Independence Day, is to holidays, what bacon is to food: a delightful indulgence lacking in any subtlety. Who doesn’t like bacon? Or fireworks? Both containing an ample amount of nitrates. Absent the stress of gift exchanging, or turkey worship at extended family tables, it has come to be my favorite holiday.

It’s a day of celebration usually made manifest with barbeques, picnics, reunions, baseball games, concerts, the patriotic anthems of John Philip Souza, and all capped off by end of day, with the “Oohs and aahs” to a dazzling splay of pyrotechnics overhead. And to varying degrees, it’s been that way since day one.

John Adams in writing about this day in a letter to his wife Abigail (why he would need to write to his wife, and her alone, as opposed to sharing his sentiments with the rest of the new country via publication, is a question), had this to offer:

“…it will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival.

It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized (italics, mine) with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.”

Actually, some of this prose could rain on any parade. Day of deliverance? Solemn acts of devotion? And God Almighty? No separation of church and state? Of course, guns are included in the celebratory mix. And “solemnized pomp and parade” is an oxymoron. Or is it? Which brings me down to the tip of Manhattan.

The coming of our 200th birthday in 1976, was heralded on TV beginning two years prior by way of a daily prime-time dose of a “Bicentennial Minute.” And when the day finally arrived, and we were awaiting the tall ships to make their grand entrance into New York Harbor, Ted Koppel issued this rather startingly somber report:

It’s always about crowd size, isn’t it. And I take exception to the cliché that New Yorkers are louts. And I wonder at what “stage of the day” Ted, we would stop being orderly? But, as I think back on it, there was a sense of unease in the air in the mid-seventies coming from a wariness towards government institutions.

The Viet Nam War had not long ago ended in dubious fashion, and the odor of Watergate was still fresh. And for the first time in American history, we had both a President and Vice President, Gerald Ford and Nelson Rockefeller, who were not elected by the people. Both assumed office as a byproduct of criminal activity on the part of their predecessors, Nixon and Agnew. And specifically, for New Yorkers, it didn’t help that Ford was turning his back on our city. Which was bluntly summed up in what has become a classic front page in the annals of tabloid journalism. And yes, the stock market had “skidded.” The Dow was down a frightening 12 points, on that “Drop Dead” day.

So a sense of somberness is not necessarily unheard of on this day, despite all the gaiety, real, or as depicted in movies and plays like “The Music Man.” In which I once had the pleasure to appear in a summer stock production, at the height of the Watergate hearings.

The crowds have gotten larger, and yet astonishingly, we’ve even gotten politer Mr. Koppel. Particularly at the tip of Manhattan, as NYC tourism has swelled to record numbers. And I’ve come to discover that’s there’s no better way to celebrate July 4th, than to go down there. Of course, I’m biased. This is home. But this area is so truly rich in American history and some of its defining moments. And on such a day, it is the personification of patriotism. And much of what one encounters, is very much relevant to some of our current issues.

When the Statue of Liberty was reopened on July 4, 2013 following the aftermath of hurricane Sandy, I could not think of a better place to be (Liberty to Reopen on the 4th JULY, 2013 MUSE-LETTER). I went alone. Yet I felt a part of something greater. This, after a stroll through Battery Park with its memorials to soldiers of various wars who fell in battle, and the Castle Clinton Monument which was originally a fort. It was built to defend New York City leading up to the War of 1812 (which, no, was not fought between us and Canada. Heck, hockey had not yet even been invented.).

But before reaching these destinations, a stop-off at Federal Hall on Wall St., where George Washington was inaugurated in 1789, was a worthy reminder of our country’s beginnings. Which could easily have gone in other directions. Or not begun at all.

In the best July 4th of my life in 2015, I had the honor of participating with three others, in a public reading of the Declaration of Independence at this very site. The taste of words such as these, beats the best hot dog or burger I’ve ever had on this day.

“That these United Colonies are, and of the Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved…”

And someone in the crowd in a New York accent shouted “Yeah!”

Nearby, is St. Paul’s where Washington then went to pray immediately after being sworn in. This church would one day serve as a round-the-clock relief ministry to rescue and recovery workers in the aftermath of 9/11. And a memorial and museum of that tragic day, is but a couple of blocks away (9/11 Memorial Museum Opens, JUNE, 2014 MUSE-LETTER). Also in the vicinity, is Trinity Church. If you can’t see Hamilton, the Broadway show, there’s Hamilton: the Tomb. He’s buried in the churchyard there, as is Robert Fulton, the steamboat guy.

When hunger for food becomes greater than that of “freedom from want and fear,” there’s Fraunces Tavern. Where General George Washington in 1783, bade farewell to his officers of the Continental army (I wonder how they divvied up the tab? “Who had the turtle soup?”). Housed in the museum upstairs, are several artifacts, painted scenes and flags associated with the Revolutionary War days.

Celebration need not be noisy. A quiet reflection on who we are, where we come from, and what we share, can be equally stirring. And it need not preclude a pause in which, to later raise a glass in good cheer. Ryan MacGuire’s Ale House, outside of which a whiffle ball game played by grownup men might be in progress, comes to mind.

