I Hate the U.S. Open

Tennis enthusiasts, don't take offense, I'm not a tennis fan. I know very little about the game over all. I know that points are scored as Love. Had I known it was that easy, I would have picked up Tennis years ago. What a boost to my delicate teen ego it would have been, even if I had scored just a little love! I wrote a story about Tennis once, wa-a-y-y back when I was in the tenth grade. The title was "Lost Love." I'll spare you the gory details. Saying that I hate the U.S. Open is like saying that I hate the Good Year blimp, or any corporate sponsored dirigible for that matter. Blimp's play a large part in my life. It may seem minuscule, but to me a blimp represents a goal, not in the sports sense however, but in the life sense.
It was a summer's day in 1974 when Lisa and I had met. In truth, we had actually met several years earlier at a far younger age. Our mom's had attended High School together, managing to do what a significant amount of the general public could not...Keep in touch. Lisa's family resided roughly thirty miles east of the small hamlet I called home on a street whose name I shall never forget; Bread and Cheese Hollow Road. Imagine trying to fit all of that on the front of a small white envelope. Her address was longer than the subject matter of the letters I would stuff inside those envelopes. Had there always been some undercurrent of romance dating back to our youngest years, I wondered? It was at a church picnic where we had wasted no time getting reacquainted. Young and temporarily in love, we were glued to the waist, walking proudly through the park, our arms around each other so tightly that I can still feel the bruised ribs today. We held hands, we rode the carousel, and reveled in that special type of magic reserved only for the innocence of youth. The only other memory my addled brain, with its talent of remembering some of the most inane details had retained, was her account of a family trip to Florida and a flight in a blimp. I was jealous. We had never ventured to such far off and exotic places. I had yet to travel by air, on either a plane or a zeppelin! That special day reaching its inevitable end, we were separated once again, relegated to future communication via the postal service or the occasional phone call. Ultimately, we failed to accomplish what our parents had for so many years and eventually lost touch. She did remain in my thoughts, having often played the role of the heroine in one or two of the short stories I had crafted in my Junior High and High School years. She was not the love interest in the aforementioned tennis tale, however. That leading role was played by a girl I had met camping some years later. I'll ruin the ending by telling you that she dies in that story.
By 1985, my writing in conjunction with my brief stab at higher education had long been abandoned. I was in a great mood one warm July afternoon, cruising through life in a dead end job with no future, no game plan, and no clue. It was a happy time, similar to what a Prozac moment might feel like. Stepping out for lunch, I looked to sky above where I could hear the unmistakable droning of a large propeller driven craft. I always love the site of a blimp lazily lumbering along. The unwanted memory crashed in with the angry force of rushing water.
"I'll never do that," I thought sullenly, recalling Lisa's age-old tale of flight. "I'll never get to Florida either. What the hell am I doing? What am I going to do with my life?!"
There was nothing surreal about it. That in-body experience was a crystal clear moment of clarity, a shocking wake-up call that depressingly set the tone for the remainder of the day. Eventually I found the power within to return to my fairy tale world, though its landscape had changed somewhat. I unconvincingly told myself that life would get better one day.
It did.
Florida happened for me two years later, the curse that I had brought upon myself finally lifted. It was in the early spring of the new millennium that the unimaginable happened. Called upon by the powers that be, in a job I had turned into a career, I was asked to attend a technology trade show in Sin City. I got on the web to do a little recreational research and found myself staring at the screen in total disbelief. Vegas.com on the launch of their new website was offering passenger's the once in a lifetime thrill to hop aboard their newly christened aerial billboard; the blimp. I had felt only the slightest degree of guilt, opting not to attend the tradeshow on the afternoon I had planned the flight. My timing could not have been any better as there were no other passengers scheduled. Due to contractual obligations, the vessel was required to be airborne regardless. My paltry fee for flight was an added bonus. It’s not a white-knuckle experience and can barely be compared to any type of extreme sport. With an arm hanging out the open side, the feeling is more like driving in a car on a newly paved road. Holding tightly to the attached ropes, a small group of people gently maneuvers the blimp, pointing it in the proper direction for takeoff. Once clear, the propellers roar and almost instantaneously the view of the horizon changes radically as we begin our steep ascent. It was an unexpectedly painful experience for me when without warning, a heavy piece of equipment fell forward, scraping and bruising my right shin. Apologizing profusely and inwardly hoping we wouldn’t be seeing me in court anytime soon, the harried pilot hastily shoved the unit back into position while I rubbed my battered bone and wondered how quickly or at what rate of speed we would be returning to earth. Apparently, the oversized electronics did not play an integral part in the function of flight. Later, in the vaunted pilot’s chair, I was instructed in the basics of operating the craft.
It was the least he could do.
Two wheels positioned on each side of the chair are used for flight control. Spin them forward and the vessel descends, backward and it points skyward. The top rate of achievable speed was no more than 45 M.P.H. Returning to our proper seats he demonstrated this by bringing the engines up to full speed and aiming us at the ground, which was in no rush to come up and meet us. Heading upwards again, the speed never changed. I wondered what the people below were thinking as they watched our erratic flight pattern. I had gotten well more than my money’s worth. With no passengers waiting at the airstrip for what would have been the next scheduled departure, we stayed in the air for over an hour, veering from the normal flight path so I could see my hotel from above. The view of the famous Vegas strip from that vantage point could only have been more magical had I taken the opportunity to see it at night. A fleeting thought of Lisa must have entered my mind at one point that afternoon. While I had not thought about her in years, she was inadvertently responsible for my being there and making it a priority to achieve a goal that I had long come to consider as insurmountable.
There are a lot of blimp sightings when the Open is in town.
Why do I hate the U.S. Open?
It simply signifies the end of summer.

