Worldly Aspirations

02-07-2009    Brooklyn, NY

Let’s be honest, it’s fun to daydream at work. Instead of worrying about bills, what detours the F train will take on the way home, or the endless deluge of rain the city has been hit with, it is more productive focusing on positive things. One of my favorite daydreaming topics is where my next trip will be (if money were no object). Below are places that are currently in my top 5:

5. Bhutan – Land of the thunder dragon

Of all the places, this might be the most remote. Located at the doorstep of the Himalayan Mountain range, this landlocked kingdom has maintained a strong sense of culture and history due to little foreign intervention and lack of travel within its borders. In 2006, Businessweek named it “the happiest country in Asia”. The main drawback is that tourists are not permitted to travel within Bhutanese borders alone. Tour guides are mandatory and cost around $200/day. The best option for traveling would be to take a flight into Paro (via Druk air) and take a land route out to visit Darjeeling and Sikkim en route to India. So exotic.

4. The Galápagos Islands

As many of you know, I’m a big fan of animals, especially animals that do stupid things for no reason. With a wonderful combination of seals, penguins, turtles, and blue-footed boobies, this place has more potential for senseless animal comedy than any. To top it off, the SCUBA diving there is supposed to be magnificent. You can stay in tree-top suites, looking out over the vast volcanic expanse of green and black while iguanas lazily take in the equatorial sunshine.

3. Samoa

This place always seemed like the ultimate tropical paradise. Like the Galápagos, the landscape is lush, volcanic and ridiculously dramatic. The port of Apia is also completely unprotected which has set the stage for numerous shipwrecks over the years. This means tons of fun wreck and reef diving can be had during a visit.

2. Nicaragua

This Central American country is roughly the size of New York state, but contains some amazing ecological diversity within its borders. Contained within lake Nicaragua is the Nicaraguan shark. I know what you’re saying – Wait a minute! Sharks can’t enter fresh water because their blood is normally at least as salty (in terms of osmotic strength) as seawater, through the accumulation of urea and trimethylamine oxide! In rare instances though, some species can reduce the concentration of these solutes by up to 50%. Initially, biologists thought that Nicaraguan sharks (which are identical to man-eating bull sharks) had become trapped in the lake and couldn’t escape, but, as usual, they were mistaken. After tagging the evil critters, they found that the sharks were able to jump along the rapids of the San Juan river (which connects Lake Nicaragua to the Caribbean Sea). Imagine crossing a river and having your leg bitten off by a jumping shark?? Anything can happen in Nicaragua.

1. Missoula, Montana

Yep, you heard it, this place is #1 on my list. Mainly because my good friend (Pugs) and I will be heading out to this remote mountain outpost one week from now. Little is known about this place, but mystery tends to spur the best kind of adventure. I’ve heard wild tales of fierce drunken miners, scowling moose, blood-thirsty badgers and road-raging soccer moms… it’s truly not for the faint of heart. With some luck, Pugs and I will navigate the tricky waters of this rugged wilderness by tracking it’s environs during the 3rd annual Missoula marathon. Hopefully, all of the obstacles mentioned above will be avoided and we’ll get out in one piece!

Zheng Gu Shui

Vic has inspired me to write some broken poetry. Check out his blog if you get the chance (on the right side with the links). Just a few contemplations from the past week…

Dead Bird Blues:

A gentle flap, then a glide

so graceful, cutting through the thick haze

cool as a cucumber, ice veins pulsing

beak curves into a smirk, it cannot rid the crescent shape

the toothed arrow is quicker, anticipates every feather’s move

quickly it punctures the breast, a puff silences the horns

dead stop and a fall from grace, hoping dashed haze will cushion the fall

to no avail, only hard concrete and soft rubber tires

not soft enough though

the beak rolls to the gutter, still smirking

 

7th Avenue

Steps echo as heels clip the concrete

Rats wake me from a beautiful slumber, they gnaw at my sneakers

Bastards

 

The cave-like existence is swell

Amarous only towards those who lick crumbs from their beards

Malodorous? Me!?

This is what a real man smells like

Dirt. Sweat. Urine. Dust. Tears. Booze.

 

Body is swelling in this seat, wooden nursery school box

Does the MTA try and make them uncomfortable?

Spit lands on Armani shoes

Sorry? Watch where you’re stepping, man

 

The long lost breeze twirls newspaper into an avant garde dance

E and B come at the same time, a lover’s waltz

Must be rush hour again

 

Alert, Nunavut

Up, up, up

Past the snow and grass

Only grey skies and quick clouds visit the compound

The wind speaks in an alien tongue, unsure of its predictable mood swings

Skin is never caressed, only bitten by its lashing tongue

Ten minutes of sunlight break through the darkness

Hundred foot swells of gold wash over the jagged hills and rusting oil cans

Rays bathe the glistening permafrost, crunching lightly under the fox’s foot

It’s a long way down from here

En Verde Veritas

 

08-06-2009  Brooklyn, NY

As great as summer in NYC is, sometimes certain things can wear on you  during the warmer months. Shimmering walls close in around you, your shoes melt to the concrete, exhaust from city buses blows in your face, clothes drench through with sweat and relentlessly stick to your skin, horns blare, kids yell and dogs bark. You need someplace that is completely devoid of people. A place where there is a respite from the heat, where cool waters constantly flow. A place where strong breezes tickle the senses, carrying with them the sounds and smells of the natural mystic.

New York has plenty to offer in terms of amazing summer escapes. After a four hour drive up North, you can find yourself in the largest national park in the continental US. I first explored this place after graduating from Miami University in the spring of 2003. Rob (one of my best friends) and I charted a grand excursion through two sections of remote Adirondack wilderness. Being recent college graduates, we thought we had the world at our fingertips and could conquer any obstacle thrown our way. In reality, we had no clue what the heck we were doing. Our preparation was minimal, our food supplies were lacking, our maps were outdated and our cars were one pothole away from falling to pieces. After rendezvousing in Ithaca, we set out into the wilds of Adirondack Park for our week-long adventure.

Almost immediately, the trip began with a calamity. Rob and I had planned on making our first hike an easy one, so we set our sights on the Wolf Lake trail in the southwest sector of the park. In our respective hoopties (my 1992 Mercury Sable and Rob’s 1997 Hyundai Accent), we continued off-road towards the trail-head. The road went from mud to gravel to rocks to boulders and logs. Still, we prodded on into the woods, dodging rocks and sticks as the bottom of our cars scraped along. When we’d finally had enough and pulled into a clearing, we had gone eighteen miles into one of the deepest parts of Adirondack Park. As Rob and I exited our battered vehicles, we were bombarded with swarms of biting black flies. While dodging the swarms, we quickly set up our tents and cooked with the little bit of water we still had. It was at that time Rob looked at me quizzically and asked “What’s that hissing sound?“. The next morning, we would try and make it out of the woods to repair his ailing Hyundai Accent.

Miraculously, we managed to drive 40 miles in my Sable, bumping, scraping, and shimmying our way to Indian Lake and back to get some fix-a-flat. Not only did his tire hold up on the way out of Wolf Lake hell, but managed to last the remainder of the trip until we circled back to Burlington, Vermont, four days later!

After our failed attempt at hiking to Wolf lake, we took a stab at our second planned location – the Pharaoh Mountain wilderness. Here we planned on hiking the entire 19.2 mile loop over the course of three days. We had thought the first spot had tons of dreaded biting black flies, but this place was completely swarmed. Everywhere you turned they were buzzing in your ears, nose, mouth and eyes, biting every bit of skin that lay exposed. We trudged through the muddy trails and decided to go off-trail and make our camp on the banks of a pristine lake. Once the sun went down, we finally got respite from the evil flies. Bowls of steaming hot ramen warmed our bellies as the temperatures dropped. We finished up the meal with a cigar over a roaring fire and talked as the stars blew up the night sky. The haunting cry of loons in the lake lulled us into a fitful sleep. We didn’t know it yet, but we were on a completely different trail and were lost. Until this day we still don’t know where that lake was located.

Despite getting lost a few times and constantly battling the black fly menace, we completed the loop safely and made it out of the woods two days later. We crawled back to our cars, racked by fatigue, soreness, and bug bites, and continued on to Burlington. After finding a hotel with a fitting name (the Hobo), we took long hot showers and headed out to a local Irish pub for a few pints. It was paradise. We realized that most of our conversation during the hike was focused on the simple things we missed most. Pillows, clean clothes, subways, family, rocking chairs, steak, hot showers, cold beer, baseball games, soft beds and driving. One of the best things about being away from the things of man is appreciating the things you love most within the “civilized world”. That night, the beer was perfectly crisp, the steaks were succulent and perfectly charred and the sleep was blacker than an oil slick.