Fireworks later that night? The throngs that gather for an on-site viewing, are polite but can be crushing. An alternative to the Macy’s extravaganza… a widescreen TV. Followed or preceded—perhaps with a box of Cracker Jack (introduced in 1893 at the Chicago World’s Fair) at hand —by that American classic, oh so grand:

“My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, my sister thanks you, and I thank you.”

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Quote of the Month

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Relearning the Alphabet

Alpha (Α α)

…is for Athens.

“We’re living it up
at the Hotel Carolina,”
55 Kolokotroni,
eagles under the radar.

Returning to a site recalled
from 50 years ago—
give or take—
a few lives and wives.

Beta (Β β)

This is a test:
self-explanatory in parts well known
yet interwoven with wiry inference;
a tinkering with insight
along the way.

Gamma (Γ γ)

No ants this time
across the Acropolis
as there were in MCMLXXI:

In their hustle-bustle line
of worldly oblivion
and my entrancement with purpose
so Lilliputian
it drives the Greek gods crazy.

This time, it’s the scaffolding
with its stranglehold of
a Typhonian nature,
and it is we mortals
who are driven crazy.

Delta (Δ δ)

We do not come for the history
of that which remains
so critically crumbled,
through brutalities in testosterone
and the erosive actions of angry gods.
All given a free pass.

Epsilon (Ε ε)

Unpasteurized
unfiltered
double fermented
Kirki, a bottle
of crafted beer claims:
“to break the spell.”
As if that’s all it takes.

Zeta (Ζ ζ)

Back home
the spell involves
falling down manholes
and person-holes
and running through rabbit holes
time piece in hand
nothing a cold brew can resolve.

Eta (Η η)

A familiar beach
yet pebbles of memory.

What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?

When old age shall this generation waste,

Theta (Θ θ)

It gets early, late out here.
To conversely quote the great wisdom of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi

Berra.

Iota (Ι ι)

We care, not one.
Off we go into a sea of myth
water wings left behind
along with those of failing angels;
showers on and off along the way.
That we may sail as mates
beneath the stars and above the star fish
casting our nets to recapture the dreams
all too soon forgotten.

Kappa (Κ κ)

Landing on a new shore,
getting our bearings
we stumble upon a new church;
over-embellished and funereal.

We pause long enough
to light a long-tapered candle in case
that beer bottle comes up empty.

Lambda (Λ λ)

Braless, breasts bouncing
beneath a loose t-shirt
repeatedly crossing
the road dividing the taverna,
she dodges motored vehicles.

Look, but hold thy tongue
lest a line be crossed, for…

Mu (Μ μ)

…this could be
Circe in the guise of a waitress
in #ΚαιΕγώ mode.
In response to her request
for an order?

“Make me a man.”

Nu (Ν ν)

A nearby shop girl
stepping out of her store—
her name, Nemesis—
will pick up our scent
and point us in
a vague direction.

Xi (Ξ ξ)

A wrong turn
and we find ourselves lost
in an entanglement
of passageways
ancient options
unforgiving stone.

Omicron (Ο ο)

Perhaps, by nightfall
Nyx will step in
to undo his daughter’s undoing,
to guide us rightly,
through that last narrow passage
the same one we came through
in the baby-step days.
Or is memory, myth?

Pi (Π π)

Infinity in silence.
Familiarity
in sound.
The play on words is the thing.

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie—
where others seek out orange skies
magpies bask
in the moon’s blue light cast.

In lieu of magpies
in this magenta of a night,
a hum of mosquitoes.
Arrival has its setbacks
large and small.

Rho (Ρ ρ)

Serpentine steps lead to the top of this Pythagorean theorem
of a hill—
testing our fortitude
in lieu of muscle;
no cab to hail
to lead to salvation:

You who have kept sacred for me always;
the glow of your taxi top burning.

Sigma (Σ σ/ς)

We’re no longer near
where once we were.
Yet the meter is still running.

Tau (Τ τ)

Still, Aphrodite appears all the same
along with a slight breeze
through the curtains:

Propelled by the fingers
Of memory—memory
As old as the first drop of water—
Fresh from a swim in the Aegean Sea
As if in an untapped frenzy
As the night beats on its drum.

Upsilon (Υ υ)

Morning becomes electric.
No longer the competing
with Mother Nature
for the affections of Father Time.
Or the conquest of The New York Times.

Phi (Φ φ)

Fat cats bask in the sun
while donkeys do the heavy lifting.
No cars, nor mopeds nor bikes allowed—
come to Hydra
and like Leonard Cohen,
meet your Marianne;
write your anthem.
But remember…

There is a crack in everything,
that’s how the light gets in.

Chi (Χ χ)

A final toast from the Mt. Olympus
of a rooftop bar
to all that has been
and all that will be
by way of a retro potency
a Bombay Sapphire gin martini.

Psi (Ψ ψ)

Putting a pitchfork
into dactylic hexameter,
the devil has been in the details
of freed verse;
a modest odyssey is ending.

