on being a minor true crime junkie

I am not one of those online crime-solvers. But the subject does fascinate me. 

I read a fair amount of fictional crime thrillers.

And I'm a loyal viewer of Dateline and Law & Order SVU, and other like shows and movies.

So when I hear there's a pop-up exhibit in NY called Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer, I know I want to go. 

I am kind of embarrassed that this appeals to me, but the good reviews in reputable media outlets slightly lessen the ick-factor.

When I mention the exhibit to Robin, she shocks me by saying she'd like to go too. So a couple of weeks ago we buy timed tickets for today. We meet at 11 near Union Square, on a ridiculously hot, 88-degree day.

Were it not for the sign on this nondescript building, the exhibit would be easy to miss. 

The inside, though, is well-lit with unsettling headlines everywhere.

Photography is encouraged.

The first large room we enter focuses on how techniques for catching serial killers has evolved over the years. No DNA. No ring cameras. No easy recording or phone devices, etc.  

Parts of the room are a bit kitschy, but it doesn't detract from our experience.

We leave this room and find ourselves entering what-feels-like an endless number of other rooms, each focusing on a different murderer. A lot of care and creativity went into the writing and recreations. 

The last part involves wearing VR headsets to "try and solve a mystery." Having never tried VR before, I found it fascinating.

Overall, the exhibit is both disturbing and informative, and worth the two plus hours we spend there. 

Living in a big city somehow feels safer to me than being on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

But wherever I find my self, I always always make sure all the doors are locked.

belated Mother's Day brunch

Alexander and I celebrate Mother's Day today, a week after its official date.

I google "best pancakes in NY" and The Clinton St. Baking Company is at the top of every list. Also is mention of the fact that the restaurant doesn't take reservations for Sunday brunch and the line is always long.

Undeterred, that's the place I chose.

We are meeting at 11. I exit the subway on the lower east side and ask somewhere where Clinton Street is. "Are you looking for that breakfast place?" the stranger asks. I answer yes, and he knows exactly where it is, though he's never been. "The wait's ridiculous."

I arrive on time and see Alexander has arrived before me.

He greets me with, "It's a one and half to two hours wait. Where else can we go? We're not staying here."

I leave it up to him to find an alternative because, after all, this is our Mother's Day brunch. Alexander does a quick google search and finds a Nordic-inspired eatery in the East Village called Smør, with "a 4.6 rating." He calls, and if we can get there within 15 minutes (we can) and be out within an hour (we can) we are encouraged to come.

It's packed outside, which is a good sign. The place is tiny, busy, and looks great.

We get a very small table in the front (I have to sneak photos of him; he does not like posing).

Though he's fine behind the camera.

The food is great. Not exactly the pancakes I imagined (no maple syrup even) but still very good.

what's the right answer?

Every Tuesday, since last September, I've been going to OsteoStrong. It's a free benefit I get from my insurance. 

According to its website, 

OsteoStrong® works ... to promote skeletal strength which impacts the entire body in many ways using a process known as Osteogenic Loading.

Translated this means: I only need to go once a week for a few minutes and this should stimulate bone density.

The place I go to on Park Avenue is staffed by a competent and friendly group of young women. The best part, for me anyway, is that it takes about 7-8 minutes to use all four machines. I wish all exercise programs could be done this quickly.

There are certain triggers to pass, and I am accompanied to each machine by a staff member who oversees my positioning. And after each session I am emailed a report showing how I did.

I am not sure if this is effective or not, but there is no downside in doing it. And it makes me feel as if I am doing something good for my bones.

Today I go. The very helpful staff appears to be in their mid-20's or so.

I arrive early and must wait a few minutes.

I finish reading today's paper and ask, "Does anyone want to read this before I throw it out?"

"I haven't read a paper in years," says one of the young trainers. "Is it any good?"

Is it any good?

I am not  sure how to respond, as I don't understand the question.

Does she mean, "Is The New York Times a good paper?"

Or maybe she means, "Is reading a real paper actually better than reading a digital one?"

Could she mean, "Can I really trust what the paper reports?"

But I think she means, "Is the news any good?"

So I confidently answer YES and hand her The Arts and Science sections only. 

today it's red hook

Susan and I chose Red Hook as our monthly NYC neighborhood adventure. (Jill can't join us as she's participating in a 17-mile walk across five Manhattan bridges). 

Traipsing around Red Hook is a lot easier. I have never been, and picture this section of Brooklyn as a quaint village with a seaside vibe. 

Except it doesn't really feel that way.

It's not very pretty. And feels more industrial than quaint.