Helter Swelter

 

28-04-2009   Brooklyn, NY

Summer seemed to be back, if only for a few days.

Walking out into the unseasonable temperatures, a warm light bathed everything in a hazy yellow glow. The cars slowly passing by on 8th avenue spewed their endless exhaust, bumping the waves of heat to another level. Every memory from past heat waves collectively flooded my mind. It was almost as if summer had never left. I began to run up Mongomery Place towards the park to escape the gasoline fumes.

In the park, maple trees had exploded in a large green swath. The leaves seemed to have come in over night, yawning through fuzzy pods and stretching their fingers wide to embrace the weather. Their memory was long too, this was second nature to them. You burrow in for the winter, toughening up your bark. When the coast is clear and the last frost has dusted the city streets, you let fly the life within you. I tried keeping to the shaded sides of the path, but it provided little respite from the pulsing sun. People flooded every inch of the meadows and paths, floating along as if they were in a dream. We were all waking up again, shedding our thick layer of winter bark and letting our warm skin breathe life.

The memories became clearer now with each passing smell.

The smell of wet pavement took me back to my Nana’s backyard. During the dog days, she would fill up an inflatable pool she had tucked into the garage during the winter months. As she filled it the water would steam off hot cracked concrete and float over the green philodendrons. I could see her smile and perfect white teeth, her shining mahogany hair as the smell lingered for a moment, then faded as I ran on.

People were bar-b-queuing in the meadow, the smell of charred meat and cooked corn was everywhere, enveloping the runners and bikers in a lingering trail of smoke. I remembered my stepfather’s place in Queens. Steve had this hibachi that he and my brother used every weekend. Once a month during the summer I would go out there with my mother and we’d sit on his stoop and cook out all day. We would sit on cheap folding chairs, talk and laugh. Bob Murphy’s grainy voice filled in the gaps of silence as the Mets games blared on the radio. When it got dark, I would throw ants into the smoldering coals. They would sizzle and pop the instant their crumpled bodies hit the pile of hot ash. I didn’t think about what I was doing at the time, but years later I remember feeling terrible about doing that. As I approached the lake, the smell drifted and the memory gradually faded back through the rays of sunlight flooding the new Prospect Park canopy.

Then came the freshly cut grass on the hill overlooking the nethermead. Out of nowhere, the image of a long fairway came from the depths of my memory bank. I lived with my father out on Long Island during the summers in high school. My first job was as a golf caddy at the Hillcrest Country Club. I’m not sure how most country clubs are, but this one was full of snobby awful human beings who would yell at you any chance they got. The physical strain of carrying their heavy bags and keeping your eyes trained on their shanked balls wasn’t nearly as bad as the mental toughness caddies needed to maintain during constant barrages of insults and gripes. If the person you caddied for hit the ball in the water, it was your fault. If they missed a putt, it was your fault. If they hit a tree and you couldn’t find the ball, you didn’t get tipped. There was a great upside though… Mondays. Not only was the course closed, but caddies got to hit the links for free. Most times it felt as if I had the whole course to myself. There was no yelling, no pressure, just peaceful green all around. Even if I played lousy golf, it didn’t matter. After each shot, I would wipe the club face and rub the wet blades of grass between my fingers. It was the best smell… shredded grass, metal, and lingering leather from the club grips. I saw the ball hit crisply down the long verdant fairway, cutting through the morning mist towards the green.

I was at the top of lookout hill and the run was almost over. It was as if I had missed out on the grueling pain of the eight miles my legs had just covered. Those thoughts of summers past had whisked the aches and stitches away. I passed into the farmers market, past the smell of freshly baked bread. I was taken back to another place, my family’s restaurant on Remsen Street… to the summer mornings I would head into school with my uncle Arthur. There was always a sharp smell of freshly baked rolls and blueberry muffins coming from the restaurant in those early hours. I saw my Boopa standing in the kitchen wearing his red t-shirt, a white apron around his waist, thick tortoise-shell glasses hanging firmly on the bridge of his nose. He was smiling at me. I smiled back as I came back through the door of my building, happy that another summer would soon be here…

¡Jugo de Piña!

22-04-2009  Brooklyn, NY

I enjoy a nice stiff drink every so often. Whether it’s the taste of fine peaty scotch or the maple aroma of distilled bourbon, it’s tough to beat a tumbler of neat liquor after a long day at work. As drinking has been cut out of my diet since the marathon training has started, the simple act of having a glass of a choice spirit is one thing I’ve been missing since the ‘drought’ began. A few weeks back, I was over at Victor’s place playing Scrabble with some close friends (yeah, we act like 70 year-olds most of the time). At some point during the night, Victor brought out a bottle of (what looked like) tequila. I recoiled in disgust at the sight of the bottle, remembering nights where the vile nectar had thrown me into a completely unrecoverable stupor. Vic assured me that the bottle’s contents were nothing like Cuervo or Patrón, that it was Mezcal.

In researching the art of making Mezcal, I was taken back when I learned how labor intensive and intricate it was. First, the roots of the blue agave plant are dug up. Mezcaleros (farmers who make the Mezcal) call the roots “Piñas” after their likeness to pineapples. The roots are then buried under a pile of hot rocks and straw mats made of palm. As the mats burn, the smoke flavors the piñas which grow soft and absorbent under the hot rocks. After a day or so, they are dug up and crushed with a stone wheel (usually drawn by a horse). The resulting mash is put into wooden vats with water to ferment. In yet another step to the process, the mash is then cooked in round stills made of clay or copper and all alcoholic vapors are burned off. This last step is often repeated twice. To me, it seemed like the ultimate organic spirit.

 Vic handed over the open bottle to nose it out, and it proved to be unlike anything I had smelled previously. A smoky, delicate, agave-like aroma with a hint of spice which took my senses south of the border. The taste proved equally as magnificent, so smooth and balanced with very little fire. Needless to say, I’ll have to add a bottle of Gusano Rojo to the old liquor cabinet for those cold winter nights.

Abandoned

13-04-2009   Brooklyn, NY

The wind blew hard from the north and made an odd whistling sound through the bars in the decaying fire escape. I took another step and felt my feet give weigh beneath me. My hands held fast to the railing and eventually I swung myself up onto the stairs above. The fragile rusty step couldn’t bear the weight and had broken off, clanging noisily along the crumbling framework three stories below. Luckily, there hadn’t been any people passing by and my presence had gone unnoticed. I jimmied one of the dusty windows open and tried to push open the wooden board which had been nailed over it. The thing wouldn’t budge. I would need to kick it open to get inside the abandoned building. That would make a ton of noise however, so I needed a distraction down below in order to complete the break-in. Less than a minute later, an old bag man came rumbling down the avenue with an overflowing shopping cart. He stopped at the corner and began rummaging through the garbage can, bottles clinking and clanking together as he emptied it. The stars were aligned! With three swift kicks, the wooden board pried loose with a loud squeak and I was able to squeeze into the darkness.

After shimmying through the narrow opening, I fell into a billowing pile, something soft. The smell inside the place was intense, an odd mixture of old books, dust, and bird droppings. Using the LCD light on my camera screen, I saw that I was laying on a huge mess of clothes. The whole room was filled waist-high with them! I walked toward the doorway on this layer of old cloth, it was like walking on a cloud. The low grey light from the LCD cast an eerie glow on everything in the room, shadows danced along the peeling walls as I moved towards the hallway. After walking from room to room, I noticed the place was filled with furniture, books, old records, toys, posters and boxes. Clothes were still neatly hung in the closets, toiletries still stocked the bathroom shelves, dried flower stems hung listlessly in dry vases, even beds were still made. It was as if whoever owned the place had just vanished one day and never returned. Signs of decay were pervasive. Paint peeled off the walls in large uneven swaths, water damage revealed piping in the ceilings and walls, tiles were ripped up and scattered all over the bathrooms, and staircases had splintered after years of neglect.

I wondered if the place was haunted. At various points during my journey through the house, I listened and closed my eyes, trying to feel some sort of presence. Sounds of the house settling and the occasional scurrying of rats was all I heard. If there were any wayward spirits, their intentions seemed to be benign. I imagined for a moment being a spirit trapped in that house, cowering in the darkness of one of the decrepit rooms, sick from the stench of bird shit and fading newspapers, looking out onto the avenue on a sunny day and watching the people pass by below, knowing all the while that I would never be noticed again.

