like to do–like land on people’s shoulders.”

Disgust turns to fuming. Fuming is not a pretty sight– especially coming from a person whom I never met in my life before.

 The last words were hurled my way…………

“I would have KILLED IT.”

Heavy emphasis were placed on the words “I” and “KILLED.”

No reply from me.

I purposely let her words reverberate as our exchange terminated like a balloon bursting; that shocked look before tears roll.

Spring in New England.

Insects abound.

An  insect’s life is spared.

All is well in my world.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Whoever thought Dustin Hoffman, playing Benjamin in The Graduate, would lean forward with hesitation, to listen to capitalistic career advice delivered as if it were a Cold War secret.

 “Plastics.”

Whoever thought I would be counting plastic bags trapped in tree branches while riding the Metro North  train into Manhattan from Stamford, Connecticut?

The closer the train approached New York City, the more plastic bags I viewed flapping in tree branches  as if they were announcing a holiday.

It’s  easy to play the blame game. It takes one to play.

What ever happened to the childhood chant, “Littler bug, litter bug, shame on you!”

No wonder I was chased down streets and had rocks thrown at me as a teen. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” That line resonates today as if it were yesterday. 

 The Vietnam War was raging. Music constantly played from our transistor radio in the kitchen. Pre disco music had great lyrics and a pop beat.   The environmental movement was gaining momentum. This was the late 1960s and early 1970s.

I remember celebrating  the first Earth Day. This time stamps and dates me. I was four foot something, exploring my universe on a yellow low-rider bicycle. The  handlebars were like Picasso’s bull sculpture.  My bike was a space investigational device. My lunar lander grounded on earth–yet I though otherwise. I was a child of the space generation.  A glass of Tang, anyone?

I painted a sign. Went down a flight of steep stairs to our cellar. Here I groused around my father’s cluttered workbench and found his father’s hammer and some nails. I whacked thick nails into the telephone pole in front of our house, displaying what may be considered my first piece of public installation art. I painted a sign, “Save the Earth.”

Who told me earth was dying? I was not exposed to Ziggy Stardust back then. Perhaps, this line from David Bowie was not yet  penned. I somehow intuitively knew the environment was being abused. It was something in need of protection and preservation.

Who remembers Woodsy Owl? He would say….. “Give a Hoot, Don’t Pollute?” What about the PSA of a Native American with a solitary tear running down his cheek because of the state of our environment?  Where are these types of public service announcements in 2011?

I once read a story years ago about a grassroots environmental  activist. She designed and created a handmade tool; a device with pinchers at the end of a large pole. The thing looks  like an insect’s claw.  She designed it to specifically ectracate  plastic bags stuck in trees. A plastic bag liberation device. More power this this woman. I read she would garner a crowd of onlookers as she went about her de-plastification efforts. Upon the successful removal of a stuck plastic bag from a tree, a spontaneous round of applause would erupt. This happened  with each tangled bag,  pinched lovingly, and removed from  urban trees.

We are about to celebrate Earth Day this spring. Tinker a bit. Maybe you and I can create one of these pinching devices “thingies” and free unwanted plastic bags from trees.

Big ideas start small.

I say, begin anywhere when it comes to environmentalism.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Doug Varone and Dancers have a New York Times bestseller on their hands. A real page turner. When you reach the end—-there is a standing ovation. This is not a book one opens and closes. It is a work of literature in motion. A New York premiere of a dance.

Doug Varone, acclaimed choreographer and artistic director of Doug Varone and Dancers has scripted a new dance work titled Chapters From a Broken Novel. It is a must READ –I mean VIEW.

Doug Varone and Dancers have been creating innovative dance for  24 years. The Company is based in New York, New York, USA. Several hallmarks of this stellar dance company are its innovative moves, idiosyncratic arm work, drops and lifts, refined slight movements, physicality, synchronized eclectic vignettes, and raw emotion. In short, Doug Varone and Dancers are at the apex of their craft.

Doug is a methodical keeper of quotes and notes. If he reads something that strikes him as interesting, quirky, touching, disturbing, or witty–he jots it down. Over the years, these quote have accumulated therefore creating the structure of Chapters From A Broken Novel. This particular dance is a series of “chapters” pieced together into a holistic work.