The stores range from small, cool artisanal shops to unappealing vintage places where the clothes and plates and things look like they could have come from someone's style-less home.

We walk to the waterfront where Lady Liberty can be seen from afar. 

We browse a small gallery where two artists have created impressive collages from paper.

We spend a fair amount of time at Apotheke, an interesting fragrance studio with many eclectic, unrelated items.

We love some of the leather totes and small pouches at a leather shop called Polt Atölye. Like many of the stores here, the work is done on the premises.

We wish we could afford the gorgeous cabinetry of Leicht, a high-end German kitchen brand that has a storefront on Van Brunt.

We go to Red Hook's well-known key lime pie shop, but use restraint and buy nothing.

And we are amused by this sign on Fro Bakehouse (which isn't open). 

We visit the Pinball Museum and meet one of its friendly owners (in the red shirt).

And then finally, we drive a short distance to what ends up being our favorite stop of the day.

Located on a side street in an industrial-looking area...

we find what we have come for — Raaka Chocolate Factory.

Along with another couple who are there, we are encouraged by the very nice, knowledgeable and no-pressure sales guy to sample the many many bowls of chocolate bits. 

The chocolates (mostly dark) have unusual names like Sugar Cookie, Rose Saffron, Maple & Nibs, and Earl Grey, to name just a few. They are vegan, relatively healthy as far as chocolates go, and are exceptionally good. 

This time I show little restraint.

on being ridiculous

I am meeting a couple of friends in the West Village for an early dinner, and a play after.

Nearby is a place called Benji's Buns. The only thing they sell are cinnamon buns of different varieties. They are expensive, large and good, not amazing (as I later will conclude). 

Each bun is packed in an eco-unfriendly styrofoam box.

The server asks, "Would you like a bag to put that in?" 

"Sure," I reply, as I don't want the container to open and spread gunk inside my tote.

I use my card, sign the bill, and leave. Later, I receive the receipt.

I expect to pay the unseemly price of $10.50 for a single bun.

I do not expect to pay 15 cents for a single-use small paper bag.

But then I think how ridiculous I am being.

I pay $10.50 for a just-okay cinnamon bun that anywhere else on this planet would cost half that, and then get annoyed that I have to pay 15 cents for a single-use paper bag. 

I look forward to my next trip to the Cape. The West Falmouth Market has better cinnamon buns for about $4. And, they don't charge for brown bags.

reminders of phyllis

I think of my mom many times a day. She died in January at age 96 after a long, good life. So I cannot say these thoughts make me sad. Quite the opposite, actually.

Like today, I am talking to my friend M and mention my upcoming "collin-oscopy."  She corrects my pronunciation and I smile, thinking of my mom's often incorrect articulations.

Another example. A few weeks ago I'm talking to someone and mention that I love the white Albuquerque tuna by Catch Fresh. Warm thoughts of my mom immediately come to mind.

Last week Jill and I see a new play called The Balusters. 

The play is great. It's a satirical look at an elite group of one-percenters who represent the Board of a neighborhood conclave. Their petty arguments about dog poop disposal and the right type of balusters remind me of a story.

It was 1978 when my parents built a second home in a small, gated community on the Cape called Wild Harbor. It's a home they grew to love, and where they made many lifelong friends.

My parents so enjoyed their time there, that after a few years they sold their primary house in Brockton and moved to the Cape permanently. 

My father was always building things. He was exceptionally creative and could make or fix just about anything. He decided that a small white fence separating his lawn from the street would be nice.

I can't remember if he did all the work himself or if he hired someone. But it took some time for the fence to be completed. The chair of the Wild Harbor Association would often drive by in his golf cart, offering up a smile and neighborly wave.

Soon after the fence was finished, my dad got a letter from the Association informing him that he had to remove the fence as it violated neighborhood guidelines. It had something to do with split rail fences (either they were required for all fences or prohibited; my mom would have recalled).

After returning home from the play and remembering this story, I wanted to call my mom and reminisce. My dad did end up taking the fence down. And this story became more humorous in its many re-tellings. 

It's those small things that happen almost daily that most make me think of my mom. 

an unexpected acknowledgement

I am picking up Robin from a doctor's office, after her endoscopy.

She finishes and we are ready to leave, but we sit for a few minutes and talk. Not about anything important. Just normal banter between two good friends.

I even mention the annoying older women sitting near me who finds it necessary to stream something on her phone and watch it, volume up. I almost say something but don't.  My son would be proud.

After twenty minutes or so of casual conversation, a man approaches us. He's around our age. Good looking. Well-dressed. There with his wife.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he begins.

