Capital Claim

Living as we do in New York close to the Connecticut border, we often venture across the state line to restaurants, shopping and entertainment. Mostly it's on back roads, where there might be small signs noting we are leaving one jurisdiction and entering another. Often there are none, and the only way you know you've crossed is by the change in the road markings. If it's winter and it's been snowing there's another tell: the plows stop right at the state line. One side is scraped bare, the other is slip and slide. It's a toss-up as to whose plows got there first.

But the other day my travels took me via the highway, so I got the full treatment. Big "Welcome to Connecticut!" signs made it very clear I was traversing the boundary. And there was an addition to the signage that had eluded me till then. In the past there was subtext below the headline pointing to the state's proud heritage. One proclaimed the locale "The Basketball Capital of the World." With Springfield being the birthplace of the game as well as the site of the Hall of Fame, it had a reasonable claim to that title. Likewise on a different road I passed one proclaiming the state "The Submarine Capital of the World. Again, not beyond the pale, as David Bushnell invented the craft there in 1775, New London is the US Navy's primary base and General Dynamics Electric Boat of Groton makes most of those vessels. 

Neither is controversial. Likewise in a state that has both Hartford and Greenwich one could condone signs proclaiming the state the center of the insurance industry or of over-the-top suburban mansions. But this newest proclamation contained fighting words, to put it mildly. Those older variations apparently still exist heading south on Route 91 from Massachusetts, and west on Route 95 from Rhode Island. But in what can only be taken as a challenge, on Route 84 heading east from New York into the Nutmeg state, the title claimed was "The Pizza Capital of the World."

While not recent, it was new to me. Apparently back in 2024 on National Pizza Day, at an event in New Haven, Governor Ned Lamont signed an official state declaration declaring that city "The Pizza Capital of America". With such well-known establishments as Frank Pepe and Sally's, it was a nice gesture, and certainly had a veneer of truth. But rather than leave it as a local talking point, U.S. Representative Rosa DeLauro took the claim national by reading a statement into the Congressional Record, thereby lodging the designation in the Library of Congress. And so up went the signs, especially galling because they were only erected on Route 95 North as well as the aforementioned 84 East, both entrances from New York.

To be fair, the New Haven "apizza" variation (pronounced ah-Beetz) is delicious indeed, and the aforementioned establishments have a long history making it. But on what basis is such a grand claim made? First appearance wouldn't work for Connecticut: Lombardi's in Manhattan's Little Italy was licensed in 1905, while Frank Pepe didn't bake his first until 1925. Maybe pizza outlets? Again, the Constitution State comes up short: there are roughly 1300 to 1400 pizza joints in Connecticut, while New York has between 4900 and 5700, with 1800+ in the Big Apple alone. Perhaps the only place the numbers work is in density: With a population 5.5 times larger, NY's pizzeria per 10,000 residents ratio is 2.54, while Connecticut can boast a 3.37+ tally. 

Without an official metric there's no real way to adjudicate the assertion. As such, it's as much about perception and marketing as reality. And Connecticut has run with it, publishing a "Pizza Trail" map showing multiple well-known practitioners, such as Mondo in Middletown with its shrimp pizza with red onion, capers, and fresh basil, and Little City in Avon and its namesake pie with grilled chicken, melted leeks, artichoke hearts, roasted garlic spread, fontina and Romano cheeses. 

So while the capital claim is not a capital crime, it MAY have some basis. Indeed, if you try Frank Pepe's white clam pizza you might be swayed. But whether your taste runs to traditional or exotic, the evidence is there for the taking. The good news is that there are no losers in this fight, and you can be your own judge. To paraphrase the box, you can try the rest, then decide the best.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford like pizza, period. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

No Habla Emoji

As always, when invited to someone's house for dinner, we ask what we can bring. Usually my wife volunteers (after confirming with me) that I would be happy to make a dessert. Nine times out of ten our host takes us up on the offer. And more often than not there are leftovers, which I happily share with all the guests in the interest of not taking it home and stuffing my face.

This time was no different, and the next day I got a nice text back from our host telling me how much he enjoyed what I left behind. We exchanged some quick back and forth about the cake and its taste, comparing it to prior efforts. He ended with a yellow smiley face that had a tongue sticking out. Was he licking the plate? Was he making fun of me? Was he riffing on an earlier comment? I queried him on his meaning, as not only am I not good with foreign languages, I am functionally illiterate when it comes to emojis. 