After poking around the rooms, I eventually found my way onto the roof. The absolute stillness up there was incredible. Before my eyes, a beautiful sweeping view of Brooklyn and Manhattan spread out into an infinite matrix. When walking in the canyon between the buildings at street level, it’s hard to notice how residential Brooklyn is. From this vantage point, you see how few buildings rise above four stories. The Manhattan skyline looms like Mount Olympus over Thessaloniki. People once called Brooklyn ’the bedroom of the city’, and from the roof it was easy to see why. The glow from all of the light pollution cast an orange aura over the buildings, bathing them in a soft haze. The distant street lights hummed and twinkled like stars. City dwellers have a virtual galaxy at our fingertips, we just need to get up above the lights to notice it.

The house moans beneath me, and it’s quite clear that I have overstayed my welcome. I am a flea on the back of a dying dog. I make my way back down from the roof, through the cracking hallways and crumbling staircases, through the room piled high with clothes and back out through the broken wooden plank. With my eyes fixed tight to the ground, I slowly creep down the old fire escape, careful not to step into the abyss my feet created on the way up.

Golden Gotham

25-03-2009   Brooklyn, NY

The walk began before dawn. My legs stretched down Flatbush avenue as the wind kicked up plastic cups and bales of crumpled newspaper. The pieces of garbage danced in an odd waltz near one of the subway grates. It was cold, but not that biting cold that eats through your marrow in January. This fine March morning, my nose detected the faint smell of spring – a mix of budding crocuses, rain clouds, and frayed grass fighting its way through the half-frozen earth. Soon the city would emerge from its wintry cocoon and come to life again.

I looked up and saw the long shadow of Brooklyn’s tallest building – the old Williamsburg Savings Bank – peering over the borough like a once proud Eagle watching over a sordid nest of brick and smoke. The lights had gone out in the clocktower again, which meant another day had officially begun. It was an odd time of the day. One when the night urchins and early risers passed each other in a complete haze, both parties looking half dead as they tiptoed through the early morning. After walking past the blinking bulbs of Junior’s restaurant, I saw the Manhattan bridge poking its majestic head above the Avenue’s final ridge.

It wasn’t until recently that I developed an appreciation for one of New York’s most forgotten (and most magnificent) structures. The Manhattan bridge will celebrate its centennial on New Year’s eve this year, but I doubt much fuss will be made. The peeling baby blue paint will simply endure another day in its history as one of the city’s finest work horses. This diligent span carries two car lanes, a walkway, a bikeway, and four train lines over it. Through the past century, it hasn’t commanded an inch of respect from the ants that crawl past on a daily basis.

As I entered the span through a slit in the fence on Jay street, the fading blue beauty stretched into the distance. A homeless man lay bundled near the train tracks, looking like a large paisley mummy on a cold concrete slab. He must have had enough to drink last night… The two small empty flasks of Hennessy laying nearby undoubtedly drowned out the constant rumbling of trains all night. I wondered what kind of dreams he was having. Perhaps a picture would capture them? I snapped a shot and walked on.

The walkway along the bridge is much slimmer than that of the Brooklyn bridge’s expansive boardwalk, only stretching 10 feet across. The bridge also isn’t for the acrophobic as there is no ’safety net’ below the warped concrete walkway. The Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges both have roadways below their walkways so that, in an unfortunate incident of collapse, there’s at least something to break your fall. With this span, there’s only the cold green waters of the East River to break your fall. One gets the feeling of playing Russian roulette with every crossing. It’s quite an exciting trip, even if the fear is unfounded. The view that day was beautiful, with the sun gently rising above the clouds to the Northeast, painting the buildings of lower Manhattan a deep orange. Before reaching the bridge’s terminus on Canal Street in Chinatown, I saw something that made me take a second look – A half eaten pig’s head lay alongside the walkway. Its pink snout was all that was distinguishable in the mess of bone and tendon. I briefly thought of when I was a child. My cousins and I used to pick at the face of the roasted suckling pig my grandfather would make once a year. Remembering how good it tasted then, I couldn’t really blame whoever had indulged in the same savage act.

As I passed over the Bowery onto Canal Street, a young black girl approached me. It was quite windy that day and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Can I ask you a question, sir?”. I nodded yes. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ as your savior?”. I shook my head no. Even though I was still walking, she kept on about how she had been “saved” by the Jehovah’s witnesses and that the opportunity was there for me as well. Even though I told her that I had no interest, she kept following me to the train station, tears streaming down her cheeks onto her nice black dress. I wanted to wipe them off, but she didn’t seem to mind. ”Oh my!” she gasped as we entered the stairwell on Broadway, “I didn’t realize how far I’d gone from my post!”. I told her that I was late for work, shook her hand, took one of her brochures and headed down the steps. It never ceases to amaze me how taking a simple walk through the city (at any hour) can be an adventure. The rest of the day, I was accompanied with beautiful visions of golden sunshine and glistening tears as I crunched numbers. Needless to say, walking to work will be a larger part of the routine as the weather warms up.

Lavender Lake

24-02-2009   Brooklyn, NY

If a person has lived within the confines of New York for some time, he or she could easily attest to the dynamic nature of the city’s many neighborhoods. One of the few exceptions might be Brooklyn’s little enclave called Gowanus. The name comes from the Delaware Indian language meaning “Small Pine” (which is ironic considering the complete lack of vegetation there now). It was one of the first areas of Breukelen settled by the Dutch as its marshland and brackish water provided the most fertile grounds for farming. In the 1850’s, the lake was dredged and a canal was formed to transport goods from nearby ports to serve Brooklyn’s exploding population. With increased commerce came a huge amount of pollution to the canal and the neighborhood surrounding it. By the turn of the 20th century, Gowanus became known as a fetid cesspool of raw sewage and chemical byproducts. Locals joked and called it the “Lavender Lake” after the brownish-purple color swirling around the ships and barges. The surrounding neighborhood remained as gritty as the water in the canal, with people routinely dumping guns and bodies into the rank depths where no detective would dare look. One character in Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn refered to the canal as “the only body of water in the world that is 90 percent guns”.

In one of my posts awhile back (West Side Glory?), I mentioned my irrational fear of murky, cold, polluted water. While I’m not sure of the phobia’s origins, the Gowanus canal might be the Everest of fright when it comes to dealing with this problem. As a child, I would stare out the window of the F or GG train (yes, there was one of those back then) at the remaining old cement factories, half sunken barges, crumbling docks and stagnant vomit-colored water. For whatever reason, I couldn’t help rid my mind of thoughts of falling into the canal and floundering helplessly amongst the detritus without anything to grab onto. The harrowing daydream always played out as follows -

While walking along the canal’s edge, I look up to see the graffiti covered shacks and seagulls with matted brown feathers. A slight layer of frost covers the old plastic bottles and condom wrappers underfoot. Ancient wood lining the sides of  the canal has been stained black. It reeks overwhelmingly of tar and rusting metal. While walking the slick planks, I slip and try to gain my balance, but it’s too late.. The fall into lavender lake only takes a second, even though it seems like an eternity. I scream but only a raspy whisper escapes my mouth as it fills with salty muckwater. I can feel the grains of sediment and three centuries of decomposing metal gritting between my teeth. My eyes are open, but all they see is a light brown swirl of stinging bubbles, they become darker, I’m sinking. Fighting the weight of my clothes, I reach the surface and see an enormous barge slinking along next to me, chains and old tires banging against its rusty metal hulk. Gravel spills over the sides into my eyes. Every time I open my mouth to scream, the rank water fills my mouth, leaving me to choke on the grainy waves of freezing liquid. Eventually I succumb to the freezing temperatures and fall to the bottom, never to be heard from again.

The past few years have been relatively good to the old canal. Ten years ago, the city put some money into restoring the filtering pump at the far end of the Gowanus (near Douglass Street). For the first time in almost sixty years, the canal had clean water from the Atlantic flowing through its rusty veins. Since then, rock crabs, blue crabs, shrimp, three types of jellyfish and minnows have returned. There are new developments underway to put a scenic walkway on the edge of the canal to spur (no joking here) tourism. Despite all of these efforts, I was still scared to death of the place. 