The seven dancers who comprise the company are: Julia Burrer, Ryan Corriston, Natalie Desch, Erin Owen, Alex Springer, Eddie Taketa, and Netta Yerushalmy. All dancers are lyrical when they take to the stage.  When they dance solo, or as a unified company, they personify beauty, passion, physicality, and pathos.

 I have one request.

I want to go grocery shopping with Julia.

Why?

I would ask her to reach for all sorts of items on the top shelf of the grocery store just to witness the fluidity and grace of her arm as they move. Her arm movements are like no other arm movements in the dance world today. She create heavenly motion. Sweeping. Spinning. Swirling. So unique. So Julia.

 I would ask Julia to reach for things I don’t even like. For example– canned asparagus. Top shelf.  

Freeze-dried coffee.  Top shelf.

Swing your graceful arms, Julia! Canned frosting. No. Not chocolate fudge. I want the artificial cream cheese frosting  in the way, way back.  

Reach. Now swing. And reach. An swing. And reach. And reach. You go, Julia!

I am in awe.

In Chapters From A Broken Novel, Ryan and Netta dance what love looks like when it turns bitter and sour. A car driven off a map. As Doug noted at a recent lecture, one can find bits and pieces from one’s life experiences in the chapters of  his new dance work. When Ryan and Netta come together, in a Chapter titled “Ruby Throated Sparrow,” you feel tension emanating from the stage— all the way back in Row H, seat 7.  I cringe watching their love die before my eyes. 

Erin’s solo titled “Tile Riot” from Chapters From A Broken Novel  is like peeking into a lit window outside a stranger’s house.

Creepy?

 No.

What Erin is doing inside this imaginary indoor space is what we all do when no-one is looking; we dance around the room. We sing into an imaginary hairbrush. We engage in ritualistic behaviors, moving stuff around. You know, stuff. Erin then breaks into a 1960s mod dance. Thank  goodness NO ONE is watching. 

 Erin. Hello. You are dancing to a full house.

Oops………….

People ARE watching you, Erin. Yet, we all can relate.

In the chapter titled “Funeral,” Eddie moves like a Morning Glory unfolding toward the Cape Cod morning sun. So Zen-like. The lighting is impeccable. Eddie’s slow calculated motion is similar to watching a painting evolve from gesso on a blank stretched canvas to a masterpiece in a singular tableau.

Eddie dances fast when fast dance is called for. And he is the master of slow dance, when slow dance is called for. Did I mention, Eddie is a great fast and slow dancer?

Sorry Natalie. Friends off-stage, yet when you dance the “mean-woman,” and  go after Erin in one particular Chapter, you are a  BULLY with a capital B. You are so believable, like the  soap opera star I meet at an upscale 5th Avenue Department Store.  I want to tell the star off, and mouth off to her how dispicable she is for stealing so-and-so—- then reality kicks in.

 Oh. She is an actress playing a part. Acting. In this case Natalie is  a dancer dancing. Yet she dances “mean” with  perfection, audience members want to give Natalie a slice of their tongue.

Off stage, Natalie you are genteel as Southern ice tea. (This is a compliment.)

Alex has the “swing thing” down to perfection. He lifts, and swirls Julia in a Chapter. Alex is great in the air. Leap with wild abandon, Alex! Throw yourself towards the theater’s ceiling. I will climb up into the rafters and get peel you off the ceiling  if need be. I am no longer afraid of heights. Whirl and swirl. You are the master of the duo-spin. Whoosh!

Doug Varone and Dancers have been touring with recent stops in Boston, Massachusetts, Portland, Maine, and  Greenville, North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia.  

Now it is time for Doug’s triumphant return to New York, New York, USA.

 Doug Varone and Dancers will premier in New York Chapters From A Broken Novel on Tuesday night, March 15th at the acclaimed and  historic Joyce Theater. A special Cast Party is being held for those purchasing tickets for $250 and above opening night. Tickets for opening night are still available by contacting Dougvaroneanddancers.org

Many of my Blog readers express they wish to meet me in person. I will be at the March 15th performance and the Post Premiere Cast Party. Tickets for the Open Night Festivities are still  available yet going fast. Contact DOVA today. I would love to meet my New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey readers and collectors.