Blogging: Small Fish in the World's Largest Pond

WOW!
There's hope for us small town blogger's after all.
Recently I had the great pleasure of reading a feature article in Long Island's Newsday relating the tale of a local blogger. longislanddailyphoto.blogspot.com opens a small window allowing the rest of the world to come inside and experience a piece of everyday life, one photo at a time, as seen through the eyes of an average long islander. She was inspired by a similar blog highlighting the sights of Paris in much the same way. I've always maintained that the simplest ideas are most often the best ones, and applaud all of the daily photo blogger's for allowing us a brief moment to step into their shoes and take a brief look around. As I tend to be a little long winded at times, this type of daily blogging would never work for me, so I've decided to treat this particular entry more like a book report; something I haven't done since the days of my youth. Feel free to comment or simply grade me from "A" through "F." Hopefully no one has screwed up the Bell Curve.

My Neighborhood, by Morty.
Yes, the above link would be considered blatant plagiarism, so consider it footnoted. In an effort to stem my longwindedness, I figured I would send you there first. Now, on to business.
I was born and bred roughly eight miles east Forest Hills in nearby Nassau County on Long Island proper. The borough of Queens, while physically a part of Long Island is considered more often than not, by its residents as part of New York City. My earliest impressions of Queens echoed that of the locals. It's a far cry from the more relaxed, spread out, greener pastures (in the literal sense) of Long Island. A major percentage of the Five Boro's consists of pavement, high rise apartment buildings, major thoroughfares, gridlock, noise, parking meters, and a lack of parking spaces. Add to that, Alternate Side of the Street Parking. Twice a week on alternating days, drivers are forced to find suitable parking elsewhere as one side of the street is off limits to make room for the street sweeping trucks. My non-expert opinion as a casual, often frustrated bystander is that these trucks do nothing more than throw up dust while moving the dirt around.

My son gets a kick out of them though.
I had a rather large number of stipulations when it came to moving from the peace and quiet of the suburbs, a realtor's real nightmare. I wanted an apartment in a private house as opposed to high rise, and did not want to live on any street named with a number.
That's a tall order!
During the late summer of 1993, My significant other found said apartment without the help of anyone in the Real Estate industry. The only thing I'd known of Forest Hills was that it was one of the more sought after areas in this borough to lay down some roots, be them temporary or permanent. There's also a certain stigma attached to it that raises some eyebrows. Whenever I'm working with clients and the availability for small talk arises, the second I mention Forest Hills, their immediate reaction is,
"Wow, you must be doing really well."
"No, no," I correct them. "I walk through that neighborhood to get to mine."
The Gardens is one of the premiere exclusive neighborhoods in the borough of Queens. Its cobblestone streets and Tudor style homes give it a real European flair, at least the way I picture Europe based on what I've seen in say, James Bond and Pink Panther movies. I love to meander through the quiet tree lined streets, where parking is abundant and the noise of typical general traffic mayhem is considerably muted. There are actually plenty of buses, subways, and commuter rails that pass straight through the heart of town, which unbelievably is not more than a few blocks from this tranquil neighborhood, making for a short, trouble free commute to Manhattan. The main line of the Long Island Railroad slices through it's center. The dividing line it creates provides clear indication of the contradiction that is Forest Hills. Immediately south is the aforementioned upper income community of The Garden's. To the north lies Austin Street, the hub of Forest Hills, both for transportation and shopping. Beyond that lies Queens Boulevard, probably the busiest thoroughfare in the borough, followed by a high concentration of apartment buildings; essentially the more conventional Queens.
Pulling in or out of the Forest Hills train station, one cannot help but notice the hint of grandeur that once was. Mere steps to the south, the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium; the original home of the U.S. Open still stands. It's place in the music world is equally impressive, hosting such greats as The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, The Who, and Diana Ross. If memory serves, Hall and Oates may have passed through there as well. Majestic from a distance, it's crumbling facade upon closer inspection is sad. The last event that I can remember taking place there was a Phish concert in the mid-nineties. I may be speaking out of turn here as this is only based on my observations walking home at the end of a long work week, but the mildly unruly crowd wandering the streets with open beer containers, loudly complaining about the lack of parking most likely proved too much for the locals whom I am sure had some kind of hand in putting an end to such events. I for one would love to see this landmark put to use again. I'm sure that if I were to do a bit more research I'd find some type of preservation committee standing firm on leaving this iconic structure intact. In the meantime, it just seems to be a waste of some prime real estate.
Meandering further south on the quest to reach my neighborhood, the landscape begins to change. Nearly as drastic as the Long Island Railroad dividing line, is the razor sharp property line that signals the change from exclusivity to everyday. The middle income homes here are textbook old school Queens! Take a look at the opening sequences of television's King of Queens, or the classic All in the Family and you can see first hand exactly what I'm talking about. In fact, the exterior shot of the Archie Bunker home is literally just across the Forest Hills border, residing in the town of Glendale. Just a few blocks shy of this border is the area that I call home. The Long Island Railroad plays an important part here as well, both in its history and in the beautiful almost country-like serenity left in its wake. This was the major selling point in my relocating from suburb to borough. The former Rockaway Beach Branch; discontinued in the early 1960's now provides a beautiful buffer zone separating this neighborhood from the traffic and congestion on nearby Woodhaven Boulevard; another major thoroughfare. Our first order of business after settling in was to take a walk on those long abandoned tracks to explore a piece of Queens history that not a lot of people get to see, or may even know exists for that matter. Here we see the rusted remains of a set of stairs that at one time must have led to a long gone station platform.
The view from the rear of our home is idyllic. In the early days, my wife and I could often be found sitting outside at night, sipping wine as we listened to the rustling of the trees, looking to the night sky at the twinkling lights of stars while planes silently soared high overhead. In the morning, we would enjoy coffee back there, or spend some quality reading time together. The freshly fallen snow from the occasional winter storm would almost provide a Norman Rockwell like scene.
Recently, we acquired a new neighbor in the house next door who has put to good use the land behind his home, making for the perfect summer getaway without actually going anywhere. I hear there is talk these days of turning this area in to parkland, creating a Greenway here for biking, jogging, walking, or simply enjoying nature.