After getting my new camera equipment, I wanted to test it out on some long-range cityscape shots. As the 87 foot Smith & 9th St station above the canal is the tallest in the subway system, a walk down to Gowanus seemed inevitable. I throw the gear over my shoulder and head out reluctantly into the frigid swirling winds. After crossing over fourth avenue into Gowanus, the stillness is unmistakable. The warm life of Park Slope becomes completely devoid in this place. All that remains on the streets are dark factories, rusting shopping carts, the occasional homeless person cowering in the stiff winter breeze, and the lingering stench of the canal. I walk along the empty streets, catching good shots here and there. Eventually, after walking through the seemingly endless industrial maze, I come upon the banks of the canal. My hands shake with nervousness and I forget about the cold as beads of sweat form on my forehead. The water looks just like it did in that awful childhood daydream, cold, brown and swirling. The barges clink as small waves undulate gently beneath them. Gathering my wits, I lean over the edge and look into the water, all it takes is one little slip and the dream could become an actual nightmare. After leaning back, I steady my hands and take a few pictures. An air of calmness envelops me as I look at the reflections of the factories in the grimy waters. A small part of my irrational fear has subsided. In that instant, the boogie man in the closet of my borough has turned into a pesky little fly. I shoo-off the irrational fears and head up the endless staircase of Smith & 9th street to finish off the shoot.

An air of braggadocia

12-02-2009   Brooklyn, NY

Has the pertinence of getting news out to the public destroyed the quality of how it’s presented? Has attention to certain details (like clothing and setting) vanished as time passed? Perhaps it has something to do with the level of closeness the press and public had with crime scenes back then? 

One thing I enjoy doing with my free time is going to the library and reading through old newspapers. Looking at old microfische always has a certain 1960’s sleuth-like feeling that accompanies it. There was something about the way beat writers presented their pieces back then, it seemed to bring the reader directly to the scene of whatever incident had taken place. The papers today don’t seem to capture the same essence. For instance, there was an article in the papers today about a man who had been hit by one car, hooked by another passing car and dragged through the city for twenty miles. The driver of the second car thought he had hit a pothole and kept driving, all the while dragging this poor bedraggled corpse underneath. The articles on this event weren’t remarkable and were written rather blandly. Compare that to the article below about a crime that had been committed almost 120 years-ago. The people have long been forgotten, but in reading the article you get a more personal feel for those involved.

 

In the end, it turned out that McElvaine was after only $200 of Luca’s money that he intended to take to market that day to purchase goods for his store. I suppose people have been murdered for less since then. The perpetrator also had two accomplices who were summarily caught. All three were executed. In looking at further snippets related to the incident, this appeared to be the desired outcome of many of the residents who knew Mr. Luca. One doctor’s feelings seemed to have summed up the view of the whole city:

“When in front of Mr. Luca’s residence I saw his wife with her head out the window and she was begging some one to bring me to the house. I entered in the company of Dr. John E. Ensell, of 125 High Street, and we commenced giving the dying man whisky, but he expired in two minutes. It was the most diabolical murder I ever heard of, as poor Luca was literally cut to pieces about the arms and body, and there was not a gill of blood left in his frame after his death. He lost it all from the wound in his left arm, and I think that this particular case requires a little Southern justice. Those three murderers ought to be strung up to the nearest lamp post, and it would be a relief of Brooklyn to do so.”

The Rat’s Nest

 

22-01-2009       Brooklyn, NY

Complete Destruction

It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.

~William Carlos Williams

1958 was a terrible year for the borough of Brooklyn. The brittle glue that held this gritty city together had been violently chipped apart. The glue was one topic of interest that was spoken of in back alleys, subway trains, barber shops and on brownstone stoops. This one uniting factor that sent people into a collective tizzy was, of course, the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. After an ambitious plan by the team’s owner, Walter O’Malley, to build a state-of-the-art stadium over the Atlantic Avenue rail yards was squashed by Robert Moses (A.K.A. Bobby Kickback), the team was forced to relocate to Chávez Ravine in Los Angeles. Who knows what would have happened if the stadium had been built? Perhaps the borough wouldn’t have fell into economic decline? Perhaps the city’s center would have bustled with life? All we know for sure is that the rail yards have laid there like an old dying cat for some time. The fate of this pitiful animal has been the subject of intense debate over the last fifty years. 

In 2004, the debate was once again aroused after a successful businessman by the name of Bruce Ratner acquired the New Jersey Nets basketball team. The main goal of this acquisition was to bring a professional team back to a place where Ratner had attempted other ventures, Brooklyn, NY. Ratner’s lofty goals not only included the arena over the Atlantic rail yards, but to also the construction of 16 Frank Gehry designed high rise condominiums (two of the largest buildings were set to offer “affordable” HUDD housing in an undisclosed amount of units) and a public green. The deal was promoted to local residents as a chance to put Brooklyn back on the map. It was a deal that would provide low-income housing, jobs to city workers, and a business center in Brooklyn that bustled with commerce. The plan initially had many high profile proponents: Mayor Bloomberg, Brooklyn borough president Marty Markowitz, and partial team owner and Brooklyn native, Jay Z.

As most things go, the promises seemed far fetched. Soon cracks in Ratner’s plan began to show. As the footprint for the Atlantic Terminal Urban Renewal Area (ATURA) developed, it became evident to residents of Prospect Heights and Fort Greene that their homes were either in the shadow of these huge edifices, or directly underfoot. Not only that, but the designs were hideous (in my opinion). I mean, look at these things:

As funding began to dry up for the project, the amount of affordable housing that was slated to be set aside suddenly dropped. It also became evident that the majority of this so-called low-income housing was relegated to families who made a “moderate” household income of $50-115k/year. Meanwhile, the average household income in Brooklyn is $32k. This begs the question, to whom are these units affordable to? The promises of jobs to local workers came into question as well. When Ratner’s first project (Metrotech) went up in downtown Brooklyn back in the 80’s, he’d promised scores of jobs for locals. His word proved unworthy, however, and he outsourced the jobs to his cronies outside of the city. What’s to say that he won’t do the same with this project?

Worst of all, the whole plan reeks of kickbacks and shady deals. The MTA, who owned the land over the rail yards, sold it to Ratner for $100 million. This seems odd that the land had been appraised for over $200 million and there was another bid on the table for $150 million. Why would the MTA willingly throw away that kind of money? Especially with the current budget crisis that has them raising fares and cutting service!! In short, who ends up paying the $50 million out? The residents of New York City. Additionally, people who own and rent in the footprint aren’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of having their beautiful brownstones completely demolished. If this was an endeavor set forth by the federal government or State of New York, then eminent domain could effectively be exercised. However, this is an attempt at a blatant land grab by an individual. Not only is it abuse of eminent domain but also a violation of the residents’ fifth amendment rights.

So what will become of the old cat laying in Brooklyn’s center?

As it currently stands, the shifting economy has also shifted the feasibility of the project. Ratner has not only scaled down the plans for the arena and surrounding buildings, but has also requested to cut funds given to the MTA (another slap in the face to commuters). As he still hasn’t paid the $100 million for the land, the space can technically go back on the auction block until a more sound investor comes along. Ratner seems to be back on his heels right now. With increased opposition from the community, he could be pushed off the rat’s nest he’s attempting to build in the heart of Brooklyn. For all those willing to further the opposition’s cause, you can sign the online petition and let your voice be heard…

http://dddb.net/php/petition.php

¡El Pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido!

Beyond the call of Duty

14-01-2009  Brooklyn, NY

After finishing Goodbye, Darkness, I started reading up on the various battles in both the Pacific and European theaters. Eventually I came across stories of some medal of honor recipients, they were sobering tales to say the least. The gallantry and poise these men showed in the face of certain death is absolutely incredible. I’ve listed some examples below which were written by either Truman, FDR, or one of the recipients’ comrades:

 

Thomas A. Baker (June 25, 1916 – July 7, 1944)

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty at Saipan, Mariana Islands, June 19 to July 7 1944. When his entire company was held up by fire from automatic weapons and small-arms fire from strongly fortified enemy positions that commanded the view of the company, Sgt. (then Pvt.) Baker voluntarily took a bazooka and dashed alone to within 100 yards of the enemy. Through heavy rifle and machinegun fire that was directed at him by the enemy, he knocked out the strong point, enabling his company to assault the ridge. Some days later while his company advanced across the open field flanked with obstructions and places of concealment for the enemy, Sgt. Baker again voluntarily took up a position in the rear to protect the company against surprise attack and came upon 2 heavily fortified enemy pockets manned by 2 officers and 10 enlisted men which had been bypassed. Without regard for such superior numbers, he unhesitatingly attacked and killed all of them. Five hundred yards farther, he discovered 6 men of the enemy who had concealed themselves behind our lines and destroyed all of them. On 7 July 1944, the perimeter of which Sgt. Baker was a part was attacked from 3 sides by from 3,000 to 5,000 Japanese. During the early stages of this attack, Sgt. Baker was seriously wounded but he insisted on remaining in the line and fired at the enemy at ranges sometimes as close as 5 yards until his ammunition ran out. Without ammunition and with his own weapon battered to uselessness from hand-to-hand combat, he was carried about 50 yards to the rear by a comrade, who was then himself wounded. At this point Sgt. Baker refused to be moved any farther stating that he preferred to be left to die rather than risk the lives of any more of his friends. A short time later, at his request, he was placed in a sitting position against a small tree . Another comrade, withdrawing, offered assistance. Sgt. Baker refused, insisting that he be left alone and be given a soldier’s pistol with its remaining 8 rounds of ammunition. When last seen alive, Sgt. Baker was propped against a tree, pistol in hand, calmly facing the foe. Later Sgt. Baker’s body was found in the same position, gun empty, with 8 Japanese lying dead before him. His deeds were in keeping with the highest traditions of the U.S. Army.