If you have never seen live dance, it is mind candy. Ethereal. It take your imagination to a higher level of consciousness.

Sensational dance would not be complete without an original musical score. Doug teamed up with David Van Tiegham, noted sound artist. His musical score compliments the movements Doug has created from his rich imagination and life experiences.

Tickets for the post opening night performances may be purchased at JoyceCharge at 212 242-0800. Tickets start at $10 and up. Chapters From A Broken Novel  is performed at Joyce Theater, 175 Eight Avenue at 19th Street from March 15-20, 2011.  You may also go to Joyce.org for more information.

Erin…………..why do I have 174 cans of yuckie frosting, 93 glass jars of freeze dried coffee, and 296 cans of asparagus in my shopping cart?

See you at the Joyce Theater!

This is a dance performance you do NOT want to miss.

Brendan Ben Feeney at Ben’s Blog

Brendanbenfeeney.com

A friend exclaimed………

“You are going where?  ICELAND?  Isn’t it bloody cold up there–or down there? Where IS Iceland?”

This  friend went on to say,   “Why not Florida?  A holiday at Rodent World would break up the winter; only a 3 hour flight to Orlando.  Or, why not Fort Myers, Florida, USA? You can watch the Red Sox play. It is spring training. Pitchers and catchers. SPRING. The smell of cut lawns. Sprinklers waving to and fro. Flowers. No snow. Are you listening to me?”

No.

To Keflavek, Iceland, it is a 5/6 hour flight from the East Coast of the United States. One flies into a new day. A repetition of hours past.  I suddenly hear the Edwin Hawkins Singers singing in my mind. Oh Happy (new) Day! A fresh start.

Forget nay-sayers. Do not listen to those who mentioned I would freeze my tuffy. Not true. I had one of the most delightful holidays in years in Iceland. It was a combination of work and play. More play than work. I shoot photography pretty fast. The natural light of  Iceland is stunning. No need to change photographic filters and lenses for each frame.

Iceland is home to one of natures most wondrous phenomenon–the northern lights. Picture swirling shades of green dancing on your ceiling. Trippy. Soooo 1960’s San Francisco, California, USA—minus the drugs.

I wish to say thank you  to all I met during my journey to Reykjavik, the world’s most northern capital city. Here are some short vignettes.

* Meeting elementary school students in Reykjavik. I totally enjoyed signing my post cards. One boy was so excited, he left his book bag behind when autographs were over. He ran back to fetch his European-style book bag. Upon returning, he extended his hand offering me coins from his pocket. I told him, his presence was a gift. Keep the kronas. “Buy yourself an ice cream. ” His gesture was sweet,  innocent, and memorable.

*At this same signing, I could not spell a student’s name. It was a traditional Icelandic name with many vowels and consonants. In a flash, he pointed to his arm and said, “Copy this from my football jersey.” It is nice kids are still kids in Iceland–not miniature versions of adults constantly playing with electronic devices in public and texting on cell phones. We often force children to grow up too fast in the United States. It was nice to witness a slower pace of life in Iceland. More respect for the outdoors. Childhood revisited.

* The silica mud at the Blue Lagoon was pure bliss. As John Lennon’s critics once noted, Mr. Lennon was dreaming his life away when he took time off to appreciate life in Manhattan. Well, if there was ever a place dream one’s life away, it is at the Blue Lagoon. The Blue Lagoon is home to buoyant, milky, aquamarine water. Steam  rises from geothermal water. While soaking in the geothermal water, it snowed, rained, wind howled-and I could care less. I was floating in the Blue Lagoon. True relaxation. The name of the facility sounds like an bad Elvis Presley movie. No. That was Blue Hawaii. I think. Work with me on this people.

* Baejarins Beztu Pylsurs! In short, Icelandic hot dogs. Better than Coney Island hot dogs! Superior to Fenway Franks! Ben!!!!!!!!!!!! How can this be? I went to this famous take-out stand, housed in a red aluminum camper-like structure 4 times. I ordered 2 Pylsurs at a time. I am a two fisted Pylsur eater. For those unfamiliar with a Pylser I will explain. There is a photograph of former president Bill Clinton holding a Pylsur. Food. Bill Clinton. Need I  say more? If Bill likes Pylsers then Ben likes Pylsers. Ah. Crispy, crunchy onions. A special mustard. A streak of carefully applied mayo. A soft bun.  You eat Pylsurs  standing up, Note the “s?” Plural. One Plyser  is not enough. The picnic tables next to the stand have unique carved wooden ridges to cradle your hot dogs–that’s if you put them down. I couldn’t.