"I felt like I have a front row seat to a good piece of theater. It's a pleasure to listen to you two. Are you a comedian?" he asks Robin. 

She is flattered but responds negatively.

Then he turns to me and says, "And yes, I agree that people should not force others to listen to anything on their phones."

It's nice when a stranger validates what you already know. My friends are interesting, even when they talk about nothing.

Before leaving, we notice the women with the high-volume phone has turned it down.

another part of town

It's a gorgeous spring day.  I have not one thing planned. It only costs $3 round trip via subway. And because I have never been. I decide to go to Williamsburg. It's known for its vibrant art scene, diverse food options, and historic waterfront area.

I take the subway and exit at Marcy Street. I am clearly in the wrong part of town. There is nothing pretty or artistic here.

Instead, I see signs everywhere in Hebrew, and mostly Hasidic populate the streets.

Feeling like the tourist that I am, I ask a non-Hasidic construction guy where the trendier part of town is. He directs me to another section of Bedford Street, about a mile away.

I get there and am a little underwhelmed. There are stores and restaurants. Young people. Buildings (some old, some new). Nothing remarkable. I still think I am missing the best part of town. 

So I stop to eat instead.  I find an inviting little place called Weekends Cafe. I am its only customer.

I order tacos. Anticipating one to be the size of a mini-appetizer, I order two. 

I am so wrong. Each taco is surprisingly huge. And, amazingly good.

Now full, I've lost my interest in sight-seeing.

I walk over the Williamsburg Bridge back to Manhattan. It's not a beautiful bridge, but some of the views are.

Five miles later I'm home. 

Still full from lunch, I eat an apple with honey for dinner around 9:30. 

getting to know my city

"Once a month, let's pick a neighborhood of the city (there are more than 350) that we are not familiar with, and explore it."

Jill comes up with this idea and Susan and I quickly embrace it.

Almost all my time is spent in Manhattan. Jill lives in Brooklyn so I sometimes venture there. But rarely, if ever, do I have reason to go to in any other NYC borough (of which there are five).

So today Jill and I (Susan is out of town) meet at Jill's selection for April, Jackson Heights in Queens.

Neither of us have ever been, despite it being a short subway ride away.

Weather is perfect. Getting there is easy.

We meet at the Roosevelt Avenue/74th street subway station. It takes a bit to find each other, but eventually we do.

Jackson Heights is known for being one of the most, if not the most, diverse neighborhoods in NYC. It is popular, too, for its many cuisines.

While we soon notice that we are the only white people, no one notices us. We just blend in, like everyone else.

The streets are busy. The many crowded stores are open. We see no people sleeping outside. And no one asking for money.

We aimlessly walk around. Spend time in a local park. See tons of uninteresting looking apartment buildings. And eventually grab lunch at Taco Veloz, an authentic Mexican street food eatery.

The food is inexpensive and excellent.

We order at the counter; there is no seating.

Nearby we find some steps in front of an apartment building. We plop down there to enjoy our lunch. As people enter or leave the building, no one seems bothered that we are using their steps as our makeshift restaurant.

I've known Jill forever. Maybe 40 years. And still, sitting on a stoop in Queens, I learn things about her I never knew. 

7 miles. Ever-varied, but always interesting conversations. And a new neighborhood.

I adore both the city and my friend. I can count on both to offer endless surprises.

if only

I'm running out to do an errand. Except I can't find my wallet. I look everywhere it could possibly be and come up empty.

Then I remember.

Exactly a year ago I lost (and later found) my wallet in a city trash bin (I had accidentally tossed it along with some newspapers).

It was then I decided to buy this credit-card sized tracker. 

I put it in my wallet and forgot about it. But when I couldn't find my wallet yesterday, I remembered that I had the tracker. And, it actually worked.

60th.  Between Third and Lexington.  Bloomingdales. The place I'd just been to return something.

Today I go to Bloomingdale's Lost and Found and yes, they have my wallet. I purposely only carry one credit card with me. That, and $55 in cash were all there. I love this small Fendi Sellaria wallet as it's the perfect size, with the credit card slots on the outside. 

Too bad they don't make it any more or I would have replaced this wallet long ago.

I am relieved, and then think, too bad Nancy doesn't have some kind of tracker on her.

I think I may be following her disappearance with more obsessiveness than most.

• I watch The Today Show every single weekday morning and love Savannah. She's smart and relatable. And true to their mantra, I feel a part of The Today Show's family.
• I religiously watch Dateline, 48 Hours, 20/20 and Law and Order, SVU.
• The books I read tend to be mysteries.
• And I recently lost my mom, though her leaving was expected and gentle.

