Why Do You Need This Much Money? WHY?

I’m delighted to report that tonight’s hotel room (the Clinton Inn in Tenafly) is light years ahead of the flophouse that I stayed at last night.  The phone works, the wallpaper isn’t torn, the windows are solid, and the sheets aren’t technically a biohazard.  Also, there’s a Hoarders marathon on, so it doesn’t get much better than that.  I sort of needed a morale boost today because three out of the five things I attempted to see on the Odyssey weren’t there.

The first place on my itinerary was the former home of Angelo Nardone in Nutley.  Angelo, who apparently never got over the palatial beauty of his home in Naples, assembled a huge cache of Italian statuary in the front yard of his small property at the corner of Hilton and Franklin Streets (it’s amazing how many overzealous lawn ornament people there are).  Not surprisingly, a battalion of little old ladies fought the town for years in an attempt to get rid of his marble hoard.  Before it could progress to the point of litigation, a fire claimed most of the property in 2002, and this is all that’s left:

Well, that was depressing.  Still, it was still early and I had several other things scheduled, so with hope in my heart I ventured off to see the Dancing Man of Hackensack.

The Dancing Man of Hackensack (James Roberson) allegedly dances on the corner of Anderson and River Streets—for fourteen hours a day.  Not surprisingly, he’s considered mentally ill enough to qualify for disability, and is on a great deal of medication.  Still, he’s supposed to be a relatively happy dude, clearly non-violent, and apparently dances for people all day because “commuting is stressful.”  Technically, I suppose he’s no different than a busker, although he supposedly refuses money.

I got to the corner in question and—nothing:

I actually looked at all four corners, and continued not to see Mr. Roberson, so I figured I’d inquire at the McDonald’s across the street—McDonald’s workers know everything.

ME:  Pardon me, I’m looking for James Roberson.  Do you happen to know if he still comes here?

DISGRUNTLED MCDONALD’S CASHIER:  (odd accent)  Who?

ME:  James Roberson—he’s supposed to be dancing on the corner.

DMC:  Oh!  He died.

ME:  Aww, crap.

Well, that was a bummer.  It was shaping up to be a disappointing day on the Odyssey, but I blundered on to see The Big Giant Guy Holding a Rolled-Up Carpet Under the Pulaski Skyway.  I figured he wouldn’t be difficult to spot, and I was right.  Because he’s right on the median of a three-lane highway, I had to pull into an abandoned parking lot to get a picture:

 If you look at his picture in Weird NJ, you’ll see that he now has something weird going on with his hair—he’s either wearing a yellow yarmulke or had a bad due job.  Still, he’s holding that same roll of carpet which apparently hasn’t sold yet, probably because no one wants to climb up there and get it.  That peculiarly shaped brown stain at his crotch is actually an out-of-focus weed that got in front of the camera.

I was encouraged by my success with The Big Giant Guy Holding a Rolled-Up Carpet Under the Pulaski Sykway, so I perked up a little and headed for Jersey City, where I was due to look at a Catholic church with “weird cat eyes” in its belfry.  Now, some of you may not be familiar with beautiful, bucolic Jersey City, so here’s a welcome packet:

Isn’t that homey?  Screw Arbua—vacation here.

The mysterious cat eyes have apparently been appearing at St. Joseph’s Church in 1921, disappeared for a while, then started showing up again in 1954 after a sexton at the church was found dead, reputedly having just whispered the words “I’m going to the belfry.”  The  local residents don’t consider the lights to be malevolent or evil necessarily—they haven’t coincided with any deaths since the sexton’s.  In any case, I took pictures from three angles and didn’t see any lights, cat’s or otherwise:

I was clearly having an off-day.  Still, as it was still daylight, I decided I might as well push on to Devil’s Tower in Alpine.  The story here is that a Spanish businessman, made wealthy from sugarcane plantations in Cuba, built the tower in the first half of the twentieth century, for the above-ground burial of his wife and sister.  When Mr. Rionda died in 1943, all three of the bodies were moved because the company that bought the real estate felt that the people they planned to build houses for wouldn’t want to live near a few bodies that were walled up like Fortunato in “The Cask of Amontillado.”  Aside from being sealed, the Tower remains the same as it did then:

 However, my reaction to the sight of the actual Devil’s Tower could never match the reaction I had when I looked at the houses surrounding it.  Just…look:

   Have you ever seen a more ridiculously disgusting display of wealth?  Seriously, does any one person need that much money?  What can you possibly do with a house that size?  Can you imagine how long it would change the clocks twice a year?  You’d have to start a month in advance.  I’m stunned that their Rich People Spidey Sense didn’t tingle to let them know that a middle-class person was near their marble driveways and shrubbery shaped like George W. Bush and that they didn’t run into the streets with torches screaming “Down with the bourgeoise!”  They can't possibly be happy.  I'm telling myself they all have psychiatric issues and take a lot of medication.

Still, it was a nice note to end day four of the Odyssey, even if the excursions today were anti-climactic.  Tomorrow I’m headed for other sites in Bergen and Passaic Counties, so it will hopefully be a more fruitful day.

Odyssey out.

P.S.  Please send good thoughts to Ed, who has bronchitis and is sweating it out at home.  Feel better Ed!  I need my Mission Control to be in tip-top shape.