Lewis Kenneth Bausell (April 17, 1924 – September 18, 1944)

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving with the First Battalion, Fifth Marines, First Marine Division, during action against enemy Japanese forces on Peleliu Island, Palau Group, September 15, 1944. Valiantly placing himself at the head of his squad, Corporal Bausell led the charge forward against a hostile pillbox which was covering a vital sector of the beach and, as the first to reach the emplacement, immediately started firing his automatic into the aperture while the remainder of his men closed in on the enemy. Swift to act a Japanese grenade was hurled into their midst, Corporal Bausell threw himself on the deadly weapon, taking the full blast of the explosion and sacrificing his own life to save his men. His unwavering loyalty and inspiring courage reflect the highest credit upon Corporal Bausell and the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.

Willibald C. Bianchi (March 12, 1915 − January 9, 1945)

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with the enemy on 3 February 1942, near Bagac, Province of Bataan, Philippine Islands. When the rifle platoon of another company was ordered to wipe out 2 strong enemy machinegun nests, 1st Lt. Bianchi voluntarily and of his own initiative, advanced with the platoon leading part of the men. When wounded early in the action by 2 bullets through the left hand, he did not stop for first aid but discarded his rifle and began firing a pistol. He located a machinegun nest and personally silenced it with grenades. When wounded the second time by 2 machinegun bullets through the chest muscles, 1st Lt. Bianchi climbed to the top of an American tank, manned its antiaircraft machinegun, and fired into strongly held enemy position until knocked completely off the tank by a third severe wound

Herbert F. Christian (June 18, 1912 – June 3, 1944)

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty. On 2-3 June 1944, at 1 a.m., Pvt. Christian elected to sacrifice his life in order that his comrades might extricate themselves from an ambush. Braving massed fire of about 60 riflemen, 3 machineguns, and 3 tanks from positions only 30 yards distant, he stood erect and signaled to the patrol to withdraw. The whole area was brightly illuminated by enemy flares. Although his right leg was severed above the knee by cannon fire, Pvt. Christian advanced on his left knee and the bloody stump of his right thigh, firing his submachinegun. Despite excruciating pain, Pvt. Christian continued on his self-assigned mission. He succeeded in distracting the enemy and enabled his 12 comrades to escape. He killed 3 enemy soldiers almost at once. Leaving a trail of blood behind him, he made his way forward 20 yards, halted at a point within 10 yards of the enemy, and despite intense fire killed a machine-pistol man. Reloading his weapon, he fired directly into the enemy position. The enemy appeared enraged at the success of his ruse, concentrated 20-mm., machine-pistol and rifle fire on him, yet he refused to seek cover. Maintaining his erect position, Pvt. Christian fired his weapon to the very last. Just as he emptied his submachinegun, the enemy bullets found their mark and Pvt. Christian slumped forward dead. The courage and spirit of self-sacrifice displayed by this soldier were an inspiration to his comrades and are in keeping with the highest traditions of the armed forces.

Joseph J. Cicchetti (June 8, 1923-February 9, 1945)

He was with troops assaulting the first important line of enemy defenses. The Japanese had converted the partially destroyed Manila Gas Works and adjacent buildings into a formidable system of mutually supporting strongpoints from which they were concentrating machinegun, mortar, and heavy artillery fire on the American forces. Casualties rapidly mounted, and the medical aid men, finding it increasingly difficult to evacuate the wounded, called for volunteer litter bearers. Pfc. Cicchetti immediately responded, organized a litter team and skillfully led it for more than 4 hours in rescuing 14 wounded men, constantly passing back and forth over a 400-yard route which was the impact area for a tremendous volume of the most intense enemy fire. On one return trip the path was blocked by machinegun fire, but Pfc. Cicchetti deliberately exposed himself to draw the automatic fire which he neutralized with his own rifle while ordering the rest of the team to rush past to safety with the wounded. While gallantly continuing his work, he noticed a group of wounded and helpless soldiers some distance away and ran to their rescue although the enemy fire had increased to new fury. As he approached the casualties, he was struck in the head by a shell fragment, but with complete disregard for his gaping wound he continued to his comrades, lifted one and carried him on his shoulders 50 yards to safety. He then collapsed and died. By his skilled leadership, indomitable will, and dauntless courage, Pfc. Cicchetti saved the lives of many of his fellow soldiers at the cost of his own.

William Adlebert Foster (February 17, 1917–May 2, 1945)

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as a Rifleman with Company K, Third Battalion, First Marines, First Marine Division, in action against enemy Japanese forces on Okinawa Shima in the Ryūkyū Chain, May 2, 1945. Dug in with another Marine on the point of the perimeter defense after waging a furious assault against a strongly fortified Japanese position, Private First Class Foster and comrade engaged in a fierce hand grenade duel with infiltrating enemy soldiers. Suddenly an enemy grenade landed beyond reach in the foxhole. Instantly diving on the deadly missile, Private First Class Foster absorbed the exploding charge in his own body, thereby protecting the other Marine from serious injury. Although mortally wounded as a result of his heroic action, he quickly rallied, handed his own remaining two grenades to his comrade and said, “Make them count.” Stouthearted and indomitable, he had unhesitatingly relinquished his own chance of survival that his fellow Marine might carry on the relentless fight against a fanatic enemy, and his dauntless determination, cool decision and valiant spirit of self-sacrifice in the face of certain death reflect the highest credit upon Private First Class Foster and in the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life in the service of his country.

Elmer E. Fryar (born c. 1915 died December 8, 1944)

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty. Pvt. Fryar’s battalion encountered the enemy strongly entrenched in a position supported by mortars and automatic weapons. The battalion attacked, but in spite of repeated efforts was unable to take the position. Pvt. Fryar’s company was ordered to cover the battalion’s withdrawal to a more suitable point from which to attack, but the enemy launched a strong counterattack which threatened to cut off the company. Seeing an enemy platoon moving to outflank his company, he moved to higher ground and opened heavy and accurate fire. He was hit, and wounded, but continuing his attack he drove the enemy back with a loss of 27 killed. While withdrawing to overtake his squad, he found a seriously wounded comrade, helped him to the rear, and soon overtook his platoon leader, who was assisting another wounded. While these 4 were moving to rejoin their platoon, an enemy sniper appeared and aimed his weapon at the platoon leader. Pvt. Fryar instantly sprang forward, received the full burst of automatic fire in his own body and fell mortally wounded. With his remaining strength he threw a hand grenade and killed the sniper. Pvt. Fryar’s indomitable fighting spirit and extraordinary gallantry above and beyond the call of duty contributed outstandingly to the success of the battalion’s withdrawal and its subsequent attack and defeat of the enemy. His heroic action in unhesitatingly giving his own life for his comrade in arms exemplifies the highest tradition of the U.S. Armed Forces.

Joseph F. Merrell (August 21, 1926 – April 18, 1945)

He made a gallant, 1-man attack against vastly superior enemy forces near Lohe, Germany. His unit, attempting a quick conquest of hostile hill positions that would open the route to Nuremberg before the enemy could organize his defense of that city, was pinned down by brutal fire from rifles, machine pistols, and 2 heavy machineguns. Entirely on his own initiative, Pvt. Merrell began a single-handed assault. He ran 100 yards through concentrated fire, barely escaping death at each stride, and at pointblank range engaged 4 German machine pistolmen with his rifle, killing all of them while their bullets ripped his uniform. As he started forward again, his rifle was smashed by a sniper’s bullet, leaving him armed only with 3 grenades. But he did not hesitate. He zigzagged 200 yards through a hail of bullets to within 10 yards of the first machinegun, where he hurled 2 grenades and then rushed the position ready to fight with his bare hands if necessary. In the emplacement he seized a Luger pistoland killed what Germans had survived the grenade blast. Rearmed, he crawled toward the second machinegun located 30 yards away, killing 4 Germans in camouflaged foxholes on the way, but himself receiving a critical wound in the abdomen. And yet he went on, staggering, bleeding, disregarding bullets which tore through the folds of his clothing and glanced off his helmet. He threw his last grenade into the machinegun nest and stumbled on to wipe out the crew. He had completed this self-appointed task when a machine pistol burst killed him instantly. In his spectacular 1-man attack Pvt. Merrell killed 6 Germans in the first machinegun emplacement, 7 in the next, and an additional 10 infantrymen who were astride his path to the weapons which would have decimated his unit had he not assumed the burden of the assault and stormed the enemy positions with utter fearlessness, intrepidity of the highest order, and a willingness to sacrifice his own life so that his comrades could go on to victory.