*How green!

No. Not Kermit the Frog.

Iceland!

The hotel where I stayed was heated with geothermal energy. Room heat and water. The lights in the room turned on only when I inserted my flat plastic room key. Lights then went  off when I removed the key, therefore not leaving lights on when out of the room. The hotel hall lights would turn on and off using  motion sensors. How many times have I been in hotels around the world where hall lights burn 24/7? 

The people in Iceland are welcoming to guests. I enjoyed many conversations with fishermen, cab drivers, bartenders, shop keepers, business executives from the worlds of  energy production and global financial. I had delightful conversations with people whom I floated with in the Blue Lagoon. I enjoyed meeting teachers from England, a Canadian couple, a nurse and a pilot from Scotland, and an investment banker from France.

I am working with Scott and Will. They are my ace technology team members; part of Brendanbenfeeney.com. I hope to have new photo galleries of New York City and Iceland posted by mid-spring.

So if the thought of Iceland makes one think of standing in a walk-in beer freezer think again. The climate is temperate. The food, fabulous. The people eager to please and engaging.

Next trip…………………Iceland.  All aboard!  

Wait.

There are no trains in Iceland……….

Brendan Ben Feeney

A message to all I met in Iceland—————I would truly enjoy hearing from you.

This special post goes out to all the folks I met at: The Blue Lagoon, on photo shoots, at the Reykjavik swim/sports center, at the Pilsyr stand, and to the elementary students I met with and signed postcards.

Hello to the people I had conversations with  in coffee shops, at the hotel, art galleries,  and museums. 

Best regards to the Polish national making his way, on his own, in a new country. Thanks for sharing a cab. Contact me.

To all who toured with me or had  conversations—feel free to drop me a line. I would like to remain in contact.

 To my investment banker friend from France, drop me a line. It was very nice spending time with you in the snow, head above water. Lunch by the pool was relaxing. I have art photographs I wish to send you.  I  need your mailing address in Paris. You have an invitation to visit me in the USA.

Mick and Adian, how does it feel to be back in London? Repeat after me…”Take out your notebooks and write about what I did on winter break.”  This will chew up time…hehehehe. Mates! Please drop me an e-mail. Send me your mailing addresses. I too have photographs for you. I called around to all the hostels to return your visit, yet you were gone. I felt  bad I was not at the hotel the time whenyou came by to visit. Darn. I wanted to show you the suite and drink the mini bar in the room dry…heheheh. I was at the Blue Lagoon–again. Rain check.  Let meet in London or Sydney this summer or come to Cape Cod.  The same is true for my Parisian friend. A Cape Cod holiday……..The Atlantic Ocean and Massachusetts Bay IS my swimming pool.

I am working on a detailed  post that will be published later in the week  about my time in Iceland. Stay tuned. 

 To those who want to meet me and say hello, I will be in New York in March and California in April. Details will  follow.

Thank you to all who read by blog and collect my artwork.

Cheers!

Brendan Ben Feeney

When traveling, I tend to wander places where the average visitor tends not to wander.

Having an affinity for fine- feather-friends and animals that cuddle in your lap (then often leave you an unexpected gift. Oops), I landed up in a pet shop in Reykjavik, Iceland.

I admired the birds. I looked at the rabbits with longing. How I wanted all of them to find a home filled with love and laughter.

I noticed a man in the pet shop. He looked slightly sad and distressed. I said hello, then wandered around the store looking at pet supplies, trying to read Icelandic. With my very, very, very limited Icelandic, I overheard he was looking for a specific pet.

Why not strike up a conversation?  Pets are often a universal gateway to conversation; pets and grandchildren.  We briefly chatted.

Then I stepped outside the store. Snow was fallling. He followed. He turned to me once more and asked about my knowledge of hamsters. His English was impeccable. This is true of many Icelantic citizens. I told him hamsters are quite lovable. One keeps them in a cage–or they will land up in your heating ducts or forever lost in your basement. I informed him hamsters enjoy endlessly running around on a stainless steel wheel placed in their cage. Hamsters delight in exercising. Exercising is #931 on my list of “delights.”