If only tracking missing people were so easy. 

Like so many, my prayers are with Savannah and her family.

how much is too much?

 My son lives alone.

He works in an office where it's ok to work remote. 

In other words, if my son went missing it could go unnoticed.

That, to me, is reason enough to want to be in touch regularly.

It could be a call or a text. I just like knowing he's okay.

Years ago I read an awful story about a twenty-something year old kid who went to a bar near me. He was invited to join some girls who had an apartment in Queens. He went to their home, and through some bizarre confluence of events, he ended up shot and killed by one of their friends.

This story has haunted me ever since.

I don't worry when I call him and he doesn't pick up, as this is usual behavior. But if I text him with a simple yes/no question and he doesn't respond for 24 hours or more, I get concerned.

Yesterday he tells me, "I am under a lot of pressure right now." He always is. And he always then adds, "And you add to that pressure with your nagging questions."  Nagging questions like, "When do you think you can come by and pick up the T-shirts I bought you three weeks ago?" So he asks that I not call him for a while. Sure, I can do that.

Today he calls. Nothing important. We're talking and then he has to abruptly hang up. He calls me back five minutes later and by then I am on another call. Here is the transcription of the voice mail he leaves:

Hi. I was calling to tell you something but it seems you're not available now, so I don't know what's going on there. I'm a little bit worried. Please call me back as soon as you have a chance. I really really need to tell you something and I am getting concerned that you are not picking up, especially since I just spoke to you. All right. Please call. I love you. Bye.

He annoys me more than most, but somewhat compensates by making me laugh more than most as well.

a nice send-off

My mom would have loved it.

Her funeral, held this morning at Stanetsky Memorial Chapels in Canton Massachusetts, was more a celebration than a sad farewell.

The service was basically a series of eulogies given by those who knew and loved her most: her family. Everyone who could come, did. The East coast was well represented. Three of her grandchildren live far away, and still, Michael flew in from California, Jack from Colorado, and Sally from Barcelona. Even five of her seven great grandkids attended (the missing two are just too young). Her friends came up from the Cape and from other places in Massachusetts. Had the circumstances been different, it would have been an amazing party.

My mother was truly loved. So many funny stories were told about her.  Humor dominated the ten eulogies. My mom loved to laugh and did so often. 

The weather was beautiful. Freezing cold but cloudless and sunny. Even the short time we spent at my mom's graveside was touching, meaningful, and appropriately short.

And the Chinese restaurant we attended after would have been exactly where my mom would have wanted to go.  

In going through the many thoughtful notes I've been receiving, one was from a couple we had met only once, at my son's graduation from Cornell in 2015. My mom and I sat with them for maybe an hour or two. But in that short time, my mom made enough of an impression that now, almost eleven years later, I receive a nice note from them.

That's just the kind of person she was.

On seeing the note, my first thought was to pick up the phone and call her. She would have loved knowing.

Phyllis

My mom died today.

At 96, my mom lived life on her terms.  And decided to leave the same way.

While it's always sad to lose someone, my mom was ready. She truly had all that she wanted. She lived her life with humor and passion, and had zero regrets. How many among us can say the same?

And as one of her final activities, she even got to see her beloved Patriots win the AFC Championship game. Something she has not seen happen in ten years.

Here's a portion of the obituary that will be posted soon.

Phyllis Familant (nee Pullman) was born in Boston and lived a fun-filled, exciting life before meeting her future husband, George, at age nineteen. To hear her tell it, those first nineteen years were packed with more adventures and boyfriends than most experience in a lifetime. She was a Boston-girl through and through and had the accent to prove it.

In 1949, Phyllis married George and moved to Brockton. By age 27, she had given birth to three daughters and had become totally immersed in the Brockton community. Her days were filled with endless activities; her Saturday nights were always busy (with their many friends); and Sunday dinners were spent with family at a Chinese restaurant in either Sharon, Randolph or Rockland.

After 30 years or so in Brockton, Phyllis and George built a house on the Cape, and perhaps her happiest times were spent there. 

She immediately made many new friends, as people were drawn to her. Phyllis’s infectious laugh and winning personality won over just about anyone she met. Her friend list spans generations.

Even as a teenager, Phyllis had the wisdom to pick the right guy. She and George were a dynamic and loving couple for over sixty-four years. Her children, their spouses, her grandchildren and great grandchildren were her greatest source of immeasurable happiness and pride.

We will miss her deeply. But I have no doubt that she is already making new friends.