One of my closest companions in High School was a girl who had two great loves in her early life; horseback riding, and country music, one of the two which has rubbed off on me. I owe my love of country music primarily to my father who during our teen years always had 1050 WHN-AM on the car radio, making the unlikely pairing of Lisa and I as friends not so unlikely at all. I fondly remember coming to the end of the winter months when she would begin the countdown of days leading to her getting back in the saddle again (no pun intended). She would often try to coerce me into joining her, but there was something about the unfamiliarity of climbing on an animal many times my size and putting my trust in it's comfort with having me there. I was far more comfortable in the seat of a roller coaster, no matter what the size! Horseback riding probably would never have crossed my mind again, yet herein for me lies the greatest contradiction that is Forest Hills. This is such a far cry from the Union Turnpike that I remember as a kid, and that was at its eastern end in Nassau County Long Island! I've always had the dream of one day living in the country, waking up to the peaceful sounds of nature, living life at a pace that is somewhat slower than the frenetic one that New York City and it's outlying boroughs are known for. Pictured here is the entrance to Forest Park. There's a beautifully quaint playground here that abuts the entrance to the bridle path, and a working line of the Long Island Railroad most often used for freight trains. My son and I enjoy walking along the fence, each with our own nature supplied walking sticks, reminding him of a past trip to Vermont, while allowing me to lose myself in the dream of living in the country. If the quiet piece of land that borders the rear of our dwelling wasn't enough, the scene of horses trotting in and out of the park while a freight train lazily lumbers past is pure country paradise!

Development is important to the growth and well being of any community, a bland statement, I know. While paradise is often not more than a few steps away, there were certainly a few blemishes to mar this otherwise near perfect picture. The long unused, dilapidated buildings that once bordered the nearby intersection of Woodhaven Boulevard and Metropolitan Avenue are now thriving businesses. The recent additions of Staples, Sports Authority, Home Depot, and Trader Joe's are encouraging. I'm sure it's caused a bit of consternation for the long established small guy who 0nce dominated these parts, but sadly, this is the downside of progress. Another downside here is traffic! While I'm all for progress and development, the recent influx of shoppers has turned this place into a congestion nightmare. I don't know who plans the traffic studies to see how it may affect the community, but the individuals in charge of this one have failed miserably. Talk about screwing up the Bell Curve! Further development continues in this area on a piece of property that was truly a long decaying wasteland, overgrown with weeds and grass. This however is progress of the most positive kind! I can only guess at what it may do to the traffic patterns here, but the opportunity to have my son attend school in a brand new building, only a couple of blocks from home would make it worth the aggravation.

So, long story short?

In the eyes of my five year old son, there's magic here. Every community has its share of problems. I've very lightly touched on the rare few that really irk me, but this community, while not perfect is the place that I call home. I've seen a lot of changes since the day I gave up my suburban roots, most of them positive. I would love to hear and learn more about the Forest Hills that was, but not from a book (remember those?) or the Internet. I openly invite anyone to comment here or contact me. I'm a great listener. Besides, a few more visitors on this site would also be considered progress of the most positive kind, with the hope that one day I may be a slightly larger fish in this enormous pond.