I should be a hamster. I could use a good workout.

 I mentioned hamsters like to burrow in sawdust. Who does not like to feel comforted in all things soft?

The next sentence from him broke my heart. He said the family pet died last night. This is where I witnessed pathos and sorrow sweep across his rugged face. He said the shop could not help him. He walked away pet-less.

I suggested there may be other pet stores in Reykjavik, yet Iceland is a country of far less than a million citizens. Chances seemed slim.

I am now back in the USA. I thought of this man today, living thousands of miles away in Reykjavik, Iceland. I hope he found a new pet to bring happiness and joy to his family.  

 A father’s love. To go out into the snow and cold, the day after the death of a pet,  to bring life back into a household.  

Brendan Ben Feeney

I stopped everything yesterday and tuned-in live, on the Internet, to witness the latest developments in Cairo, Egypt. Rock hurling turned to jubilation in Tahrir Square.

Even though it is the day after the departure of a dictator, people are STILL dancing in the streets of Egypt. In some major Unites States cities  there were spontaneous gatherings, like one at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The event began as an information secession—then morphed into a communal show of solidarity for all those who respect freedom, democracy, change, and say NO to living in a state of fear and intimidation.

Three days ago, as I watched the protest in Egypt on the Internet, thoughts turned to Tienanmen Square, Beijing, China.  Would history repeat itself? Would a bloodbath ensue? History does trends repeat itself like an old 45 RPM record—skipping and crackling.

Many in our fast-paced society have short memories. Many school districts have stopped offering geography and civic classes and have a teach-to-a-state-graduation-requiremeted test mentality. There is often NO time to discuss current events and  earth-shattering world events. Many ask– whereIS Cairo on the map? Heaven forbid if one is not precisely at US I Standard 12.8. 4. 1.  Never deviate from what is to be taught at a specific time, on a specific day.  

As Egypt moves forward, my hope is for a more stable African and Middle East.

One can boil spaghetti on a stove and turn the gas off when the spaghetti is cooked. One may drain the water, and a meal is served.  If you leave a pot on a hot stove, cooking past its allotted cooking time, the pot hisses and begins to boil over. The metal pot cover rattles and shakes. It is a distressing sound. The hissing of water when it hits a gas flame grows louder. No one likes burned food. No one likes their kitchen reduced to ash.

A favorite spiritual/protest song of mine is Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around.  I like this spititual/protest song made popular by Joan Baez because it places power in the hands of people. Fear and imitation cross our path–and yet we often walk into, and through, the pathway of danger.

Blessed are the righteous. Praise goes out to those who stood up to injustice in Egypt. Reverend King stood up against injustice in  Birmingham and Selma. He would be proud of the events in Egypt. Mohandas Gandhi with his Salt March to the sea would be beaming if he  knew what the people of Egypt did to change the political, social, and economic direction of their nation.

A message to to present-day dictators of the world. You cannot push people around. Like that pot of spaghetti  boiling on the stove, the lid must  and will come off.

To bullies of the world. You may shove—yet now the world no longer tolerates your foolish belligerence and pushing. Bullies beware. There is a movement at hand to stop your mindless hate and intimidation.  

Now that the Egyptian people will hopefully experience a free press and freedom from tyranny, aint’ nobody gonna turn them ’round.

Do you think King Jong Il or Raul Castro are quaking in their spit polished, imported European leather boots—-shined by a servant tonight?

Brendan Ben Feeney

Remember when “Pop Songs” were catchy and didn’t have  ONE  sanitazed radio version and an SECOND Parent Advisory CD or non-edited download version?  Beep….beep. Bleep…bleep.

Sing along if you remember this song…………..
Cupid, draw back your bow, and let your arrow flow, straight to my lover’s heart for me…”

Today, some would interpret this lyric as an act of violence. Shooting arrows.

Look at the state of the world today. Rocks are flying in Egypt. A congresswoman is shot in the head. A motorist killed at an intersection over an incident of road rage. Tempers flair at grocery stores over who was first at the Deli Counter. People. You all will get your cold cuts and sliced cheese— eventually.