Tetsu No Ame

08-01-09  Brooklyn, NY

My latest read is called Goodbye, Darkness by William Manchester. It’s a touching memoir about a former Marine Sergeant who fought throughout the Pacific in WWII. Aware that his mind has obscured war’s many traumas, he revisits the sites of major battles (Guadalcanal, Saipan, Betio, Guam, and Okinawa) almost forty years later to see what kind of memories and emotions can be stirred within.

Recently I realized where I got my macabre fascination with violent ends, last words, last actions, and the atrocities and tragedy of war. This came from my father, the one who gave me Goodbye, Darkness as a Christmas present. While we never fought in any wars, our curiosity on the subject of mortality is cat-like. Those who know me well enough know about my thoughts on plane crashes. When I’m old and grey, I wouldn’t mind if my number came up on a doomed commercial flight. I think of it as an opportunity to (literally) go down in a blaze of glory. Whenever I fly, the flight number will usually indicate how much I’ll think about actually going down. Some numbers just sound like ones you would hear in the headlines the day after a crash. Numbers that only have two or three digits, identical digits back-to-back, and consecutive digits are almost a sure-fire ticket for some kind of drama. This evening I’m flying down to Fort Lauderdale and have an excellent “crash number”, 151, god help us! During lulls at work, I will look at NTSB crash investigations, paying special attention to the blackbox recordings contained within them. Reading (and hearing) people’s last words is such a privilege to me. Here are a few actual examples from the archives…

Pete, Sorry… Oh gosh, we’ve lost a wing…

We’re hit man, we’re hit. Tower, we’re going down, this is PSA… Ma, I love you

Larry! We’re going down, Larry! … I know it!

Hit the water! Hit the water!… Hit the water!

Oh sh!t, this can’t be!

Amy, I love you…

Uh… where are we?

Aaaaah… Allah Akbar!

I rely on God

It’s an odd obsession, but one that helps me appreciate life a little bit more. Living each day as if it were your last is a tough thing to do, especially if you have a family. Death is not something that should constantly occupy your thoughts, that would be unhealthy. However, I’m a firm believer in focusing on thoughts of mortality as an inspiration to lead a fuller life.

As a soldier in WWII, death surrounded you, it was hard not to dwell on it. These men fought hard regardless, almost with wanton disregard for their own safety. “Our father’s” war might have been the last one that wasn’t mired in controversy and opposition. In almost everyone’s eyes back on the home-front the allied powers were good and the axis powers were evil. As a result, these men fought with amazing fervor and fierceness on the battlefields, even though they were often put through hellish conditions. America was different back then, and the author, William Manchester, describes the blissful ignorance that was entrenched in American culture perfectly:

The United States was a different country then, with half today’s population, a lordly father figure in the White House, and a tightly disciplined society. A counterculture didn’t exist, as a word or as a concept… Standards were rigid; everyone was determined to conform to them because the alternatives were unthinkable… The bastion of social stability was the family… There was plenty of time for the householders, the doughboys of 1918, to explain to their sons the indissoluble relationship between virility and valor… Violent death, including death on the battlefield, was unsparing on the next of kin. The man killed in action cannot observe the five stages, so those who loved him must do it for him, or at least try to. Those who succeed are fortunate, and few… It was bad form to weep for a fallen buddy. We moved on, each of us inching on the brink of our own extinction, never speaking of what we considered unspeakable. Today’s children are baffled by our acquiescence then in what, to them, appears to have been a monstrous conspiracy against our lives. They are bewildered by those waves of relentless young men who plodded patiently on and on towards Betio’s beach while their comrades were keeling over on all sides. They ask: Why? They are convinced that they couldn’t do it… and they are right.

I suppose the automatic thought of giving up your own mortality for the sake of patriotic duty just doesn’t cross many people’s minds today. I wondered after September 11th if I could do the same thing my grandfather did two generations earlier in joining the marines? Even though I do consider myself a patriot, I think it would take much more for me to die for this country. Perhaps that is the one thing about protesting that is beneficial to our world. I have never been a complete dove, but think that blindly stepping into conflict without weighing the consequences is a terrible and dangerous thing. Reading war books and envisioning the ravages of war through a soldier’s eyes is a sobering experience. It brings you to think about your own mortality, what you’re willing to lose, and at what cost? My only conclusion is an accordance with the old phrase war is hell. As far as I’m concerned, the less it happens, the better off we’ll all be.

Childhood in a bottle

18-12-2008    Brooklyn, NY

Suddenly, the formidable oak tree of time had been gashed, peeled back like an onion, leaving an old feeling of comfort, invincibility, and wonder that hadn’t been felt in years. I was recently informed of a new development that almost brought me to tears with happiness.  Upon hearing the news, a feeling that is only felt in certain situations rushed over me.

…Crawling under the covers on a cold winter night, having coffee and bagels in bed while reading the paper and listening to jazz music, watching Saturday morning cartoons, puddle jumping in the midst of a summer downpour, and gazing at the stars from a soft cushion of warm grass…

The wonderful announcement was that one of my favorite books, sometimes called the “Koran of childhood”, was being made into a movie. I remember reading it aloud to my class in second grade during story-telling time, trying my best to impersonate the monsters depicted within its pages. I’m not sure how an adult managed to encapsulate the imagination of a child in this book, but where the wild things are was a nearly perfect adaptation.

Most children you speak with have an irrational fear of monsters. They’re a genetic manifestation of the real horrors our distant ancestors had to deal with thousands of years ago. With our poor night vision and no fire to light the way, we had good reason to fear beasts lurking in the darkness, hunting humans with superior senses after the sun went down. I firmly believe that instilled within every human is an age-old fear of the what we cannot see when the lights go out. What Maurice Sendack, the author of the book, did was create a character that was able to tame these imaginary beasts and soften their edges. Even though they “roared their terrible roars” and “gnashed their terrible teeth”, deep down they were just like a family pet. They could suddenly become part of the family (albeit contrived) that lived in the closet and only came out when the lights went out. While it will be odd to see these imaginary creatures on the big screen, being able to revisit those warm feelings of childhood is an experience I’m wholeheartedly looking forward to.

Historical Anomolies

 

3-12-2008  Brooklyn, NY

My latest read is called Lies my teacher told me. The author, James Leowen, details the many fallacies present in the twelve most commonly used high school American history textbooks. Not only is it a fascinating perspective on the editing of school textbooks, but also gives a different twist to American history itself. Leowen’s attempt at illuminating revisionist history doesn’t seek to reinvent the wheel, only to establish widely accepted views on important historical events in completely outdated (Euro-centric) textbooks. Some of the things I’ve learned so far:

~Most explorers (including Columbus) knew that the world wasn’t flat. They had seen the curvature of the Earth plenty of times in calm seas as ships disappeared over the horizon hull first, then sails followed.

~It took Columbus only one month to reach Hispañola, not two. He sailed on mostly calm seas and there wasn’t any threat of mutiny.

~The people that landed on Plymouth Rock weren’t all pilgrims.

~The English who landed in Jamestown had no clue how to farm the land. They realized this only after they had massacred most of the local tribes. They had to resort to eating the bodies of the people they’d killed in order to survive the first winter.

~Without the Native Americans (the Pequots), the English that landed in Massachusetts most likely would have suffered the same fate as those in Jamestown. The first thanksgiving was celebrated when the Pequots brought the English immigrants food. A few years after learning these farming techniques, the English allied themselves with a rival tribe and were ordered to burn the Pequot village. William Bradford described the scene “It was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fire and the streams of blood quenching the same, and horrible was the stink and scent thereof; but the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave praise thereof to God, who had wrought so wonderfully for them.”