To be fair, that's not strictly true. I can generally infer the meaning of a "thumbs up" or a thumb and finger in "OK" mode. But those are cartoon representations of actual physical signs, practically prehistoric to where we are now. As more and more of our written communications have migrated from email to texting with various messaging apps, our modern hieroglyphic use has increased exponentially. Just as AI has functionally taken over the ranking of answers in everyday search, so too have emojis become the lingua franca between humans communicating via phone, which is basically everyone on planet Earth.

Born from two Japanese words, with "e" meaning "picture," and "moji" meaning "written character," these modern pictographs are not dissimilar to the Kanji used at their origin. Coming from China and adapted in Japan, the symbols used there in written communication are ideograms, where each character has its own meaning and corresponds to a word. So if you combine the symbol for "electricity" with the one for "car," you get "train." The Japanese Ministry of Education mandates a core set of 2,136 characters which they call "Jōyō kanji." These are taught to students through secondary school, and newspapers use for them as their baseline for general literacy.

We've always had similar things in our language, be it punctuation symbols such as "@" or "%", numbers and operators such as "3" and "+", as well as restroom and traffic signs. Each represents an idea or word as opposed to an individual phonetic sound. They are generally also unambiguous: when you see a "stop" sign, you don't have to parse the meaning. Whether you actually come to a complete stop or not is a different issue, one you can discuss with the cop on the corner.

That's not the case with the face with the tongue hanging out. Or one with googly eyes. Or a devil with a smile. Or a smiling cat, a pumpkin with a hat or a fire with a face. Yet those are responses I have gotten from friends in online exchanges. I've never sure if it means they are happy or sad, agreeing or disagreeing, surprised or accepting. The response to "Wasn't that a great concert!" should be a yes or no, agree or disagree, not a smiling triceratops or a bunny holding a carrot. 

On top of that it seems I am in the middle of a generation gap in emoji usage. A recent survey from The New York Times, based on the unimpeachable data of Google and a completely impeachable analysis of Reddit posts, shows that oldsters use certain emojis while younger folk use others. For instance, teenagers tend towards a fire emoji when indicating approval, while those of a more advanced age use a graphic "100." So forget, "You kids and your rock and roll!" Rather it's "You kids and your smiley face with blue streaks streaming down from the eyes!"

If you read this space even semi-regularly you know I appreciate words and word play. But while I have a good visual memory, I don't speak in pictures, and I don't write in them either. So Van, I'm glad you liked the cake. Or maybe you hated it. Either way, I'm glad I didn't take it all home and eat it.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has no idea what peacock, white heart, wilted flower means. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Lessons Hopefully Learned

The word "serendipity" generally has positive connotations, meaning to find agreeable things when you're not looking for them. It's serendipitous to stumble upon a cool restaurant when you are traveling, or to encounter an old friend when walking down the street. Indeed, we often think of it as the happenstance joining of multiple things: an experience and a journey, or a person and a place. But that confluence can also happen with things that aren't all joyful, but which somehow overlap.

While not on the same day, I have the situation right now. Three unrelated, yet somewhat linked things: a significant birthday, the death of a college friend and the anniversary of September 11. All have given me pause. As part of that I went back and read some of what I wrote to correspond with the last, an event which is seared into our memory from 25 years ago this week. At the risk of repeating myself, allow me to share part of it again. I find some of the thoughts resonate for all three events, and seem as relevant now as they did then. Perhaps you will agree.

Bob was in the revolving door of the South Tower when the first plane hit. He told me about the decisions he made that morning, most specifically taking the long way around in order to get a little extra fresh air. Likewise, Tim was walking across the north bridge at the same moment, people-watching with the spare time he had. In both cases, they confessed to being where they were because the day was so beautiful that they couldn't bring themselves to hurry to their desks. I would submit that the lesson isn't to dawdle nor to speed up. Rather, it is that life can be cut short in an instant, and you should savor the view wherever you are, wherever you're going and whatever you're doing.

In the days following the disaster, I received scores of calls and emails from Colorado to Ohio, from Japan to Australia, checking up on me, my family and mutual associates. I know how I felt when I got the communication: touched that someone was thinking of me, even people whom I barely knew. Indeed, I did much the same, reaching out to close friends, as well as those with whom I had only a passing acquaintance. Many of those I contacted spoke of the same kind of gratitude for my efforts that I had experienced. If I learned anything from that, it is that I am part of a community that I take for granted, one of which I should be far more appreciative.