 Roberta Flack sang a duet with Donny Hathaway in 1972…….Where is the Love?”

Where is the love in 2011?

In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day I see all sort of faux sentimentality.  Boxes of heart shaped chocolates; cupcakes at upscale bakeries made with yummy butter-cream frosting. |Think beyond chocolates and cupcakes.

 Offer a kind word to somone lonley. This is an act of love. For those living in the snow belt, shovel a neighbors driveway. This is an act of love. Turn to the person behind you at the counter at your local coffee shop and say…”coffee today is on me. No strings attached.” This is an act of love. Forgive. This is an act of love.

Many people think of love in mushy gooshy, kissy-wissy terms.

No.

Love comes from the soul.Love is an extension of self. It is being kind. It is giving with no expectations. It is doing. Sharing. A hug. A smile. A hand on a shoulder. Words of encouragement. Connecting with others.

So Cupid. Get busy. A lot of people, nations, and factions can use your love.

And please, when aiming your arrow, do not shoot me in the ass. That hurts.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Our encounter began over music, close to midnight in Grand Central Station, New York City. January, 2011.

I was scurrying to catch one of the last trains out of Manhattan to Stamford, Connecticut.

Strike that.

 I was RUNNING, out of breath, with inhaler-in-hand for the train wearing uncomfortable fashionable square toe dress shoes.

Those who know me, I sometimes sing in public. Here I was whizzing through Grand Central Station, singing, as the infamous Pumpkin Coach was about to turn to goosh and melt at the stroke of midnight. Great. I am about to scrub the marble  floor of  GCS if I didn’t make my train.

Wait. I meet a man standing tall next to his worldly possessions in a white plastic bag. He wears ear buds. Our paths cross in the Grand Hall next to my Track Number entrance.

I quit rushing. I ask the gentleman wearing ear buds, “What are you listening to?” I sometime ask this to people wearing i-Pods. 99% of the time my questioning  pisses people off. I’m curious. That’s all. Inquisitive by nature.

His reply breaks my heart….”Nothing Man. They stole the back of this thing.” He shows me the broken music player. It’s not an i-Pod.  “It’s mean here on the street. People steal. People take your stuff. That ain’t right. That ain’t right, man.”

“You are right. That was mean. Real mean for someone to do this to you. ”

Here is this man, with one eye permanently closed due to an untreated eye ailment, and the other eye wide open, perceptive to the world. He was listing to nothing, yet enjoying the experience of listing to something in his head.

I then said, “Since you have no music coming from that thing, let me sing you a song.”  I dug deep into my library of lyrics  and sang an old school Motown song. The the two of us spontaneously danced.

I was coming from a benefit reception for The Doug Varone Dance Company hosted by a delightful couple who live on Central Park West. Here I am in my black designer trench coat, bow tie, pressed 100% white pima cotton shirt, cuff links, and god-awful square top shoes, jamming in Grand Central Station with a man who has a soul bigger than Manhatthan and nothing in his pockets.

Embarrassment? Why be ashamed to sing and dance in Grand Central Station? New York is New York—- full of energy, vitality, and life. Sing. Dance. Be.

I look at my watch. I have 10 minutes to catch my train–yet I linger.

The gentleman asks me……..”You like Charles? What about Carmella? Buckingham Palace?  Man!”  His  discourse was rapid-fire.

My reply…….”The nerve of that CHARLES, who is next in line to be King,  cheating on Diana. Hiding in the trunk of that big ass Rolls Royce, being whisked away by bodyguards to hook up with THAT Carmella–that is not right. Married man. Cheater. What’s up with that? Then the Queen Mother. Mean to her daughter-in-laws. What’s in that big ass pocketbook of hers? And the hats. Don’t get me started……”

He replied….”Uh, ha. Amen. You down with it.”

The gentleman in the train station said, “What about the wedding? The big wedding. Who he marrying?….. Kate? Yeah, I think she Kate.”

I had  to think.

Kate……… Kate…………. 

I was at Joe’s Barber Shop in Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts 6 months ago and read PEOPLE magazine while waiting for Joe to cut my thinning hair. I think  Kate is the royal bride-to-be. I believe he is correct.

This gentleman is up on his royalty. Yet I found there was a reason for this later in our conversation.