There are plenty more interesting events that high school history books omit, and it truly is a shame that this is the case. The main argument seeks to prove the old saying that if we don’t learn from history, we’re doomed to repeat it. Do young folks nowadays really care about history though? It seems as though our culture has been somewhat homogenized in the last twenty years. This is evident in my brother’s generation (X), a culture of complacency has developed. There is more of an emphasis on what goes on in the entertainment and financial worlds. It’s tough to have a conversation with kids my age when it comes to history and philosophical ideals. Are cash, fame and glory the kings of our new world?

We just went through an election that had so many implications, both historically and culturally, and I find myself wondering if most people are still just looking at skin color as the main factor for ‘change’? While his stump speeches focused on changing many of the current political agendas, Obama seems to have selected a cabinet of former Clintonites. Are we content as a people with trying to repeat the Clinton administration’s policies in the current environment? It seems to me that people think that now the election is over, there isn’t anything to worry about. How many people knew that, in a really disturbing move, Obama left Bush’s Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates, at his post for a time frame that was described as “open-ended”. What!!!??? Where’s the big change we asked for with you, Barack? Granted it’s still early, but if current picks like Gates and Hillary “Hawk” Clinton keep rolling in, I’ll be pissed at the direction this new administration is moving towards.

In conversations I’ve had with people about these developments, it doesn’t seem like people are paying attention. That worries me. There doesn’t seem to be any public outcry, perhaps because the general populace is too busy watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show? Now that the election is over and America begins to move forward as a ‘colorless’ state, will complacency become the norm once more? We still have troops abroad, we’re still one auto sector away from a depression, and we still haven’t seen the worst. Just as Leowen warns in his book, we cannot ignore the past and see the election as the saving grace. It’s a blip on the radar, a band-aid on a gaping wound that is our country at the end of 2008. If Obama looks to keep the status-quo of the Clinton and Bush administration, don’t expect change to come anytime soon.

Mo Money, less problems?

My Dearest loved ones,
Last year, a few colleagues of mine embarked on a failed mission – maintaining a hideously ugly mustache during the month of November to support a good cause. This year, there is a nice website to manage your donations and ensure that you get a nice tax break come April. If you need the tax form, please let me know and I’ll send it your way.

For anyone who donates, you’re all welcome to join the team party at the end of the month. Details will follow.

There are two methods of donation:

1. Click THIS LINK and donate online using your credit card or PayPal account, or
2. Write a check payable to the ‘Prostate Cancer Foundation’, referencing my Registration Number 1357221 and mailing it to:
Prostate Cancer Foundation
Attn: Movember
1250 Fourth St
Santa Monica, CA, 90401

All donations are tax-deductible!

The money raised by the ‘Stache is donated directly to the Prostate Cancer Foundation which will use the funds for high-impact research to find better treatments and a cure for prostate cancer.

Thanks in advance,

Wilhelm

Heart of Darkness

Colonel Walter E. Kurtz (Apocalypse Now)

“I’ve seen horrors…horrors that you’ve seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that…But you have no right to judge me. It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what ‘horror’ means. ‘Horror’. ‘Horror’ has a face…And you must make a friend of ‘horror’. ‘Horror’ and ‘moral terror’ are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies. I remember when I was with Special Forces…Seems a thousand centuries ago…We went into a camp to inoculate the children. We left the camp after we had innoculated the children for Polio, and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn’t see. We went back there and they had come and hacked off every inoculated arm. There they were in a pile…A pile of little arms. And I remember…I…I…I cried… I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget. And then I realized…like I was shot…Like I was shot with a diamond…a diamond bullet right through my forehead…And I thought: My God…the genius of that. The genius. The will to do that. Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than we. Because they could stand that these were not monsters…These were men…trained cadres…these men who fought with their hearts, who had families, who had children, who were filled with love…but they had the strength…the strength…to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral…and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling… without passion… without judgement… without judgement. Because it’s judgement that defeats us.”

~

 

I just started reading a book called The Iceman: Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer. It details the life of Richard Kuklinski, a homicidal maniac who (by his account) had killed well over 200 people before he was arrested in 1986. Richard had come from a terribly dysfunctional household with an abusive alcoholic father. He committed his first murder at the age of 14 and didn’t stop until he was arrested. His methods of killing ranged from putting cyanide in drinks to ice picks through the eye. In cases where he wanted the victim to suffer, he would often use his favorite method of taking his “marks” out to a cave in the Pennsylvania woods and tie them to a chair with strips of wet rawhide. As the strips dried they contracted and cut into the victim’s skin. The huge rats that inhabited the cave would smell the blood and slowly eat the person alive. When Richard would come back two days later, all that would be left would be a bone or two. In watching some of the television interviews conducted with Richard it seemed that his nickname, “Iceman”, was well deserved. He simply had no remorse when it came to killing people. In fact, he didn’t even show emotion. There was a tremendous rage that would build in him when someone upset him and killing was the only way he could release that tension. Just like some of us may take a walk in the park to relieve that anxiety, Richard Kuklinski would murder someone to feel better. Some would be quick to label this man ‘insane’, but I’m not sure Richard could be classified as such. While his emotions and temper definitely deviated from the norm, his moves were almost always calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it.

So what about the initial quote? Would it make sense to have a division or Richard Kuklinskis fighting our wars? When it comes to fighting and aggression, should all moral standards be put aside in order to minimize the overall duration of a conflict? Was it that suspension of judgement that allowed us to end the second world war in the Pacific theater by dropping two atomic bombs on innocent people? It truly is a frightening concept that through a few acts of horror, the overall loss of life in a given conflict can potentially be minimized.

The Nethermead

7-11-2008    Brooklyn, NY

A hazy autumn mist greets me as I step out of the door. It’s just before six in the morning and barely light, a part of the morning called the gloaming. I feel like a ghost in this setting, quietly slithering through the wet fallen leaves, a dark silhouette creeping in the smokey grey glow. As I hit the path leading into the park, I begin to wonder about the events that had taken place the night before…

After the election results were announced, people seemed to explode out of every crevice. They were all in the streets as Robbie and I walked home, screaming, hugging, crying, laying on their horns, even stripping to their underwear. It was truly an amazing thing to see, as if they were kids again, free from whatever political shackles had bound them in the past. While I didn’t exactly share the same jubilation, it was good to see hope on people’s faces again.  I thought about the fact that there was a permanent spot at my new company. The week before had been torturous with everyone dreading the inevitable conversation with human resources. I could just hear the words, sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go. They never came though, even as most of my co-workers slinked back to their offices and began packing their boxes. These are tough times indeed, hopefully some kind of change would bring us out of these economic doldrums. People seem to think that this new administration will bring about a renaissance after eight years in the dark ages. Time will tell.

The scene in the park was spooky. There had been some fires the night before during the celebration, and the air was still thick with smoke. My eyes teared  in the haze and it felt as if I was drowning in a sea of cotton, it was almost impossible to breathe. The dog days of summer had definitely past. Gone were the crowds of people, stray dogs chasing rabbits, chirping crickets and birds, lovers laying lazily in the grass, shimmering starlight and bats streaking overhead. A more ominous and dark scene lay ahead – Waning hours of sunlight, fierce winds, slippery dead leaves, swirling black clouds, gnarly branches, lingering smoke from the fireplaces, and cold which passes right through your bones. In all honesty, I’m looking forward to it. Summer brings with it a certain carelessness, a lack of consideration for anything but the now. With the gently falling leaves comes a special time of introspection and longing for the wonders of summer. We no longer think of the slow descent into darkness, we think of history, we light the fires in our bellies to keep our souls warm, we linger in bed on the weekends and stare at the walls a bit longer, we hibernate with our thoughts. There is no life, only silence.

The run takes me up that last dreaded incline, lookout hill. This part of the run is always challenging, but it serves as a good end to the loop, you end up pushing yourself even if there’s smoke in the air. I wonder about Washington’s soldiers who once fought on the same ground. They were outflanked by the British and forced to retreat during the Battle of Brooklyn. Suddenly, choking on some smoke didn’t seem so bad to what the soldiers must have endured on this hill. I also wondered what Washington, a slave owner, would have thought about the events that unfolded the night before. What kind of words would he have for Obama? Regardless of how people might view his policies, it’s amazing how far we have come as a country where a person of color (with the middle name Hussein) is at the helm. Before long, the hill has been conquered and the sweat has completely soaked my undershirt. I float back through the streets, back home, thankful to start another day of work.