As businesses began to reactivate on Monday morning, there was a sense of getting ready for battle. The scene resembled the start of any football game, with the "Star Bangled Banner" being played over shots of athletes twitching with anticipation. And yet, for most people, the importance attached to wheeling and dealing and buying and selling and office politics seemed to have diminished. One Wall Street broker put it best: no matter what the situation, nothing is so important anymore that any interaction with a client, associate, family or friend shouldn't begin with a personal conversation.

There are plenty of other lessons to take to heart. Disasters affect real people, not movie extras: the next time there is a monsoon in India or an earthquake in Japan, perhaps we'll understand that and reach out with more compassion than we've shown in the past. We need to differentiate freedom from privilege, and understand what's important. Taken another way, it's a freedom to be able to travel when and where and how we wish; it's a privilege to be able to check in 10 minutes before the flight. And no matter how stoic, how professional, how hardcore you are, you can still cry, still benefit from a hug and no one will think less of you.

I wish I could say that I took all my own advice, and lived what I wrote. In some instances, yes; in others, not so much. But if nothing else I have at least tried to better appreciate the people, places and things I am lucky enough to have. Whatever your birthday situation, I hope you try and do the same.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford tries to enjoy what he has. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

The No App Guys

I had finished my usual morning workout, checked the overnight mail on my computer and done a few quick errands around the house. Next stop was the bathroom for a shower. I turned the water on to get it hot and took off my sweaty clothes. As I was getting my towel I heard the water "burp" a little, the usual sound you get when someone else in the house flushes a toilet or starts the washing machine. No big deal. But within seconds it went from a burp to a drip. Nothing. Nada. No water was coming out.

I threw on a robe and ran towards the basement while yelling to my wife to turn off any water that was running. I burst into the utility room expecting to find a broken pipe. Nope, all seemed quiet. We draw our water from a well, and there is a holding tank that gets filled and pressurized. I checked the gauge: lots of PSI's. Hmmm. I rapped on the tank like a doctor checking someone‘s lungs: a hollow thump. A quick push and it rocked back and forth, confirming it was empty. It pointed to one thing: our pump was likely busted.

Having lived in our house for more than 3 decades, we have amassed a list of skilled specialists that can help with the myriad of items confronting any homeowner. Though it was well before business hours, I called the pump guys. Yes, per the choices offered on the recording, this qualified as an emergency, so I punched "#1.". Within minutes I got connected to someone at their office and explained the situation, noting that they had replaced our pump just 5 years prior. She went away, then came back shortly: "Not to worry, we can have some guys over within the hour."

The scouting party arrived pretty quickly, and I walked them through the issue. They did some checks, poked around and got on the phone to their office. Then they came and found me. Yup, looked like our pump was bad, maybe from lightning, maybe defective, but either way, blown. They would have some guys over within an hour or two, and unless it was something else, they could have us up by lunchtime or so. Not quite Chef of Future fast, but pretty damn good.

As promised, Omar and Manny came in a bit. They set up a rig, pulled up the 260 feet of pipe in the ground and did some tests: indeed, pump bad. Figuring out why it failed would mean taking it back to the shop, but that was for later. They fitted on a new one, lowered it back down the hole and checked it all. For good measure they replaced what was obviously the faulty pressure valve I checked first thing in the morning. And while the guys had time to have a pizza delivered while they reassembled the whole thing (and offered me a slice), it was indeed fixed by a later lunch.

Along with Paul the plumber, Wes the electrician, Danny the tree man and a host of others, these are the No App Guys. I know I drive them all crazy watching them work and asking a million question about what they are doing, but it both instructive and humbling to see them at it. The expertise they have in their respective fields is amazing; the general knowledge to be sure, but also the tricks, the tweaks, the subtle nudges picked up over years in slightly different situations. I watched Danny stare at a tree for 10 minutes that was cracked at the top, figuring how he could rig the massive branch so when he cut it to didn't fall and kill someone. Even if ChatGPT could plot it, it wasn't going to be under the tree when the chain saw was fired up, so "Sorry, let me try again" would not have cut it, no pun intended.

If you want to keep track of the lineup for your softball team, there's an app for that. If you want to map out your upcoming vacation, there's an app for that. If you want to be alerted as to the best time to buy tickets to a concert, there's an app for that. But if you want to replace a frozen hot water tap, there ain't no app for that. Don't call Claude, call Paul. And pay him whatever he asks.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford just found out that the busted pump was under warranty. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.