I answer. “England is broke. The US is in a economic depression. This royal wedding is going to cost a fortune. The money for her dress alone would feed us all for a lifetime. Wedding dresses, flower girls, place cards, engraved invitations, Ladies in Waiting. Gifts. Money out the window.”

“I hear ya.”  is his reply.

Then he says, “Got any money? I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten in a day. Damn.”

I open my wallet. The clock is ticking. In 5 minutes my train leaves Grand Central Station. I give him $3 dollars. Then I ask (more like lecture) “You are not going to drink or drug this money–are you?”

“No, man. I am gonna get fried chicken. Yes. FRIED chicken.”

A look of pure delight swept across his face. ” He named the EXACT place where he would find affordable fried chicken on Lexington and some cross street. I thought, $3 dollars is not going cover the cost of a hungry man’s  fried chicken dinner, so I slipped him a larger bill.” He did not take the money and run. He invited me to dinner. He said……..”The 2 of us. Let’s have us some fried chicken.”

3 minutes and my train departs.

I was weened on Southern California television game shows. This was my Monty Hall moment. Do I take the train, or go with a person living on the streets of New York and have a fried chicken dinner?  Have you noticed life tosses us dilemmas? If you have not noticed, let me inform you,” life tosses us dilemmas.”

I so wanted to buy this man a workable i-Pod or music player. I so wanted to eat chicken and learn more about his life, and share my life story, yet the “LAST CALL TO STAMFORD!……..LAST CALL TO STAMFORD!” announcement reverberates throughout the close-to-empty cavernous Grand Central Station.

I told him, “I must get back and take my train. I will take a rain check. When I’m in  New York againthis winter, I will look for you. I promise. My word is my word. I will look for you.”

He then said something utterly profound.

“Like my castle?  I love my castle.”

He was referring to Grand Central Station.

I looked above at Grand Central Station’s Robin’s egg blue painted ceiling with twinkling stars and zodiac symbols. I glanced at all the marble, chandeliers, and 2 grand descending staircases.

His perception of his living space was “spot on.”

 To the average person passing him, he is a homeless man living in a train station. To me, he is a king. Royal. He was dealt a bad deck of cards, yet surviving in one of the world’s largest cities.

I think of him often. I think  how he views his universe. I think what a shame that many homeless people suffer from mental illness. In the 21 century, mental illness still has a stigma attached to it and is not  fully acknowledged as a medical condition. Where is funding for mental health research? Where is funding to stop the systemic problem of homelessness in America—the land of plenty?

Goodnight my King of New York City. I hope you find warmth, in a corner of Grand Central Station, on this cold winter night. What tune will lull you to sleep amongst the clattering of trains and the static afflicted public address system announcing LAST CALL FOR STAMFORD!

Brendan Ben Feeney

“Now Junior, behave yourself………”

The above  is a line from a little known John Lennon song.

I feel the need to remind people to act kinder towards each other.

Is it me, or are my fellow Americans getting crusty and sharp around the edges?

A-case-in-point. I went into a coffee shop. I park legally in front of the coffee shop. A well-dressed, middle age woman barks at me…”Jesus! Who do YOU think you are, blocking me?”

First there was no blockage…………possible in her arteries if she keeps up the anger. She could well maneuver her car out of the space where she was legally parked. The “Jesus” line was uncalled for.

I asked her  if she was having a ” religious moment?”

This made her slam her car door and “blow dirt” as she hit the gas peddle and sped away in a huffy, pissy-pants mood. 

The same day the following happens. I have one item to check out at  Costco……..a warehouse store that sells boxes of oranges…………876,987 to the box. It is all about bulk and quantity at Costco. I hold a small coffee cake in my hands. I politely ask the couple in front of me if’s alright if I check out ahead of them with my one item. They had a basket gushing with goods. The gentleman snapped at me, “Wait your turn, Buddy!”

Buddy? I though Buddy is a name one gives to a Beagle, as in DOG………..

Why the short fuses? Why the rudeness? What is the genesis of flaring tempers?

 Are we moving too fast? Not concerned about others? Snapping at small things like parking spaces and places in line? What happens when something critical happens? A full throttle,  tongue lashing, meltdown?

Oh, civility!  Where have ye gone?

Brendan Ben Feeney