Too Rah Loo Rah

22-10-2008  Brooklyn, NY

It’s a wonderful thing when you’re just about to be let go from your job. It creates an amazing opportunity for a chance to take the left fork in the road when you’re used to taking the right. The left represents that taken by Robert Frost so many years ago, the road less traveled by. Suddenly, the future seems more bright even though monetary gains and lucrative contracts become null and void. Your dreams suddenly become clear and distinct, goals that once seemed unreachable are now in front of your eyes, ready to be seized. Carpe Diem becomes a reality. Could it all be nonsense? Sure, but the tidal waves of doubt that once swept over your dreams are now tidy little waves on the sound of incomprehension. It is now 1977, the economy is in the tank, the blackout has arrived once again, a killer is on the loose, and if you should perish, so what? As long as you give it your best, all will be right in this world. Carpe diem, my friend, carpe diem!

Battered fan syndrome

23-09-2008   Brooklyn, NY

There are more important things in life than sports, so why don’t most fans choose to focus on those things? People are hungry on the street, someone still needs to find a cure for cancer and the AIDS virus, there’s an enormous election coming up in a few weeks, Wall Street as we once knew it has completely collapsed… what is it about sports that keeps true fans in the doldrums while these things are occurring around them?

To the fan, their team is not only a representation of where he or she comes from, but a partner in a sometimes brutal marriage. The battle of teams is a legalized war between two cities, a demonstration of pride at its pinnacle. In most cases, the team will put their devoted followers through the ringer, letting them suffer with every loss. No matter how ugly their partner might look, no matter how badly the team treats their fans, we keep coming back. As much as we say “No! This is the last time”, we end up slinking into the stadium, listening intently on the radio, or watching between our fingers as the team’s counterparts drag the fans’ hearts through the dirt.

Last night the Mets and Jets fans took a tremendous beating. It felt like I had been slugged in the gut. I laid in bed, tossing and turning from the pain, wanting the suffering to finally end. The only solace came in a water cooler meeting with fellow sufferers, arms linked as a collectively beaten base of people who should be used to the scars by now. My father said that taking a loss would be easier as I grew older and grew accustomed to it, but I can see the same pain on his face when beaten fan syndrome sets in. The only anecdote for this terrible curse is the sanguine taste of victory. Until then, we wait with baited breath, licking our wounds until the next battle.

A piercing blue sky

10-09-2008  Brooklyn, NY

Charlie’s rooftop – August, 2001

Smith & 9th Street Stop – July, 2001

Last Day at work – August 16th, 2001

I have never written or really discussed these events in depth, but I figured after seven years it’s time to get it out. The article below is tough to read but touching and relevant. In a sense, it strips away the politics surrounding what happened that day and gives a voice to the thousands of doomed souls trapped in a towering inferno.

http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/news/689579/posts

It wouldn’t matter if seven or eighty-seven years had passed, everyone knows where they were when it happened. Our grandparents had Pearl Harbor, our parents had the JFK assassination, and we had this day that inexorably changed our lives forever. This was somewhat different because media had changed the physical connection to the events. We were all front and center, watching, not believing what was transpiring at lightning speed. For some of us, it would be the ghost constantly following behind us, breathing cold air down our necks, burning our eyes with smoke and tears. Everyone was effected differently, but nobody could really forget what hellish visions passed before our eyes on the 11th.

This is what I remember…

The first trip up to Windows on the World in the North tower, seeing my city from a quarter mile in the sky. My last trip up there to get coffee, by far the best in southern Manhattan. The elevator ride that seemed to last five hours, how strange it was to listen to silence for that long with people in such close quarters. The overwhelming smell of new carpeting on the 38th floor of the North tower. Looking out into the plaza from an office window, watching the people scatter around like ants rebuilding a crushed hill of dirt. Crossing the Hudson in a ferry after a late night at work the summer of 2000, watching the beautiful skyline’s reflection in the dark swirling waters. Getting lost in the lobby of tower two my first day of work, propping my back against giant window and feeling the cold marble underneath me. Leaning against the north tower and gazing up at the endless vertical horizon. The wind between them… During my lunch break I would always sit and watch a spot that would inevitably produce a sizable dust devil filled with leaves and plastic bags. Walking between them after a late night at work and hearing absolute stillness, which was rare considering the usual gusty conditions. Lower Manhattan always became a ghost town after 7:00, so there weren’t any people. Most of the lights were out and it was so unbelievably quiet. It was as if I had the towers all to myself for a brief moment. Lastly, I remember seeing the skyline in its complete form for the last time, heading down route 80 on my way back to school.

Then there was that morning – The sky was so blue, an absolutely perfect azure hue. On my way back from American Foreign policy class (which we ironically discussed the US’ policy in the Middle East), I had picked up a scone and a few flowers for Amanda. I saw the worried look on her face when I came to the doorstep. She wouldn’t let me in because she didn’t want me to see the TV. Then we watched the inevitable unfold, not believing what was happening. I tried to call a few people at work and got nothing. Later on that afternoon, I made soup in the kitchen and let go for the first time. Robbo sat in the living room pretending not to hear the sobs. Later that night, I saw Victor at the candlelight vigil by the reflecting pool. I hugged him so hard and cried on his shoulder, wondering why the hell this was all going on. Speaking to my mother the next day, I heard her lose control, saying over and over “You would have been there… even if you got out you would have stayed and taken pictures”. Truth was, she was right. Ira had been up at Windows getting coffee when the first plane hit. Maybe I would have been with him? Another poor soul who couldn’t have possibly anticipated such a terribly macabre fate.

The nightmares came shortly afterwards… Running up the skinny staircases, trying to tell people to get out, yelling at the top of my lungs, seeing their charred and mangled faces, the skin hanging from their cheeks. They wouldn’t listen, no matter how much commotion I caused, no matter how many fire alarms I pulled. The new carpet smell of the 38th floor had been replaced by the smell of jet fuel. Looking out into the plaza, I see a line of people falling upwards to the tops of the towers, their voices penetrating the glass in agonizing demonic shrieks. Looking up a flaming elevator shaft as a roaring moan of buckling steel and crumbling concrete fades my vision to black… The dreams were so real, sometimes I swore I could still smell the jet fuel. I would wake up at nearly the same time, 3 AM, unable to get back to sleep. Even after seeing the mass of twisted metal a few weeks later, the dreams wouldn’t stop. There wasn’t anything I could do, nothing any of us could do.

Even now, they will come back unexpectedly after reading an article or seeing a show about that day. The last bout came two years ago after reading the article posted above. The dreams were relentless, they wouldn’t stop. I would wake up in a cold sweat, feeling so guilty for not being able to save anyone. They continued for another few weeks until one night when I was out at a bar in lower Manhattan with a few friends. The whole night I was agitated. The bar we were at, lovingly dubbed the patriot, had a proud tradition a-la Coyote Ugly of women dancing on the bar to old country music tunes. As one of the bar maids jumped up on the bar, I snapped a photo and continued drinking. Shortly afterwards, she approached me from behind and asked to give up my film, to which I politely declined. She summarily called the bouncer over and he did his job by choking me with one hand until one of my friends grabbed the camera and ripped the film out. Enraged, I stumbled out onto Chambers Street and told everyone to go home without me. The site was only a few blocks away. I walked south on Church to Vescey, hoping to find some answers in the huge abyss of blue light that flooded the gaping hole where the towers once stood. It was quiet, just like the night after work all those years ago. I could hear my footsteps echoing in the plaza, and wept with the longing to go back to that moment. I thought about the deafening silence, how it must have contrasted with the chaos that had engulfed the place on a perfect summer day. I walked around the surrounding buildings, grabbing at the ashes that were still lodged in the grates, then looking at the only piece of the original site that remained, the survivor’s staircase. The first day of work, I had gone up and down those stairs so many times, desperately looking for the right office with nervous anticipation. Victor swung by in a cab after a few minutes and picked me up. When I got home, the ashes in my pockets spilled all over the floor.

After that night, I really thought about what made the situation so terrible. What was my subconscious trying to tell me? Why was I trying to save something that couldn’t possibly be saved? What was I trying to save? I had lost a couple of acquaintances that I made that summer, but nobody really close to my heart. It slowly dawned on me that it was the actual towers that I was so upset about losing. The most striking aspect in the skyline of my city had been indelibly changed, knocked back to its 1968 form in a matter of minutes. I couldn’t fathom that those buildings suddenly weren’t there any more, and it pained me to no end knowing that they’d met such an awful fate. They had gone from being two magnificently solid structures to being crumbling tombs. They moaned, screamed and died taking all those inside screaming with them. I felt like I should have been there. To do what, I don’t know. All I know is that after those ashes came tumbling out of my pocket and scattered, the nightmares never returned.

The endless vertical horizon – August, 2001