Omega (Ω ω)

Home is where Argos
now dry-nosed in the corner
welcomes us
with a wag of his tail,
before dying.

—Ron Vazzano                                                                   photos, illustrations, design by Ron Vazzano©

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Gigs

Last month, I had the pleasure of performing—billed as a spoken word artist— in the Tonys Week/New Members Variety Show at The Players club (APRIL, 2018 MUSE-LETTER, “The Players Club and Edwin Booth”).

“Variety” was the operative word, reminding me to some degree of the old Ed Sullivan Show. I expected Topo Gigio to pop up at any moment.

As part of my turn on the stage, I reprised “Oysters Ordered in the Afternoon” (JUNE, 2013 MUSE-LETTER).

The evening concluded with a rousing singalong of There’s No Business Like Show Business from “Annie Get Your Gun” by Irving Berlin.

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Later this month I will be appearing at…

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Putting the “z” Back in Verrazzano

In a piece I did last year on Columbus (OCTOBER, 2017 MUSE-LETTER, Columbus: The Parade/The Voyage/The Statues), I referred to a couple of other noteworthy Italian explorers including Giovani da Verrazzano, an almost namesake. Then as an aside, I went on to say that, “The bridge bearing his name, by the way, is misspelled.” It is missing one “z.” I then added somewhat facetiously, “Does the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League know about this?”

It turns out, according to a piece in The New York Times last month, that a lot of people have known about this. And for a long time now. And that it was something being debated as far back as 1959, even before the bridge was constructed. It would open, misspelled, on November 21, 1964. At the time, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world.

The name for the new bridge was first proposed by the Italian Historical Association of America, as da Verrazzano was considered the first to explore New York Harbor (read: first European white man). Governor Averill Harriman agreed, and pushed for the correct spelling with two “z’s.” In another camp, aides to the man who would become his successor, Nelson Rockefeller, argued zealously before city and state leaders that there ought to be just one.

Think about this for a moment.

A passionate debate about something you would think would be indisputable: the correct spelling of a historical figure’s name! Talk about alternative facts. I wonder how Nelson and his aides would have liked Rockefeler Center? Yet the “One-Zers,” that is to say the pigheaded, won out. And how’s this for irony…

“In 1959, at the zenith of the dispute, officials en route to a groundbreaking ceremony for the planned Verrazano-Narrows Bridge found themselves in a boat called the ‘Verrazzano.’”

This must not have sat well with many of Italian descent who knew of this egregious act in misspelling. I certainly didn’t for a long time. The president of the Italian American Museum in Lower Manhattan, Joseph Scelsa, has even spoken in terms of “the psychological and emotional effect this has on people.” He like many, is thankful that this slight is finally being rectified. Italians are particularly sensitive about such things, as I know firsthand all too well.

Over fifty years ago, I opted to legally change my surname to “Lawrence.” Which is a second middle name that was bestowed upon my being confirmed within the Catholic tradition. I did this for multiple reasons, too long and boring to discuss.

My lawyers (you needed lawyers back then apparently to have this done) Fagin & Fagin, I kid you not, went to court and came up against an Italian judge. Not only wouldn’t he do it, he told my father’s cousin. Who then forwarded this news on to my father (I was an adult at this point and not living under my father’s roof). Yes, it was a tightknit community to say the least. Whereupon this snippet of exchange took place:

Dad: It’s like a slap in the face.

Me: Ah, dad. It’s not something I did to be disrespectful.
Dean Martin changed his name. Tony Bennett changed his name.

Dad: You’re not a f*****g singer.

Eloquence in expressing one’s feelings, was not a trait found in that blue-collar enclave of the way, way, Lower East Side.

Another cousin, a wannabe “Goodfellas-type,” didn’t speak to me for 30 years. But as I lived 3,000 miles away and never saw him during that length of time, I never knew he wasn’t speaking to me. When I changed my name back to its original (https://www.adweek.com/brand-marketing/whats-name-42477/), and having now become aware of his sentiments, he came up to me at a first ever family reunion in 2000, and kissed me on the cheek. I thought, “Oh God. I’m gonna’ get whacked at a family picnic.” Nah. Just his way of welcoming me back into la famiglia. And I lived to eat the sausage sandwich. (“Ah, salsiccia!”).

Shakespeare once asked, “What’s in a name?” Shakespeare obviously didn’t know many Italians despite writing “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” To paraphrase Alexander Pope: “To err is human. To not ‘err’ is Vazzano.”

The bill to change the name of the bridge to its correct spelling, is expected to soon be passed and signed by Governor Andrew Cuomo (who is fortuitously Italian). It is then estimated that the cost of changing 96 signs of various sizes—in effect the cost of a “z” —is put at approximately $350,000 according to The Times article. Though that is considered a pittance compared to past renaming projects. The Triborough Bridge in transforming to the Robert F Kennedy, came in at $4 million.

Along with that, a public school in Brooklyn is thusly misspelled. How will they decide to address this added “z”? How do you tell the kids that their school didn’t know how to spell its name right?

As Alice might have cried out in reaction to all of this, including my own flip flopping on a given name, “Curiouser and curiouser!

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