Cine Beaverhausen Visits Brooklyn

As I'm a Brooklynite and half Irish by heritage, I especially enjoyed watching Brooklyn, a recent film release.

My great-grandmother came to America by boat during the potato famine in Ireland. So, for me, this was a great re-imagining of the trans-Atlantic experience.

Directed by John Crowley, the movie stars Saoirse Ronan as the Irish lass who comes to the USA. Her adventures seem very realistic. Nick Hornby wrote the script from a novel by Colm Tolbin and it is superb.

Ms Ronan's character lands here and falls in love with an Italian boy, News from home takes her away from him, so there is the plot tension. New York City's great "melting pot" is profiled, and it's part of what made it so fantastic.

Great-grandma from Ireland with two daughters & grand-daughters

My great-grandma (grandmother's mom) lived with us when I was very young. She died at age 100. She told us that when she arrived from Ireland at the turn of the century, she had never seen an African-American. So when a worker at Grand Central kindly helped her with her bags, she stared at him and said "Mister, I think you were out in the sun too long!" He just laughed and told her that this was the normal shade of his skin. She apologized but realized she was somewhere very different indeed.

Highly recommended as a timeless love story. Don't miss this one! An expertly done modern classic.

Toto, I Have a Feeling We're Not in San Francisco Any More!

Perhaps only Buddy Beaverhausen can fly out where the pilot announces in his Jamaican accent on the flight headed from Charlotte to NYC, "Hello, this is your captain, Donald Duque" Pronounced Duck, I kid you not. Either his parents were sadists or never watched a single Disney cartoon in their lives. Off, into the Wild Blue Yonder! Was this going to be a Mickey Mouse flight of just a little Goofy?

I went on another epic Coast-to-Coast journey and returned to Brooklyn in fine fettle except for my derriere, which arrived very numb. Who knew the hardships wrought by sitting for the large part of 6 and 1/2 hours! (And by "large part," I'm not referring to my bubble butt, thank you.)

Steve drove me to the airport in SF for 7am; my flight was at 9:15. SF security is not as intense as that in the NYC area. One needn't remove one's belt for one thing and things move along quicker with more cursory examination. I was left with plenty of time for breakfast and boarding.

I did not want to take American again after the fiasco flying out of Newark, therefore I booked my flight on SF via Phoenix via Charlotte to Brooklyn on United. I showed up at the gate with an American logo. Wouldn't you know the two airlines just merged. Buddy's lucky that way, duckies.

Nonetheless, service this time was first-rate. Now, I was left thinking about those American Airlines check-in folk when I left New York and how they were, perhaps, facing sudden lay-off, hence the "incompetent" job performances.

I was on the plane so long today, it felt like my second home. And, hey, is everyone influenced by Beaverhausen these days? When a flyer asked the stewardess nearest me, "What kind of jet is this?," the stewardess quipped ~ without missing a beat ~ "A big one. A really big one!" And no, she wasn't Pam Ann, though just as riotous! Stand-up comedy on a flight is wonderful.

I schmoozed with the people who got on to clean the cabins, took intensive interest ~ looking out my window ~ in the baggage handlers at each airport, and chatted up the flight attendants. Charlotte in Charlotte confided in me about recently returning from disability after surgery due to her diverticulitis! Not to be sniffed at. And can we get any more intimate than that on a flight? Maybe it was my groovy SF haircut that made me feel so free. Who knows!

I took a NYC cab at LGA and, at long last, I'm finally home. And oh, Auntie Em, there's no place like home!

My Brooklyn Experience

I have to tell you, although I lived in Park Slope, on St John's off the park, for three years in the early '90s, and now live in Bay Ridge, I know very little about Brooklyn outside of the immediate neighborhoods I've resided in. So, yesterday proved to be a bit of a whirlwind tour when my downstairs friend and neighbor, Kevin, took me out to other neighbs in search of cheap furnishings.

Basically, I need shelves. Because, more basically, I have thousands of cds and tons of books that need to get out of boxes, from my move, and find a home. This means lots of shelving to store them. Luckily, my new floor-through has plenty of room to accommodate the shelves. (My old Village shoebox could handle one set of shelves exactly.)

So, off we went, on the R train, to resurface at the Atlantic/Pacific Streets stop. That has a very bi-coastal ring to it, no? Well, I found myself in what seemed like absolute Third World. Toto, I don't think we're in Bay Ridge anymore! Burqas abounded! And dashikis fluttered in the wind, on merchants' racks, like colorful curtains. You might imagine how multi-culti I was feeling as we made our way toward the store I prefer to refer to as Salvatore Armi!

"I need shelves that are shallow but tall," I told Kevin. "The way you like your men," he quipped, knowingly. Unfortunately, we were informed by the salesperson there that the furniture department was temporarily closed. "Ok," Kevin said, "You don't want second-hand anyhow!" (Now he tells me!) "Let's catch the bus to Ikea. It's on 9th Street. Do you want to walk or take the subway?"

"How long a walk is it?" I inquired, always interested in pinching pennies unless cocktails are involved.

"Oh, about 10 minutes!"

Forty minutes, many beads of sweat, and several dicey streets that I wouldn't wander after sunset later, we arrived at the bus stop in Red Hook. Our sitcom-housemates relationship has gone from Mary and Rhoda to Laverne and Shirley in about a month. Red Hook is described as the new up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn. It reminded me of someplace out of Last Exit to Brooklyn, or even Only the Dead Know Brooklyn. Gee, so many upbeat tomes about the borough, dont'cha know! Wonder why that is?

Eventually, we arrive at Ikea,

which rises at the end of a dreary warehouse area like the fabled Oz. ("You're out of the woods/you're out of the dark/step into the light!") We go inside. It is like the Disneyland of furniture! So many choices, so much cool stuff! So little money! I immediately have my mind set on a set of six drawers because it looks so Scandi-chic! Frosted plexiglas fronts in aqua hues for each drawer. They're shallow and the perfect height for cd storage. Not what I originally had in mind, but this will keep the cds out of sight for company and I can catalog what's inside. Perfect!

Kevin and I wander through the many showrooms, covetously cruising and fingering furniture. Not to mention sitting on couches and chairs to test for comfort (and to get off our feet for a moment). Kevin buys a beautiful red rug for his dining area.

On our way out, we walk through an area of assemble-yourself-for-lower-cost stuff. My shelves are there! We buy them to assemble at my place. (Another Laverne & Shirley misadventure to come?) I pay for delivery. Ikea is so efficiently run, you'd swear it was a German organization, as the check-out people seem attentive, on-the-ball, and we're out of there in no time. I'm told delivery will be between 6-10 pm as we're checking out at 3:30. The delivery guys arrive just before 8 pm. Perfecto!

On our way home from Oz, we discover a free shuttle bus to our R train stop to home. (Next time, we'll know to take it to the store.)

Well, it was an amazing adventure, really, and Ikea is our new monthly Mecca. I thank God for Sweden as it's given us Ikea, ABBA and Liv Ullman. And I'm happy to be back, all nice and coze, in Bay Ridge, adventure over. At least for now.